LITMIR.BIZ

      The storyteller shuffled from village to village, shoulders hunched under the weight of the baskets slung on his bamboo pole. With any luck he wouldn’t have to dip into his meagre rations, for the villagers were usually willing to share their rice in return for a story or two. Although in this Year of the Snake times were hard, and people barely had enough food for themselves let alone wandering storytellers.

      The old man sighed. For many years now, times had been hard in the farming districts of southern China. Too many people, too little food. And the gods had not been kind. If it wasn’t a flood, it was a drought. If not a plague, then a famine. If that weren’t enough, local wars between clans erupted and set bandits loose upon the countryside.

      He remembered the day his village had been over-run by bandits. He had returned from the hills to find the whole village in ashes and the starving peasants killed, including his own family.

      Now he trudged throughout the countryside, seeking refuge in his stories. What else was there? Farming was impossible; he had no money to rent a field and no hope of ever paying back a loan. Become a pirate? A soldier? No, he was too old. And far too old to move to the land across the sea as so many others were doing. He shuddered at the thought. He might starve or meet a violent death, but at least his bones would be buried in his homeland. What more could a man hope for?

      Some kindness from the gods, he thought, answering his own question. Too long, the gods have been angry. Perhaps if the right offering were made, or if the curse were broken....

      His senses quivered suddenly, as a willow wand dips when it discovers water. Could this be the place? It wasn’t often that he thought of the curse but when he did, he invariably felt a pull, sometimes weak, sometimes strong, but never as strong as this. Every nerve tingled. This was the place.

      A bright chattering interrupted his thoughts. Young voices cascaded through the village and rice paddies, announcing his arrival. “The storyteller is coming!” Before he knew it, he was surrounded by villagers of all ages.

      Chan Tai Keung rushed along with the others, glad of the distraction. Perhaps this would set his uneasy mind at rest. Besides, who knew when the opportunity would come again?

      “Tell us, Elder Uncle,” the children clamoured. “Tell us a story.”

      The storyteller settled himself beneath a shady tree. “First I need my story bag,” he said. From one of his baskets he took a tattered pouch. He reached in, gathered a handful of yellow sand and flung it high into the air. The grains fell like a sprinkling of gold dust. He caught one grain on the tip of his finger and looked at it for a moment, lost in thought. Then he said,” This is the story that wants to be told.

      “2000 years ago, there lived a Mighty Emperor who built the Great Wall of China...”

      Keung tried to concentrate on the words but could not. Besides, he knew the story of the Emperor and the Wall. And he knew about the great tomb and the army of warriors built to protect the Emperor after his death.

      His mind drifted away from the wrinkled face of the storyteller, far away to Gim Shan, the Land of Gold Mountain across the sea. There he would make his fortune. He would buy enough food for everyone. Never again would the villagers be forced to eat boiled grass or suck on stones to still the pangs of hunger.

      The streets of Gold Mountain would be paved with gold. His pockets would be lined with gold dust, bright as the yellow sand scattered at his feet. And he would not return alone, but with his father.

      “...dreams turn to dust.” The storyteller’s voice drew him back. “Until the white jade tiger sleeps again.”

      The storyteller took a long draw from his pipe and exhaled. In the curling smoke, Keung imagined a fierce tiger leaping through the air.

      “Just before Bright Jade entered the tomb,” the storyteller continued, “she clutched the amulet. A mist appeared, wrapped her like a silkworm in a cocoon, and swept her away from the darkness, into the light. Far away to the south, to a land of lush green and sunshine, where she married a hardworking farmer and lived to have many sons and grandsons.”

      His eyes twinkled as he scanned the smiling villagers. They knew this story. Since they belonged to the same clan, they shared the same ancestors, all the way back to Bright Jade.

      The storyteller lowered his voice. “Bright Jade was not an ordinary woman. She had mysterious powers and seemed to be unaffected by such things as heat or cold, discomfort or pain, almost as if she were a spirit and not a real person. Many believed the village prospered because of her protection, or because of her amulet, the white jade tiger. It was believed this amulet gave her immortality as well as other powers, for Bright Jade lived on and on. But the day finally came when she passed to the other life. And when she was buried, the white jade tiger went with her. Her spirit was at peace and continued to watch over her clan.

      “But many years ago, the rains came with a vengeance. The land was flooded with the rising waters of the river. Many graves were disturbed. From one such grave, the white jade tiger was awakened. And lost.”

      The storyteller held the villagers with his gaze. “What has become of it? Was it swept away by the river? Buried deep in the mud? Or was it stolen to satisfy a longing for riches?

      “Bright Jade is restless. In dreams

Скачать книгу