King Chan Ko was more than a monarch. He was one of the best soothsayers
in all the discovered world, having studied under no less a master than
the famous Chai Lang. Even the most sceptical, then, will admit that
Chan Ko as a geomancer must have stood far above the average. Chai Lang
was particular in the selection of his pupils.
Once each week, at its beginning, His Majesty was accustomed to cast the
signs, so that he might know what to expect. Thus, if rain was due on a
Wednesday he was forewarned, and fore-umbrellaed. And if war was
predicted for Friday, he was forearmed and ready to give two blows for
one. He knew of the third flood a whole week before it happened, and,
you may be sure, had a palatial boat provisioned and ready—laden with
rice and musical instruments—a good three days before the waters came.
Rather unexpectedly, it became imperative for King Chan Ko to take horse
on an urgent journey. Despite the call for great haste, he refused to
make one step before casting the signs—though to do so made necessary
an hour’s labor. On his plane Chan Ko scribed the three circles with
their bisecting lines. He drew the sun, moon, and stars in their
relative places, gazed for a moment . . . and groaned. “_Ai yu,_” and
“_Hai ya_.”
Well might he groan. There was no error in the work. No other reading
was possible. Upon the following night a dragon would swoop down from
the moon and carry off the Princess Yun Chi. That was the reading, and
there could be no doubting its truth. It may be imagined that gray hairs
made quick appearance in the monarch’s beard. His journey was highly
necessary. No postponement could be arranged. Yet, the Princess Yun Chi,
his daughter, was well beloved and not to be given up so long as sword
had temper and javelin was sound of shaft. But—who was to wield sword,
who to thrust javelin? Who indeed? Who if not the four score and ten
valiant young princes of the realm, who even then deplored a dearth of
daring deeds to be performed. No sooner the thought, than King Chan Ko
summoned the princes into audience. Briefly he described the peril that
threatened—told of the dragon’s cunning, of his strength that increased
with every blow, given or received. Not a pleasant picture King Chan Ko
drew—at first. But when in conclusion he stated the reward, every
prince in the chamber drew sword, and wished that the dragon might come
forthwith. For, said Chan Ko, “If all of you together slay the _loong_,
then if she so pleases, the princess may make her choice of you. But if
any prince, unaided, slays the _loong_, then I say to you that such
victorious prince and none other shall wed the Princess Yun Chi.”
There was such a clanking of armor that the magpies clustering the
palace roof made off on wing. There was such a testing of newly strung
bows that the sky rained arrows for a whole day.
Prince Ting Tsun, as comely warrior youth as ever twirled sharp steel,
took to himself a notion that his sword alone must blood the dragon. He
can hardly be censured. Anyone is likely to be greedy when a royal
princess is in danger, and her hand awaits an heroic defender. But Ting
Tsun, with his bravery mixed sagacity. To himself he reasoned thus:
“Suppose I do succeed in killing the moon dragon? Will his infuriated
brothers not come seeking vengeance? Without doubt they will. My only
hope is to slay them all—now—and their ruler with them. Then the
danger will be removed forever, and I can eat rice in comfort, without
the need of a sword on the table. I must kill all of the moon _loongs_.”
With such an ambitious plan in mind, Prince Ting Tsun visited a sewing
woman and had her make him a cloak precisely like that worn by the
Princess Yun Chi. He shaved his promising beard and put whiting upon his
cheeks, painted his eyebrows, and practiced a willowy walk. All in all
he made a fairish pretty maiden, and quite deceiving to the eye.
[Illustration: By look and action he was a maiden.]
When the sun had snuggled down behind the mountains, Prince Ting Tsun
walked in the palace gardens, taking those paths most favored by the
princess. He fondled the delicate wistaria. He touched his face to the
wide expanded roses. Beneath the purple flowered paulownia he paused in
rapture. By look and action he was a maiden, taking her pleasure in the
flowers.
Out of the calm evening air came a mighty and horrendous whistling roar.
No need to tell the prince its cause. In his early days he had heard
silly nurses attempt such a whistling, trying to frighten him into being
“a good boy. If you don’t, the _loong_ will get you.” He had laughed at
the affronted nurses. But now . . . his face was crinkled with grim
lines, serious lines that spelled determination. Not a trace of laughter
there. The whistling changed to a hissing. The air became noxious with
hot breath. Four tremendous, padded talons enfolded Prince Ting Tsun. A
scream of terror. A whanging of wings that lifted. . . . Gone. . . .
Vanished.
A scream of terror? No, that is not true. It was a scream of mock
terror. Can you think the prince was frightened? Prince Ting Tsun? He
screamed merely to make his deception doubly sure. The prince to casual
gaze was a maiden, and maidens are supposed to scream when snapped up by
a dragon. Small blame to them for that.
Up. . . . Higher. . . . Swifter. . . . Up through the uncharted, the
star-littered spaces, swept Prince Ting Tsun, borne by the dragon. The
wind shrieked past him. Higher, still higher. The little stars twinkled
above. Higher. . . . The little stars twinkled below. The air grew thin
and cold. Prince Ting grew faint, for his breathing was of no
consequence. There was no air to breathe. There was nothing but space
and star-dust.
The _loong’s_ mouth went wide in a whinnying whistle. From close by came
an answer. The prince opened his eyes. He saw a tapering streak of
flame. On earth he would have named it “comet.” But stretching his eyes
wider, he perceived that it was merely another dragon, its fiery breath
trailing, far spread.
[Illustration: A whanging of wings that lifted . . . Up . . . Higher
. . . Swifter.]
Other _loongs_ appeared; Ting Tsun imagined that he must be approaching
their lair. He prayed that his arm might be strong.
With another scream the dragon folded his wings and dropped lightly upon
a silvery plain. The journey was done—the moon under foot.
The dragon King ruled in a subterranean palace. The entrance was merely
a shining smooth hole, but the interior was luxury itself, with brocaded
tapestries and jade floorings and translucent moonstone ceilings. In the
throne room knelt Ting Tsun before the King—for he still played the
part of a maiden. He knelt as if seeking mercy.
“Her beauty is not what I expected,” growled the King. “Take her away.
Perhaps another day she will seem fairer. Let her food be sesame and
coriander seeds. Ugh. What a clumsy walk.”
Prince Ting Tsun sat on a couch, turning in his mind a plan by which to
vanquish his captors. The stillness was dissolved by a music of moving
silks. A smiling damsel bowed before His Highness.
“Oh, I am glad to see that you do not weep like the others. Are you a
princess from the earth, or from _chin hsing_ (venus)?”
“From the earth,” replied Ting Tsun, but he forgot to gentle his voice.
The Moon Maiden shrank back.
“You are _not_ a princess,” she accused.
“No, I am not a princess. These garments are a deceit. I _was_ Prince
Ting Tsun, when upon the earth. Now, I am Chang Pan—your slave.”
The Moon Maiden was quickly reassured and entered into talk with Ting
Tsun, or humble Chang Pan, as he then called himself. She told the
prince that she had lived with her parents on the far side of the
moon—until the dragons came. Now she had no parents. And when the feast
season of Brightest Light arrived the dragon King (Chao Ya, his name)
would make her his bride. She knew the number of dragons—twenty-eight,
one for each night in the month, and there was never more than one home
at a given time. They could be slain only with the dragon King’s
sword—a weapon that could slay the King himself. But—and the hopes of
Prince Ting fell as she spoke—the King always kept the sword fastened
at his waist. Yes, the _loong_ King sometimes slept, but never more than
once a day, and never for more than a few minutes. When? Just as the
moon went down.
So Ting Tsun in his spotless maiden garb came upon the King asleep, and
snatching up the monarch’s sword, awoke him and slew him. The blade had
not yet done its sweep when it cleft the skull of a dragon who should
have been guarding his King from harm.
The prince rejoiced at his success, howbeit rather modestly. His task
had but started. There was many a chance for disaster. Death might lurk
in a faltering blow, a lagging step, a momentary closing of the eyes.
By day the prince slept. By night he kept his post at the palace
entrance. As each _loong_ came crawling into his lair Prince Ting Tsun
reached its heart with the dragon King’s sword. One thrust for each
_loong_. One thrust each night, until a month had passed. In such manner
His Valiant Highness destroyed the whole vile brood. His plans had
carried through to triumph. Now he was free to return home and claim for
his own the Princess Yun Chi. And a happy day it would be. He was happy
now . . . oh, extremely happy. . . . Why shouldn’t he be happy? . . .
the prince argued stoutly with himself. Yet his argument was not
convincing. He would be compelled to leave the Moon Maiden. So his
reasoning was hollow. He was not happy. He was sorrowful. He had grown
fond of the Other World Princess.
But he must return to his own country. King Chan Ko had promised his
daughter to whosoever should slay the dragon. In taking up battle,
Prince Ting had given agreement to the terms. He was betrothed to the
Princess Yun Chi.
The Moon Maiden was asleep when Prince Ting went to say good-bye. He
would not wake her. He would go at once—after a last sad look. The
sleeping princess stirred in her sleep and murmured. For another instant
the royal youth paused. He heard his name murmured. He heard
more—enough to amaze him, to weaken his will almost to the changing
point. A moment more of listening, and Prince Ting Tsun must inevitably
have remained upon the moon. But he would hear no more. He rushed from
the palace, ashamed of his weakness, yet thrilled with pride.
The moon hung low above the eastern ocean when Ting Tsun made his
fearsome leap. He descended in the cushioning waters, and so took no
hurt. Fortune was with him in that leap. A vessel, manned by venturesome
explorers, chanced upon him. Otherwise, the spot where he fell must have
been his grave, for ships are years apart in that faraway region. The
sailors drew him aboard their junk and treated him with every respect.
It was quite clear in their minds that he must be a god—certainly, he
could be nothing less than a great magician.
When the ship touched at Ma Kao, Prince Ting Tsun was the first to step
ashore. He found the city celebrating, burning much colored paper to the
ruler of Married Happiness, feasting and making music. Accosting a
stranger, he asked the cause of such jubilation, explaining that he had
only that moment arrived from a far country.
The stranger answered: “We celebrate a marriage, your grace; Prince Yen
has taken the fairest bride in all the world. From what country do you
come?”
“Whom did Prince Yen marry?” asked Ting Tsun.
“Why, the Princess Yun Chi, of course. What country did you say?”
“Indeed?” exclaimed the prince. “And I came from the moon.” Leaving the
fellow with eyes popped and mouth agape, he hastened on. He was
compelled to hasten. His feet would keep step with his tumultuous heart.
So the Princess Yun Chi was married. King Chan Ko had broken his word.
Far better if Prince Ting had remained upon the moon. Upon the moon was
one who. . . .
Pausing only for momentary snatches of sleep, Prince Ting journeyed the
straightest road to Kwen Lun Mountain. On this mountain lived, and
lives, the friendly mother demon, Si Wang, a magician of great power. To
her Prince Ting gave his necessary oath, and in exchange received his
desire—wings feathered from the pinions of a Phoenix.
The way is long. The way is steep. But hearts must be served. With wings
unfaltering, Prince Ting Tsun cleaves the sky. Between the earth and the
lighted moon his shadow may be seen—nearing the silvered plain, and the
palace, and the princess. . . . Prince Ting Tsun returning to his Maiden
of the Moon.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]