physically, but made him a gentleman. In gratitude General Yueh Fei granted him the title of Wei Valley and composed an elaborate curse lest any of his descendents seek to rescind it. I know, because the document is preserved within a hollow ox bone in my strongest chest.
As a boy I heard this story often. Father would relate it in the hall of the Upper House, his voice proud as plum wine. I sat at his feet and longed to be a hero like him. His words intoxicated me.
Yet in winter he hugged his old scars against the cold and might say nothing for days on end.
But I was remembering how we hunted crickets.
Finally I would lead Little Wudi to the topmost building, where our family slept and sat in the evening. Here dwelt the most ferocious of crickets, nesting between cracks in the walls. Crow-Head-Gold-Wings was the name of this doughty fellow. It had a green neck and purple-black wings streaked with gold. Its head was thick, body broad-backed, and its legs were long with muscular thighs. Crow-Head-Gold-Wings fed upon crumbs, shreds of fruit or flower stamens, but mostly other insects. Truly, a superior cricket! Yet rare.
I only found one fully-grown, lurking near Father’s chair. In truth, I thought it so beautiful that, notwith-standing its fierce reputation, I chose never to let it fight.
For a whole autumn it chirruped and sang in the cage above my bed, a sound so pure and hopeful it elevated my spirit. By the tenth month it was dead. I found it curled at the bottom of the cage, a crumpled, forlorn thing. Losing its companionship made me wail terribly. Mother ran to see what was wrong.
I felt guilty in the midst of my grief. As Crow-Head-Gold-Wing’s master, was I not its father? Yet I had not been able to prolong its life.
My own father mocked my tears. He reproached me for losing face in front of the servants. Even Mother shook her head sadly, chiding me for being too sensitive, warning that worse losses occur in life. I was inconsolable.
‘Trees may prefer calm,’ she said. ‘But the wind will not subside.’
In reply I composed a short poem in Crow-Head-Gold-Wing’s honour, which I recited in secret to Mother. She listened carefully, then persuaded Father that I should begin learning my characters without further delay. A monk was duly hired from a nearby Daoist monastery for that purpose.
No poem could save Crow-Head-Gold-Wing, and I never found another like him. I wonder where the dust of his tiny, valiant body has blown, fragile as a lost day, fleeting as childhood.
One morning, Father ordered me to collect wine and a bamboo basket of food from the kitchen. I was ten years old. We left the house as a flight of geese passed noisily over the valley. Father leant on his stick and peered up, muttering to himself. Then he struggled out of the village toward Mulberry Ridge. I remember longing that people would see me being useful to him.
It was a slow journey. Often he gasped with pain. On the ridge he sat for a long while, regaining his breath. I crouched in silence, hugging my knees, gazing out across the plain, until his chesty voice startled me, as if from a dream:
‘Little Yun Cai, what is it that fascinates you?’
Not knowing the required answer, I bowed in embarrassment. He grew impatient.
‘What makes you stare?’
I wanted so hard to please him. Then I recalled an educated neighbour reciting a poem in our house. Father had seemed truly delighted. Closing my eyes, I spoke uncertainly at first, then boldly:
Green green the far off willows, Far far the town of Chunming.
Beyond the horizon only future.
I must travel toward haze and mist.
As soon as the words were spoken, I wondered where they came from. Certainly a higher, better place than Wei.
Yet I barely understood what the poem meant. Father shifted, uneasily.
‘Who taught you that?’
‘No one, Father.’
‘Do not lie to me. Who taught you that verse?’
‘Nobody, I swear.’
He glared at me.
‘Father, I thought of the
As a boy I heard this story often. Father would relate it in the hall of the Upper House, his voice proud as plum wine. I sat at his feet and longed to be a hero like him. His words intoxicated me.
Yet in winter he hugged his old scars against the cold and might say nothing for days on end.
But I was remembering how we hunted crickets.
Finally I would lead Little Wudi to the topmost building, where our family slept and sat in the evening. Here dwelt the most ferocious of crickets, nesting between cracks in the walls. Crow-Head-Gold-Wings was the name of this doughty fellow. It had a green neck and purple-black wings streaked with gold. Its head was thick, body broad-backed, and its legs were long with muscular thighs. Crow-Head-Gold-Wings fed upon crumbs, shreds of fruit or flower stamens, but mostly other insects. Truly, a superior cricket! Yet rare.
I only found one fully-grown, lurking near Father’s chair. In truth, I thought it so beautiful that, notwith-standing its fierce reputation, I chose never to let it fight.
For a whole autumn it chirruped and sang in the cage above my bed, a sound so pure and hopeful it elevated my spirit. By the tenth month it was dead. I found it curled at the bottom of the cage, a crumpled, forlorn thing. Losing its companionship made me wail terribly. Mother ran to see what was wrong.
I felt guilty in the midst of my grief. As Crow-Head-Gold-Wing’s master, was I not its father? Yet I had not been able to prolong its life.
My own father mocked my tears. He reproached me for losing face in front of the servants. Even Mother shook her head sadly, chiding me for being too sensitive, warning that worse losses occur in life. I was inconsolable.
‘Trees may prefer calm,’ she said. ‘But the wind will not subside.’
In reply I composed a short poem in Crow-Head-Gold-Wing’s honour, which I recited in secret to Mother. She listened carefully, then persuaded Father that I should begin learning my characters without further delay. A monk was duly hired from a nearby Daoist monastery for that purpose.
No poem could save Crow-Head-Gold-Wing, and I never found another like him. I wonder where the dust of his tiny, valiant body has blown, fragile as a lost day, fleeting as childhood.
One morning, Father ordered me to collect wine and a bamboo basket of food from the kitchen. I was ten years old. We left the house as a flight of geese passed noisily over the valley. Father leant on his stick and peered up, muttering to himself. Then he struggled out of the village toward Mulberry Ridge. I remember longing that people would see me being useful to him.
It was a slow journey. Often he gasped with pain. On the ridge he sat for a long while, regaining his breath. I crouched in silence, hugging my knees, gazing out across the plain, until his chesty voice startled me, as if from a dream:
‘Little Yun Cai, what is it that fascinates you?’
Not knowing the required answer, I bowed in embarrassment. He grew impatient.
‘What makes you stare?’
I wanted so hard to please him. Then I recalled an educated neighbour reciting a poem in our house. Father had seemed truly delighted. Closing my eyes, I spoke uncertainly at first, then boldly:
Green green the far off willows, Far far the town of Chunming.
Beyond the horizon only future.
I must travel toward haze and mist.
As soon as the words were spoken, I wondered where they came from. Certainly a higher, better place than Wei.
Yet I barely understood what the poem meant. Father shifted, uneasily.
‘Who taught you that?’
‘No one, Father.’
‘Do not lie to me. Who taught you that verse?’
‘Nobody, I swear.’
He glared at me.
‘Father, I thought of the
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