Part 6

Ah Fun tore a few leaves of paper from a medicine book, and inserting them under the _kang_, struck fire to them. Then he resumed his play. After a while Dr. Chu Ping raised the quilt from his head and hoarsely whispered, “I—I—I am still shivering, Ah—Ah Fun. M—m—more w—w—wood.” Ah Fun looked about, but he saw no firewood. And he was too lazy to go in search. However, the doctor’s gold-crested cane stood in a corner. Well, why not? It was bamboo. It would burn. Into the _kang_ went the cane, and right pleasantly did it crackle. But after a time Dr. Chu Ping again uncovered his head and begged weakly, “M—m—more w—w—wood, Ah—Ah Fun!” Once more Ah Fun looked round the room. There was positively no firewood in sight. However . . . upon a shelf lay half a hundred bamboo cylinders, tubes that contained medicines. In one bamboo was cuttlefish-bone. In another was _ko fen_ (powdered oyster shell). The doctor had used that on old Mrs. Fuh Lung’s rheumatism, with good effect, too. In a third were salt and _chieh tzu_. A fourth held _chen pi_ and _shih hui_ (orange-peel and lime). The fifth contained _chang nao_ (camphor, and ashes) . . . all good medicines and valuable indeed.

But . . . what did Ah Fun do? He chucked the first bamboo tube into the _kang_, and the tube crackled as the flames bit through. Presently, he cast in the second tube. Followed the third and fourth. Tube after tube, medicines and all, went into the _kang_, atop which lay Dr. Chu Ping.

Now it so happened that the fiftieth tube contained _huo yao_—(_the_ medicine)—and _huo yao_ is made of sulphur, saltpetre, and charcoal—those three, the very three that combine to make Gun Powder—as we call it—nothing less.

Dr. Chu Ping lay upon the _kang_, all a-twitch with the chill that had worsted him. His son, Ah Fun, threw into the _kang_ a large tube of _huo yao_. The fire crackled smartly, eating the tube. . . . Then. . . . “BROOOOMP.”

Oh, that terrible Ah Fun. He has blown up the bed-stove. To say nothing of his honorable father.

It was raining heavily, but just the same Mrs. Low Moo came out and upbraided the doctor unmercifully for coming down in, and utterly havocking, her patch of _huang ya tsai_ (her tender, pretty cabbages). She told him her every thought upon that subject, with such words as “_Hun chang tung hsi_ (Stupid, blundering old thing you).” But Dr. Chu Ping merely gazed sheepishly at the destroyed cabbages, and at the hole in the room through which he had been blasted, and murmured, “Kai tan (Ah me, what a pity).”

And again came the other neighbors, the very kind people who loved Dr. Chu Ping and wished to help him in his troubles. These well-wishing neighbors came and said: “Beyond a doubt, that boy is to blame. Honorable doctor, why do you not break many stout bamboos upon the back of that boy—that lazy, good-for-nothing Ah Fun? He will be the disgrace of, and the death of you yet.” But Dr. Chu Ping rubbed his shoulder and said: “What? Beat Ah Fun? Why he is a good boy and a comfort. He just built me an excellent fire in the _kang_.”

Then the doctor limped into his house and awoke Ah Fun, asked him what had happened. Ah Fun, though he was bad—goodness knows, terribly bad—yet was truthful. Reluctantly, we must give him credit for that. He told of all that had happened: how he placed tube after tube in the _kang_—being unable to discover any firewood—and how the last tube had exploded, hurling his father through the roof.

Dr. Chu Ping wrinkled his brow till it was all hills and hollows. He pulled his long and neatly braided hair in a highly meditative manner. He felt first his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. He rolled his eyes upward to the limit of their travel. He gazed at the hole in the roof, where still fluttered a fragment of clothing on a jagged edge. He rolled his eyes downward and scrutinized the ruined _kang_. He felt of his two ears that still reverberated with the enormous explosion. Then he spoke. “My son,” said he, “it strikes me that we are on the verge of a great discovery. One of those medicines—though gracious knows which one—seems to be more than a medicine. It is good for something else—though dear knows what. Perhaps to grow wings, so that men may fly. It certainly enabled me to fly. We must make more medicines, and experiment.”

The next day Dr. Chu Ping opened his book of instructions for the compounding of medicines—a book which he himself had written. Beginning at the very beginning—which, of course, was on the last page, good Dr. Chu studied the first formula. “Red pepper, and alum, and toad claws,” so he read. The three ingredients were found and mixed in the specified proportions. The mixture was poured into a bamboo tube and the tube was placed in a fire. For an hour Dr. Chu Ping stirred the fire and fanned it into furious blazing. Nothing but much heat and much smoke resulted. There was no noise and no flying. Clearly, the combination of pepper, alum, and toad claws was quite worthless—except in the treatment of scarlet fever, for which it is intended. The doctor made a careful writing of the experiment and turned another page.

Next came oyster shell and ginseng. Worthless that, also. Shark fins and turmeric. Dr. Chu Ping marked that likewise worthless. So the experimenting continued, day after day. It took a great deal of time. The doctor was a most thorough man, as well as brilliant. One couldn’t find a more thorough or brilliant in all Kiang Su, or Kiang Si, or even in Kuang Si. Methodically he tried his medicines in the fire—by one and one he tried them—and thus he came to the mixture _huo yao_, which, to repeat, is sulphur, and saltpetre, and charcoal, and which the Fan Kwei, or Foreign Devils, with their white faces call Gun Powder. Dr. Chu Ping placed a long tube of _huo yao_ in the fire. He leaned over it, fanning vigorously. For a moment the tube lay on the coals, sizzling and swelling, seeming to gather its breath for a supreme effort. . . . Zzzzzzz. . . . Zeeeee. . . . BROOOOMP.

And up went Dr. Chu Ping.

Now it so chanced that a moment before the explosion, old man Low Moo was milking his cow. A moment after the explosion, he was _not_ milking his cow. He was running for dear life in a northerly direction. His cow was running for dear life in a southerly direction. And Dr. Chu Ping sprawled upon the flattened bucket and the smashed stool, where he had fallen.

The doctor came to in five minutes. Old Mr. Low Moo came back in half an hour. The cow has never since been seen. It is doubtful if she will ever return.

No sooner did Dr. Chu Ping revive than he hobbled into the house, where Ah Fun sat calmly playing with a _pan pu tao_, a little toy man who has round feet, and always regains an upright position, no matter how often he is knocked over. “What happened, my father?” asked Ah Fun. Dr. Chu Ping beamed upon him. “Ah Fun, my pearl, my jade, my orange tree, it is discovered. _Huo yao_ is the great medicine. And it is good for scaring demons. Old man Low Moo, as everyone knows, is possessed of a demon—and he was frightened horribly. And his unkind cow, which is guided by at least four and twenty demons, has been frightened completely out of the country. There can be no doubt—_huo yao_ is a frightener of demons. And, you and I are the discoverers. Oh, my precious one, we shall be famous. A thousand thousand years from now men will still use _huo yao_ to scare the demons.”

And that was a very good prediction. _Huo yao_ is still placed in tubes, little paper tubes, and the fuses are lighted, and “Sput,” “Sput.” The firecrackers explode and a thousand demons tremble and flee, reviling the names of Ah Fun and Dr. Chu Ping, who invented Gun Powder.

THE MOON MAIDEN

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.

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.

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.

AH TCHA THE SLEEPER

Years ago, in southern China, lived a boy, Ah Tcha by name. Ah Tcha was an orphan, but not according to rule. A most peculiar orphan was he. It is usual for orphans to be very, very poor. That is the world-wide custom. Ah Tcha, on the contrary, was quite wealthy. He owned seven farms, with seven times seven horses to draw the plow. He owned seven mills, with plenty of breezes to spin them. Furthermore, he owned seven thousand pieces of gold, and a fine white cat.

The farms of Ah Tcha were fertile, were wide. His horses were brisk in the furrow. His mills never lacked for grain, nor wanted for wind. And his gold was good sharp gold, with not so much as a trace of copper. Surely, few orphans have been better provided for than the youth named Ah Tcha. And what a busy person was this Ah Tcha. His bed was always cold when the sun arose. Early in the morning he went from field to field, from mill to mill, urging on the people who worked for him. The setting sun always found him on his feet, hastening from here to there, persuading his laborers to more gainful efforts. And the moon of midnight often discovered him pushing up and down the little teak-wood balls of a counting board, or else threading cash, placing coins upon a string. Eight farms, nine farms he owned, and more stout horses. Ten mills, eleven, another white cat. It was Ah Tcha’s ambition to become the richest person in the world.

They who worked for the wealthy orphan were inclined now and then to grumble. Their pay was not beggarly, but how they did toil to earn that pay which was not beggarly. It was go, and go, and go. Said the ancient woman Nu Wu, who worked with a rake in the field: “Our master drives us as if he were a fox and we were hares in the open. Round the field and round and round, hurry, always hurry.” Said Hu Shu, her husband, who bound the grain into sheaves: “Not hares, but horses. We are driven like the horses of Lung Kuan, who . . .” It’s a long story.

But Ah Tcha, approaching the murmurers, said, “Pray be so good as to hurry, most excellent Nu Wu, for the clouds gather blackly, with thunder.” And to the scowling husband he said, “Speed your work, I beg you, honorable Hu Shu, for the grain must be under shelter before the smoke of Evening Rice ascends.”

When Ah Tcha had eaten his Evening Rice, he took lantern and entered the largest of his mills. A scampering rat drew his attention to the floor. There he beheld no less than a score of rats, some gazing at him as if undecided whether to flee or continue the feast, others gnawing—and who are you, nibbling and caring not? And only a few short whisker-lengths away sat an enormous cat, sleeping the sleep of a mossy stone. The cat was black in color, black as a crow’s wing dipped in pitch, upon a night of inky darkness. That describes her coat. Her face was somewhat more black. Ah Tcha had never before seen her. She was not his cat. But his or not, he thought it a trifle unreasonable of her to sleep, while the rats held high carnival. The rats romped between her paws. Still she slept. It angered Ah Tcha. The lantern rays fell on her eyes. Still she slept. Ah Tcha grew more and more provoked. He decided then and there to teach the cat that his mill was no place for sleepy heads.