SHEN OF THE SEA

A Book for Children

BY

ARTHUR BOWIE CHRISMAN

“Author of The Wind That Wouldn’t Blow”

Printed in the U. S. A.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

SHEN OF THE SEA

SHEN OF THE SEA

“A shamelessly rainy day, my honorable Brother Chi.”

“That is truth, esteemed Brother Cha. It rains perfectly hard. There will be plenty of leisure in which to beat the children.”

Ching Chi was merely quoting an old Swa Tou saying. Every one knows that on rainy days old and young are crowded, arm against elbow, in the house; often to get in each the other’s way—and misunderstandings are likely to arise. Then the bamboo is brought into play—and there are wailings. That is how the Swa Tou saying originated. When Ching Chi used it, he did so in fun, and, no doubt, to make talk.

But Ching Cha thought that his brother was speaking with earnestness. His face, made glum by the rain and by secret troubles, brightened at such a pleasing prospect. “Ho. Leisure to beat the children? What an utterly excellent idea. I, myself, will cut bamboos for your hand. Ah Mee is the one to beat. He played at being a mad wild elephant—oh, so perfectly wild, and with such trampling—in the midst of my huang ya tsai patch.”

Ching Chi seemed altogether astonished. His face showed that he thought Ching Cha must be overstepping the truth. “What? What do you say to me, honorable Brother Cha? Ah Mee playing wild elephant in your cabbage patch? But I thought that I told him, emphatically, to break no more of your cabbages.”

“It is no blemish upon my lips. It is the truth,” said Ching Cha, sullen and hurt because Chi disbelieved. “He played elephant in my cabbages. Come and I will show you.”

“Oh, no.” Ching Chi shook his head. “It is raining far too hard. I’ll speak of the matter again to my son.”

Ching Cha adjusted his wei li (rain hat) the straighter and shuffled off through the downpour. As he went he muttered something that sounded like “Wou ton meng.” If that is what he really said, he called Ching Chi a stupid old noddy.

But Ching Chi merely laughed. He had no intention of beating Ah Mee, his “pearl in the palm,” his son.

Now whether Ching Chi was right or wrong is a pretty question. Some persons answer it one way, and some, another. But there is no question about this. . . . Ah Mee was terrible. If anything, he was as bad as that lazy Ah Fun, son of Dr. Chu Ping. Here is their only difference. Ah Fun never did what he was told to do. Ah Mee always did what he was told not to do. But he did it in such manner as to leave a loophole. He always had a perfectly good excuse. Take the matter of his uncle Ching Cha’s cabbage patch. . . .

Only a day or so before, Ah Mee had pretended that he was a fierce and furious dragon—a loong. As a fierce and furious dragon, he threshed this way and that through Uncle Ching Cha’s very delectable cabbages—causing much hurt. Ching Chi, the parent, told Ah Mee never again to play dragon in Uncle Cha’s cabbages. “Ah Mee, you must never again play dragon in your honorable uncle’s cabbage patch. If you do, I shall speak to you most sharply.” And Ah Mee said, “Yes, sir,” and obeyed. He pretended to be a ferocious wild elephant. He didn’t play dragon again. Oh, no. Not at all. He was very careful not even to think of a dragon. He was a weighty elephant—amid the cabbages.

Ching Chi, the fond parent, lived with his wife—her name is forgotten—and the son, Ah Mee, and a little daughter, in a neat house that stood in the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. Ching Chi was a carver of wood, and ivory, and jade. His bachelor brother Ching Cha who lived next door, did scrivening—wrote things with a blackened brush upon parchment and paper—and the wall, when he had no paper. Some people said they were stories, but certainly they brought in no money. As for that, neither did Ching Chi’s carvings bring in any money. Yet Chi was a good carver. His designs were artistic, and his knife was obedient to the slightest touch. From an inch block of ivory he could carve seven balls—one inside the other. Howbeit, Chi was neither famous nor wealthy. Instead of carving pagodas and trinkets for sale in the bazaars, he spent most of his time in carving toys for Ah Mee—who promptly smote them with an axe, or threw them in the well, or treated them in some other manner equally grievous.

For six months Ching Chi worked to carve a dragon. When finished, the loong was a thing of beauty. In the bazaar it would, perhaps, have fetched a bar of silver from some rich mandarin. But fond Ching Chi gave it to Ah Mee. And Ah Mee, tiring of it after five minutes of play, hurled it through the paper-covered window.

Are windows made to be broken? Are toys fashioned only to be thrown away? Certainly not. Papa Chi wagged a finger at Ah Mee and he spoke thus, “Ah Mee, most wonderful son in the world, you must not throw your dragon through the window into the back yard again. What I say, that I mean. Don’t throw your dragon into the yard any more.” Having said, he proceeded with his work, carving beautiful designs upon teak-wood blocks . . . for Ah Mee’s pleasure.

And Ah Mee said, “Very well then, Tieh tieh (Daddy), I won’t.” He proceeded with his work—which was to pile carven teak-wood blocks high as his not-so-long arms could reach. There was one block covered with so much exquisite carving that it gave little support to the blocks above. For that reason the tower wavered and fell. Ah Mee promptly lost his temper. Made furious beyond endurance, he seized the offending block and hurled it through a paper-paneled door.

Who will say that Ah Mee was disobedient? He had been told not to throw his toy dragon through the window. But had his father, Ching Chi, told him not to heave a block through the door? Not at all. Ching Chi had said nothing about blocks, and he had pointed his finger at the window. Nevertheless, Mr. Ching felt almost inclined to scold his son. He said, very sternly, “Ah Mee. . . .”

“Whang. Bang. Bang,” came the sound of sticks on the door frame. Crash—the door flew open. In rushed stalwart men, dressed in the King’s livery, and bearing heavy staves. “Oh, you vile tung hsi (east west—very abusive talk), you murderer,” screamed the men. “Are you trying to assassinate your King? What do you mean by hurling missiles into the King’s sedan as he is carried through the street? Answer, before your head falls.”

But Ching Chi was unable to answer. He could only press his forehead to the floor, and tremble, and wait for the quick death he expected. Meantime, Ah Mee pelted the King’s men with various large and small toys—including a hatchet.

King Tan Ki, seated comfortably in a sedan chair, was being carried through the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. He had no thought of danger. Peril had no place in his mind. The street seemed a street of peace. When lo—from a paper-covered door there came a large missile, striking a slave and falling into the King’s lap. Instantly the body-guard rushed to the terrible house and battered in the door. But King Tan Ki felt more curiosity than alarm. He examined the object that had so unceremoniously been hurled into the sedan. At once his interest was quickened. The King knew good carvings—whether they came from old masters, or from hands unknown. Here was a block carved with superlative art. Tan Ki wished to know more of the artist who carved it.

Ching Chi was still kneeling, still expecting instant death, when the King’s chamberlain rushed in. The Chamberlain uttered a sharp order. The body-guards grasped Ching Chi and hastened him out of the house, to kneel at the King’s sedan. Ah Mee fired a last volley of broken toys at the retreating chamberlain. . . . Not especially nice of him, perhaps, but then, no one had forbidden it.

Fortune had smiled her prettiest upon the house of Ching Chi. King Tan Ki was immensely pleased with the old engraver’s work. The odds and ends of toys that had been fashioned for Ah Mee, now graced the palace. There they were appreciated. Every day Ching Chi worked faithfully, carving plaques and panels and medallions for the King. He was wealthy. Upon his little skull-cap was a red button. He was a mandarin, if you please. Only mandarins of the highest class may wear ruby buttons on their caps. . . . And Ah Mee was worse than ever.

To say it again, for emphasis, Ah Mee was worse than ever—if possible. He dabbled in all the hundred-and-one varieties of mischief. All day long it was “Ah Mee, don’t do that.” “Ah Mee, don’t do the other.” “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.” Papa Ching was so tired of saying “Don’t” that his tongue hurt every time he used the word. Occasionally he changed his talk and said the opposite of what he really meant. Thus he would say, “That’s right, little darling, fill papa’s boots with hop toads and muddy terrapins, and that will make papa happy.” Or, “Pray take another jar, my precious. Eat all the jam you possibly can. Six jars is not at all too much.” For Ah Mee doted on jam. It was a passion with him. He started the day on jam, finished the day on jam. Every time a back was turned, his fingers sought the jam pot. Indeed, rather frequently he ate so much jam that there were pains . . . and the doctor.

Ching Chi took a bird cage from the wall and hung it on his arm. (In that land when gentlemen go for a stroll they usually carry their pet larks, instead of their pet chous.) At the door he paused and said to Ah Mee: “Little pearl in the palm, please refrain from too much mischief. Don’t [there it was again] be any worse than you are really compelled to be. Of course, it’s quite proper for you to put arsenic in Mother’s tea, and to hit baby sister with the axe again. And you may burn the house if you feel so inclined. . . . I want you to have plenty of innocent fun. But don’t [again] be bad. For instance, don’t, I beg of you, don’t get in those jars of jam any more.”

Off went Ching Chi with his lark singing blithely.

Ah Mee was quite puzzled. “Don’t get in the jars of jam.” How in the world could he get in the little jars? It was silly. He was much larger than any one of the jars. But perhaps Tieh tieh meant not put a hand in the jars. That must be it. Ah Mee made a stern resolve to keep his hands out. Not so much as a finger should go in those jars. . . .

Obedient Ah Mee arranged several of his father’s carven plaques on the floor, and tilted a jar. The plaques were beautifully decorated flat pieces of wood, somewhat larger than dinner plates. They made reasonably good dishes for the stiff jam. Surrounded by little mountains of jam, Ah Mee sat on the floor and . . . how the mountains disappeared. Really, it was fairish tasting jam.

When Ching Chi came home and discovered his carvings smeared with black and sticky jam, that good soul fell into a passion. First he screamed. Next he howled. Then he seized the plaques and flung them from him, flung them with all his strength. Flinging seems to have been a family failing.

Ching Chi was weeping for sorrow, and howling with rage when his brother Cha entered the room. The quick eyes of Brother Cha soon saw that something was amiss. He gazed at the wall where the plaques had struck. He gazed at the jam-coated plaques. Then he too howled, but with joy. “Oh, Brother Chi,” he shouted. “You have chanced upon a wonderful invention. It is a quick way for making books. What huge luck.” He led Brother Chi to the wall and pointed. “See. For reason of its jam, each plaque has made a black impression on the wall. Every line of the carving is reproduced upon the wall. Now do you understand? You will carve my thoroughly miserable stories upon blocks of wood. Ah Mee will spread black jam upon the carven blocks. Then I will press the blocks upon paper, sheet after sheet, perhaps a hundred in one day. . . . With the laborious brush I can make only one story a month. With the blocks—I can make thousands. Oh, what a wonderful invention.”

Ching Chi carved his brother’s stories upon wooden blocks. Ah Mee spread the jam thickly—only pausing now and then for a taste. Ching Cha pressed the blocks upon paper, sheet after sheet. . . . There were the stories upon paper—all done in a twinkling, and with little expense. The poorest people in the land could afford to buy Ching Cha’s most excellent stories.

Thus was invented Yin Shu (Make Books) or, as the very odd foreign demons call it in their so peculiar language—“Printing.” Ching Chi, his brother Ching Cha, and Ah Mee, all had a hand in the invention. As a matter of exact truth, Ah Mee had two hands in the invention (or in the jam), so he is generally given all the credit. His monument reads, “Ah Mee, the Inventor of Printing.”

Kua Hai City stands on a plain in northern China. The plain is called Wa Tien, and it is very smooth and fertile, giving many large melons. . . . Life there is good. The plain is likewise extremely low. Any reliable geography will tell you that Kua Hai is below sea level. And that, I know, is a fact, for I, lazily seated in my garden, have often gazed at sailing ships, large-eyed—wide-staring-eyed junks as they fetched into the Bay of The Sharp-Horned Moon, and to view them I had to raise my eyes. It is very true. I had to look up, as one looks up to behold the sky-hung eagles of Lo Fan.

I had as often wondered if the sea ever broke through its restraining walls and flooded Kua Hai. A storm coming down from the northeast would most likely thrust billows to overtop the wall. So I said to my gardener, Wu Chang: “Wu Chang, did fishes ever swim up the Street of A Thousand Singing Dragons? Did the sea ever come into Kua Hai?” Wu Chang paused in his scratching among the hung lo po (the radishes). Since thinking it over, I am inclined to believe that he welcomed an opportunity to change from the working of his fingers to the working of his tongue. “Once, and once only, Honorable One, has the sea invaded Kua Hai. But it can never do so again. Chieh Chung was fooled once, but he was far too clever to be fooled twice. He buried the bottle, perhaps in this very garden, for who knows? He buried it so deep that no ordinary digging shall discover it. And so, the sea may look over the walls of Kua Hai, but it may not enter.”

“Indeed?” said I. “And pray, who was this Chieh Chung? And what was in the bottle?”

Such astounding ignorance gained me a look of compassion from old Wu Chang. “The Honorable One is surely jesting. He, of course, knows that Chieh Chung was the first King of Wa Tien.”

“Oh, to be sure,” I interrupted. “It was Chieh Chung who invented—hum—er radishes.” That was a guess, and a miss.

Wu Chang corrected me. “Not radishes, but writing. A mistaken thing to do, in my opinion. But beyond doubt he did a great service when he bottled the water demons. Ho. Ho. Ho. He bottled the demons as if they were melon pickles. Ho. Ho. Ho.”

“Sit here in the shade, Wu Chang,” said I. “So Chieh Chung pickled the water demons—and then what?”

“Not pickled, Honorable One, bottled. Chieh Chung bottled the demons. Ho. Ho. Ho. . . . You must understand that in those days the plain hereabouts was much lower than it is now. It had not been built up. And the sea was much higher in those days, for then there were no heavy ships to weigh it down, and flatten it. The sea was very high then-a-days, far too high for its breadth. On every side the land held it back, and it was retarded and had no freedom of motion. So the Shen, the demons of the sea, got them together and took thought. They said: ‘Our sea is far too small. We must have more room. We are mighty, are we not? Then let us take some land and occupy it, so that our sea may expand.’

“Accordingly, the water demons swam along the coast, seeking land to conquer. They passed the shores of Fu Sang without stopping, for that region is high and mountainous. They passed the region of San Shen Shan, for in that place lives the powerful land demon named Hu Kung. The water demons were in no great haste to gain Hu Kung’s hatred. They passed without a second glance. But when the Shen swam up to Kua Hai, it was to rejoice. The demons looked over the wall; they smiled down upon Kua Hai and said, ‘This land we shall take for our beloved sea. It is low, and suited to our purpose. Rightfully it is ours. Yes, we shall take Kua Hai, and all the vast plain hereabout.’ But the ocean demons were possessed of decency. They did not dash over the walls, calling on their sea to follow, and so drown all the people of Kua Hai. Demons though they be, the Shen that time had mercy in their hearts. While the night dew lay upon the fields of Wa Tien, those demons, to the number of seven, made their way into Kua Hai. There they waited in the garden of the palace.

“When King Chieh Chung, who ruled over Wa Tien, took him to the garden for an early morning stroll, he discovered the demons waiting. He knew at once they were no ordinary men. Not once did they kou tou (knock their heads on the ground) as men should do. Nor did they look like the men of Wa Tien. Their mouths were wide mouths, like those of codfishes. Their bodies were covered with iridescent scales. Nevertheless, Chieh Chung permitted the Shen to approach. ‘What manner of men are you?’ asked the King. ‘And what is your pleasure?’

“ ‘We are the Shen, demons of the sea,’ answered the seven. ‘We are Shen of the ocean, and we come to claim our own.’ ‘And what is that?’ asked the King, smiling tolerantly upon them, though in truth he felt more like weeping, for he knew what would be the answer.

“ ‘We have come to possess ourselves of the city and all the low plain that surrounds it. It is our right, and our might—we mean to have it.’ Then Chieh Chung’s heart dropped down to a level with his sandals. His heart was weighted as if with millstones, as if weighted with Mount Tai. Long he stroked his beard, pondering, grieving, praying. And the water demons danced in the dew. Jubilant were they, flinging their toes high, spattering dewdrops upon the palace roof, and singing the terrible song of the ocean.

“Finally the King answered. ‘Shen,’ said he, ‘what time do you grant me? Kua Hai is a large city. In it are half a million souls. It will be moons and moons before I can count my people safely upon the Mountain of The Yellow Ox.’ One of the demons was shaking a pai shu (shaking a cypress tree) so that its dew fell upon him and upon his companions, for already the sun was up and they were beginning to feel the day and its dryness. ‘What time?’ said the Shen, taking his answer from the pai shu. ‘We shall give you until this tree is in flower. Have all your people gathered upon high ground when this pai shu blossoms, for at that time we shall lead the sea upon Wa Tien, and the sea shall stand three li deep above your palace. That is our answer. And now we must go for the sun has lit his fire.’

“The Shen made a move as if to depart, but no sooner were they out of the shadows than they halted abruptly, murmuring in displeasure. And small wonder. The sun had dispelled the dew and there was no moisture upon the land. A water Shen cannot exist where there is no moisture. In that respect he is like the yin yu and the shih pan (fishes). So the Shen turned to Chieh Chung and said, ‘Is there water here, O King, where we may spend the day hours?’ ‘There is little,’ said Chieh Chung; ‘I dare say too little for your purpose. But in such quantity as it is, you are welcome.’ He pointed to a crystal bowl in which burgeoned a sacred lily. There was water in the bowl, water surrounding the lily bulb. Too, there were stones in the bowl—blue lapis lazuli, and green jade, and yellow topaz (precious stones, as befitted a palace garden), for that is the way sacred lilies are grown—in bowls filled with water and pretty pebbles. ‘You are quite welcome to it,’ reiterated the King. The Shen shook their heads half in despair. ‘It is too little,’ groaned they, ‘far too little.’ ‘But,’ said Chieh Chung, ‘you are demons—hence magicians. Why do you not make yourselves smaller? Why not change yourselves into red hung pao shih and recline in the bowl amid the lily roots? I am sure you would make handsome rubies. Beyond a doubt, my courtiers would say “Ah” and “How lovely” and admire you greatly when they saw you. Of a certainty, you would make resplendent gems, dazzling and superb.’ ‘Well,’ agreed the Shen, somewhat dubiously, ‘we shall try it. If you have no more water it is the only thing we can do.’ And so, in a twinkling the Shen were gone, and seven beautiful rubies appeared in the crystal bowl.

“ ‘How lovely,’ said Chieh Chung—and deliberately winked at the cypress tree, first with one eye and then with the other. He went to a cabinet that stood in his chamber, and from the cabinet took a bottle fashioned out of fei yu (a cloudy jade). And the bottle had a wide mouth. Into it Chieh Chung poured water. Returning to the lily bowl, he quickly took therefrom the seven red hung pao shih and dropped them into the jade bottle—closing the mouth securely.

“ ‘Now,’ exulted the King, ‘my city is saved. My people may walk in security and without fear. The seven water demons are in my keeping, and please Heaven may they never escape my hand.’ And in his joy, King Chieh Chung ordered that ten thousand catties of rice be given to the poor.

“Weeks lengthened into months. Lengthened the months to years. Still languished the water demons in the clouded jade bottle. Still broke the sea on Kua Hai’s walls—but did not enter. Chieh Chung added to his kingdom and ruled with beneficence. His name was heralded throughout the length of the world. Not by the spear, but by wisdom he added to his dominions. Peoples of far-distant regions came seeking to place themselves under the rule of Chieh Chung—wisest and best.

“At length came ambassadors from Wei Chou, yes, even from distant Kou Pei, offering to give their allegiance to Chieh Chung. Ah, but that was a great day, a day of all proud days. The ambassadors were a hundred for number, haughty mandarins all. There was a great stir about the palace, you may well believe, retainers rushing hither and thither to provide food and drink and entertainment for the foreign great men.

“A foolish servant, ransacking cupboard and closet for what victuals and drink he could find, came upon the dusty jade bottle that stood in Chieh Chung’s cabinet. ‘Ah,’ said the servant, trying to peer through the cloudy jade. ‘Beyond a doubt, here is something of rare excellence. This will do for the highest of the mandarins, for the red-button mandarins with peacock feathers. It rattles—rock candy in it.’ And the foolish one removed the stopper. A thousand pities he was not stricken dead before the seal was broken.

“Chieh Chung came into the chamber and saw what had happened. For a moment he was stunned. Then, ‘Let me have the bottle.’ The bottle was empty, all save for a bit of water. ‘They are gone,’ said the King. ‘The Shen have escaped. But even so, I may baffle them, for they promised with binding oaths not to take my kingdom until the pai shu blossoms. And—in this region the cypress tree never blossoms—it never comes into flower.’ The King smiled in spite of himself.

“Meanwhile, the water demons, having escaped from the bottle, hastened through the palace toward the garden. They were very angry—were those demons, gnashing their teeth with a noise like that of waves lashing a rock-guarded coast. They were determined on vengeance.

“The Wei Chou ambassadors were encamped in the palace garden. Their servants had been washing garments, brilliant-hued garments such as the wealthy and noble of that land wear. The garments had been hung on the cypress tree to dry. And there the garments hung when the water demons appeared. The tree was aflame with color. Instantly the Shen raised a great shout. ‘Come billow. Come ocean.’ They shouted in triumph. ‘The pai shu blossoms (the cypress tree blooms)’—for they thought the garments were flowers—‘and our promise is ended. Kua Hai is ours.’

“Fathoms deep, roaring, grinding, relentless, the sea swept over Kua Hai, buried the city, buried the plain. The water demons raced before it, calling it on. They who had been the people of Kua Hai rode upon white-crested billows—without life—drowned. Out of all the vast population perhaps a thousand escaped. And among those who escaped was the King.

“Chieh Chung sat under a pine tree on the mountain, grief-stricken, heartbroken, gazing upon what had been a city, and now was sparkling sea. Hour after hour sat the King, grieving and thinking, meditating a way to regain his country. Now and then the seven water demons appeared before him, mocking, splashing him with spray.

“One day, having meditated long, Chieh Chung arose and shouted exultantly: ‘I have it. I know how I shall regain my city. I shall go immediately and put the plan in writing, while it is fresh in my mind.’ Having said, he walked to the little hut that served for his palace and sat down at a table to write. On the table stood a crystal bowl, with a lily, and with green, blue, and yellow stones.

“Chieh Chung sat writing meaningless stuff upon parchment. All the while he kept an eye on the crystal bowl. Lo. There appeared seven red stones at the root of the lily. The demons had come to spy upon the King’s writing. They had come to learn his plan, and so triumph over him. But they, unwittingly, were giving themselves into bondage again. For Chieh Chung quickly thrust them into a bottle and sealed it against all escape. Six of the demons he thus imprisoned. The seventh, who was a small fellow, Chieh Chung threw back into the sea. ‘Go,’ said the King, ‘and take your sea with you. Take your sea, and never trouble me again. Else I shall most certainly destroy your six brothers. It is a warning.’