It rains and rains in Kiang Sing. And then it rains some more. No sooner
is one cloud past then another comes treading on its heels. By day and
by night the raindrops patter, and _ko tzu_ from his lily pad croaks
“More rain. More rain.” Old men going to bed wear their _wei li_ (rain
hats), instead of tasseled nightcaps. Many young people have only a hazy
idea as to what the word “sun” means. Pour and beat and drizzle, drizzle
and drive with the gale. And that is Kiang Sing.
Three reasons are given by the people of Kiang Sing for their extremely
weepy climate. Some say that the _shen_ Yu Shih, who lords it over the
clouds, lives near by on the Daylight Mountain. Others are firm in their
declaration that Moo Yee, the mighty archer, and a naughty fellow
withal, shot the sky above Kiang Sing full of arrow holes. Naturally, a
sky full of arrow holes is bound to leak. There are still others, and
very learned folk among them, who declare that Mei Li weeping for her
lost hero, Wei Sheng, is responsible for the torrents. Dear only knows
which is the correct theory. It may be that all three are to blame. The
only certainty is that Kiang Sing has a very heavy rainfall, and that
Tiao Fu lived there and learned to love wet weather. . . . _To love it?_
She hated it.
Tiao Fu was a very pretty maiden—no gainsaying that. She had the most
wonderful black long hair in all Kiang Sing. But beauty was her one and
only possession. She had no skill with the needle, whether to sew or
embroider. Her cooking was more than a disgrace. When her fingers
touched the _pi pa_, that usually sweet-toned instrument gave out a
demon’s wail. She could not even smooth a quilt on the _kang_. The beds
were all hills and hollows. How could she make beds when her hair needed
burnishing? She scarce knew which end of a broom was meant for the
floor. How could she sweep when her hair required glossing? New matting
would cover the floor’s disarray. Tiao Fu smoothed her hair and dreamed
of the time when she would marry a rich mandarin and be carried in glory
away from Kiang Sing and its terrible rains. The hateful rains of Kiang
Sing.
[Illustration: How could she make beds when her hair needed burnishing?]
No wonder her father, Ching Chi, became so poverty-stricken. Gradually
his fortune slipped away until his only property was the large and
poorly furnished, extremely ill-kept house in which he lived. Even so,
this house when viewed from the street appeared superior to its fellows.
It was the handsomest and most considerable _yamen_ in Pin Jen Village.
The size and appearance of the _yamen_ accounts for what happened. One
fiendish night, in a mighty drumming of rain, there came a more noisy
drumming of maces upon Ching Chi’s door. “Open, in the King’s name,”
commanded voices outside. Forthwith Ching Chi flung open the door. He
beheld runners dressed in the royal livery, and in their hands the
gold-banded staves of their authority. “Prepare to receive and entertain
the illustrious person of Ho Chu the King. His Most Gracious Majesty
will arrive _sha shih chien_ (within a slight shower’s time). Therefore
prepare. It is a command.”
Far from entertaining royalty, old Ching Chi had never so much as
glimpsed a King. Heart and knees failed him utterly. He could only
grovel upon the floor and mutter weakly of his unworthiness. Tiao Fu,
however, was not so deeply affected. A King? Let him enter. Say what you
please, kings are mortal men. No food in the house? _Ya ya pei_ (Pish
pooh). And the tradesmen refused all credit? What of it? No tradesman in
his senses would refuse a bargain. And what would the bargain be?
Tiao Fu snatched up her little-used embroidery scissors. Snip. Snip.
Snip. Down fell a cataract of her long black hair. Snip. Snip. Again and
again. The hair that was her vanity lay upon the floor. Her lustrous
hair—sacrificed—to make a feast for the King. Hastily donning her
father’s _wei li_, she dashed from the house. There was no trouble in
making a bargain. The tradesman’s first offer was almost within reason
and Tiao Fu had no time to wrangle. She bartered her hair for cooked
fowls and rice and all that goes to make a dinner.
[Illustration: Tiao Fu snatched up her little-used embroidery scissors.
Snip. Snip. Snip.]
King Ho Chu arrived betimes. The weather despite, he was in good spirit.
He was such a considerate and jolly monarch that he soon had old Ching
Chi at perfect ease. The dinner was a delight to eye and tongue. It was
the best meal that had been served in Ching Chi’s home for many a moon.
And Tiao Fu’s hair bought it.
After the cups were turned down, King Ho Chu inquired about his horse.
To reiterate, he was a most considerate sovereign. He wished to feel
sure that his steed was housed from the rain, and shoulder deep in a
well-filled manger. Ching Chi beamingly affirmed that the horse had been
provided for, lavishly. What else _could_ he say? However, he would make
sure, doubly sure, by going to the stable again.
Of course, the poor horse had not a mouthful. There was not so much as a
wisp of hay in the stable, not so much as a bean, or a stalk. Ching Chi
was sunken in weepy despair when the girl Tiao Fu appeared with a
matting from her bedroom floor. It was a newly made matting, of bright
clean straw. Tiao Fu tore it into shreds and filled the manger heaping.
Thus was the King’s horse supplied with food—food none too nourishing,
but food nevertheless.
There are many channels through which kings may receive news and rumors
and tittle-tattle. What with the secret police and the mandarins who
wish to gain favor and the—the sparrows—the royal palace keeps well
informed. (Besides, one historian takes several pages to prove that Tiao
Fu possessed a tongue and could use it to her advantage.) However that
may be, the news spread. Within a day King Ho Chu learned how the maid
Tiao Fu had provided a feast at the expense of her hair. He learned all
about the shredded matting, and his laughter shook the throne. He
bestowed more than a passing thought upon Tiao Fu of the quaintly bobbed
locks—the maiden a thousand years ahead of her time. And having
thought—he acted. He said to the Minister of Domestic Affairs, “Prepare
a room with hangings of orange-colored silk.” To the Minister of the
Treasury he said, “Bestow a dozen or so bars of gold upon the mandarin
Ching Chi.” The Minister of Matrimony received his command, “Arrange me
a wedding with the maid Tiao Fu, of Kiang Sing.” So all things were
arranged and came to pass.
King Ho Chu was well pleased. Old Ching Chi was the happiest man living.
The maid Tiao Fu was quite content—for a space. She had gowns of
gorgeousness undreamed. She had slaves to kneel and knock their heads
whenever she beckoned. She had priceless jewels and food of the rarest.
Incidentally, she had in the King a doting husband. She had
everything—everything—except rain. . . .
Is it not hard to believe that Tiao Fu grew homesick for the rains of
Kiang Sing? It is a strain upon belief, yet it is true, indubitably.
Tiao Fu longed for the rains of her drenched and soggy much be-drizzled
Kiang Sing. Did the King present her with a new necklace—she threw it
petulantly away, exclaiming that she wanted rain—“Oh, I wish it would
rain,” said Tiao Fu. “Why don’t you make it rain?” “Then I will,” said
the King. He installed a myriad high-spouting fountains, at no slight
drain to the treasury. “Are you pleased, my beauteous Tiao Fu?” “No,”
fretfully. “It is not like the rains of Kiang Sing. Why are the trees
not green? The trees are bare and brown. Oh, I wish it would rain—a
green-bringing rain.”
[Illustration: “. . . And cut leaf-shaped pieces.”]
The trees might very well be bare and brown. Winter’s greedy fingers had
stripped them thoroughly. King Ho Chu gazed at the barren limbs for a
lengthy period before his mind hit upon a scheme for bringing back the
green. At length he summoned the royal tailor and to him said: “Take
many bales of green-colored silk and cut leaf-shaped pieces. Dip the
pieces in wax; then sew them upon those bare branches. And use such
artistry that no eye can discover they are not true leaves. _Tsu po_ (be
quick).” The _cheng i_ (make clothes) hastily employed all the city’s
master workmen, some cutting and many sewing. Overnight the trees took
on a color. Indeed, the tailor went beyond his orders, for on the peach
trees he sewed lovely pink blossoms. And some blossoms he tacked to the
ground—as if in their ripeness they had fallen.
For a few days Tiao Fu was in somewhat better humor. Once she actually
smiled. But all too soon those few days were over and her crossness
returned. “What now, my pearl of southern seas?” said the King. “Have
the leaves lost their freshness? Do they no longer please?” “Oh [pout],
it isn’t the leaves. They are quite homelike. It’s the wind that I miss.
I long to hear the shrieking wind of Kiang Sing, hurling its rain
against my lattice. Oh, I wish it would rain.”
Poor King Ho Chu was hard put. Wind? Wind? . . . By the uprooted pine
tree of Mount Tai, how was he to produce the wind. A good half
hour—sixty minutes in that land—passed before he had an inspiration.
Again he called for the royal tailor. “Procure,” he told the tailor,
“many bales of the stoutest silk. Then place some of your brawniest men
outside yonder lattice, and have them rip the silk, tear it into
strips—with all the noise possible.” With which King Ho Chu entered the
treasury to see how his gold was dwindling.
Huge-armed stalwarts stood outside Tiao Fu’s window. Their hands
clutched the woven silk. A pull. “Sh-r-r-r-r-iek. Pull. Sh-r-r-r-iek.”
For two days the brow of Tiao Fu was smooth and untroubled. She actually
spoke kindly to the King. He, poor soul, didn’t hear it. He was too busy
wondering what the next task would be, and how expensive.
Scarcely a hundred bales of silk had been torn when Tiao Fu hurled her
crown across the room and began to weep. “My dear, what’s the trouble?
What _is_ the trouble?” questioned Ho Chu. “Is the wind too violent?”
“Oh, no. The wind is natural enough, and it pleases me. I miss—oh, how
I _do_ miss the rumbling thunder of Kiang Sing, and the fall of
lightning-shattered trees. I miss them and oh, I wish it would
rain—real rain.” The tears fell faster with each word.
Now King Ho Chu had a tremendous army encamped on the palace grounds. He
summoned General Chang and explained matters—with an order. No sooner
ordered than accomplished. The soldiers in their heaviest shoes marched
ponderously beneath the latticed window. “Boom. Boom. Bru-u-u-um.
Bru-u-u-um. Bru-u-u-u-ump.” And how do you like our thunder? Little
drums and great, they rattled and roared. “Rap-p-p. Boom. Boom. . . .”
In endless line the soldiers marched. One day. Two days. Three days.
Four. Some of them slept while the others marched. Boom. Boom. Boom. The
sun on their spears blazed and flickered—the lightning. By night there
were flashing fires.
It is gratifying to relate that Tiao Fu was moderately pleased. Her
appetite returned and the tears were withheld. She spoke to the King
with kindness—several times. All might have gone well had not some
malcontents down Kan Su way started a rebellion. Off went the
army—General Chang waving his sword, and the smallest drummer boy
thumping with glee. That was at midnight.
The dawn was at its breaking when beacons along the line of march flared
up. “Halt” was the signal. The army halted. Again the beacons flared.
They spelled the word “Return.”
Tiao Fu was not so well. She longed for the roll of the drums to remind
her of Kiang Sing’s thunder. What could the poor King do but recall his
army? The rebellion in Kan Su continued merrily. And General Chang, who
was an old-time soldier, expressed his opinion—rather explosively—to a
sympathetic staff officer. But never mind that. Let the drums sound.
When the rebellion spread to Kan Si, the King felt that things had gone
quite far enough. It was time to teach those rebels a lesson. Away went
the army again.
A whole day passed and no return order was signaled. Night came and the
army tramped onward. . . . A pillar of flame shot up from a hilltop. It
was a beacon. “Return,” said the beacon. “Not I,” said General Chang;
“I’ve had enough of the Queen’s whims. Besides, it’s raining right now.
Forward. March.”
The army entered Kan Su and there encountered the rebels. It is better
that the fight go undescribed. Here suffice it to say that if so much as
one rebel escaped, he took pains to keep the fact secret. There is no
mention of him in the books.
General Chang was jubilant. Surely the King would be highly pleased. The
King—good gracious—King Ho Chu, himself, on a breathless steed,
stumbled across the battlefield. “Why didn’t you return?” panted the
King. “I—I—I——” stammered General Chang. But the King said more.
“The Tartars swooped down just a few hours ago, carrying off my Queen,
raiding my treasury (though it was empty), and forcing me to flee for my
life. They carried off the Queen.”
“How terrible,” exclaimed General Chang, looking into his sleeve. “And
my army is so tired that it can’t march a step—besides the roads will
soon be _pu neng chu_ (can’t go) with the rain.”
[Illustration]