Shen of the Sea: A Book for Children

by Arthur Bowie Chrisman

Ching Chung was the master. He was a tremendous person. He was nearly as large as Ho Lan, the giant, who, one day when stretching, burned his hand on the hot red sun. Surely no one could ask for more proof that Ching Chung was quite large. And how the man could eat. He worked hard, from crow of cock till the owl said “Time for bed.” And how he could eat. Four roast ducks at a sitting . . . how he could eat. But his voice was so powerful that it often shook the pots from Cheng Chang’s stove. Then there was nothing to eat.

Ching Chung frequently complimented Cheng Chang upon his so glorious cookery. He would say to Cheng Chang: “Cheng Chang, this roast duck is simply tou ming. If I were king and you my cook, I would make you Governor of Kwang Ting, where the best ducks grow.” And Cheng Chang would say: “To the Gracious Master I offer my no-account thanks. I sorrow that my terrible cooking is not better.” Or, again, Ching Chung would say: “Cheng Chang, this exquisite roast duck has infused me with new strength. One more morsel, or maybe two, and I could conquer the world.” And Cheng Chang would reply, “It is nothing, Honorable Master.”

Strengthened and made bold by Cheng Chang’s roast duck and perhaps by a sip of the stuff called sam shu (which is fire and madness in a bottle), Ching Chung one day went a-courting. Before a body could say “Chang wang li chao” (about the same as “Jack Robinson”), the beauteous lady, Li Kuan, was pledged to be Ching Chung’s bride. Whereat, the happy groom to be, who had always proclaimed that a bachelor’s life was the only life, promptly changed the burden of his song and declared that all old bachelors should be boiled in rancid bean oil and used as candles to lighten the darkness. And, no doubt, he was very right.

Said master to cook: “Cheng Chang, why don’t you follow the excellent example that I have set and take unto yourself a bride? There’s Pang Tzu, a buxom lady, and wealthy. Why not marry Pang Tzu?” So Cheng Chang answered, “Very well then, Honorable Master; I’ll do as you advise.” And he did.

With Ching Chung married and Cheng Chang wed, both of the old bachelors were husbands, and their lives were changed, utterly. For marriage is a most peculiar thing. It promotes the fortunes of some men. Other men go from bad to worse. The wedding bell has two tongues. One tongue speaks good; the other, evil.

Consider the case of Ching Chung. His wife had no wealth whatsoever. But her fifth cousin was a general in the royal army. The general came to visit, riding a handsome donkey, and wearing his two swords. He tasted the roast duck (cooked, mind you, by Cheng Chang), upon Ching Chung’s table, and instantly took a great liking for Ching Chung. He thought his host a most hospitable and excellent man. Nor was he wrong. (But Cheng Chang had cooked the duck.)

It was no time till Ching Chung received a commission in the royal and brave army. He became a general. Before one could say “Chang wang li chao,” he won a great victory. . . . And, the king having died meanwhile, Ching Chung was placed upon the throne. There he was—upon the throne—a king. And hail to King Ching Chung.

On the other hand, consider Cheng Chang, the cook. Poor Cheng Chang. He was afraid of his wife. Horribly afraid. His wife had but to whisper “Chang,” and Chang trembled like jelly, spilled on the king’s highroad. His wife had but to say “Cheng Chang,” and Cheng Chang fell upon the floor. It often happened that his wife said “Chang,” just as the poor man seasoned a duck on the stove. Then Cheng Chang would tremble, and drop in too much salt or garlic or ginger, and the dinner would be ruined. Frequently Cheng Chang had to throw away a dozen ducks, before he dished up one that was really excellent. Of course, his own purse had to pay for the loss. Almost before one could say “Chang wang li chao,” the timid Cheng Chang was a pauper. A lucky thing for him that his wages were raised as soon as Ching Chung became King.

How remarkable are the tricks played by fate. She gives the wheel of life a turn. What was top becomes bottom. Strangely enough, what was bottom—becomes top. The once mighty eat humble pie. The once lowly sit upon gilt chairs, drinking yu chien from cups of egg-shell porcelain, and eating birds’ nests. Cheng Chang was at the bottom. And fate gave the wheel a whirl.

The wife of Cheng Chang went to visit her three brothers, who conducted a large go-down in Ning Poo. The art of cookery, so nearly lost to Cheng Chang, once more thrilled in his finger tips. A pinch of this. A mite of that. A dash of something else. Cheng Chang cooked as he had never cooked before. The roast duck that he served up for King Ching Chung was—was—was—. There are many words in the language of men, but not one of them can describe the duck that Cheng Chang presented his King and master, Ching Chung. Sublime, delicious, perfect—those words are weak and unable. Away with them. The duck must remain undescribed. But, oh, what a duck it was. King Ching Chung ate half of it. Perhaps he ate a trifle more than half. He kept his gaze upon the platter. He said neither “Good,” nor “Bad.”