I WISH IT WOULD RAIN
It rains and rains in Kiang Sing. And then it rains some more. No sooner is one cloud past then another comes treading on its heels. By day and by night the raindrops patter, and ko tzu from his lily pad croaks “More rain. More rain.” Old men going to bed wear their wei li (rain hats), instead of tasseled nightcaps. Many young people have only a hazy idea as to what the word “sun” means. Pour and beat and drizzle, drizzle and drive with the gale. And that is Kiang Sing.
Three reasons are given by the people of Kiang Sing for their extremely weepy climate. Some say that the shen Yu Shih, who lords it over the clouds, lives near by on the Daylight Mountain. Others are firm in their declaration that Moo Yee, the mighty archer, and a naughty fellow withal, shot the sky above Kiang Sing full of arrow holes. Naturally, a sky full of arrow holes is bound to leak. There are still others, and very learned folk among them, who declare that Mei Li weeping for her lost hero, Wei Sheng, is responsible for the torrents. Dear only knows which is the correct theory. It may be that all three are to blame. The only certainty is that Kiang Sing has a very heavy rainfall, and that Tiao Fu lived there and learned to love wet weather. . . . To love it? She hated it.
Tiao Fu was a very pretty maiden—no gainsaying that. She had the most wonderful black long hair in all Kiang Sing. But beauty was her one and only possession. She had no skill with the needle, whether to sew or embroider. Her cooking was more than a disgrace. When her fingers touched the pi pa, that usually sweet-toned instrument gave out a demon’s wail. She could not even smooth a quilt on the kang. The beds were all hills and hollows. How could she make beds when her hair needed burnishing? She scarce knew which end of a broom was meant for the floor. How could she sweep when her hair required glossing? New matting would cover the floor’s disarray. Tiao Fu smoothed her hair and dreamed of the time when she would marry a rich mandarin and be carried in glory away from Kiang Sing and its terrible rains. The hateful rains of Kiang Sing.
No wonder her father, Ching Chi, became so poverty-stricken. Gradually his fortune slipped away until his only property was the large and poorly furnished, extremely ill-kept house in which he lived. Even so, this house when viewed from the street appeared superior to its fellows. It was the handsomest and most considerable yamen in Pin Jen Village.
The size and appearance of the yamen accounts for what happened. One fiendish night, in a mighty drumming of rain, there came a more noisy drumming of maces upon Ching Chi’s door. “Open, in the King’s name,” commanded voices outside. Forthwith Ching Chi flung open the door. He beheld runners dressed in the royal livery, and in their hands the gold-banded staves of their authority. “Prepare to receive and entertain the illustrious person of Ho Chu the King. His Most Gracious Majesty will arrive sha shih chien (within a slight shower’s time). Therefore prepare. It is a command.”
Far from entertaining royalty, old Ching Chi had never so much as glimpsed a King. Heart and knees failed him utterly. He could only grovel upon the floor and mutter weakly of his unworthiness. Tiao Fu, however, was not so deeply affected. A King? Let him enter. Say what you please, kings are mortal men. No food in the house? Ya ya pei (Pish pooh). And the tradesmen refused all credit? What of it? No tradesman in his senses would refuse a bargain. And what would the bargain be?
Tiao Fu snatched up her little-used embroidery scissors. Snip. Snip. Snip. Down fell a cataract of her long black hair. Snip. Snip. Again and again. The hair that was her vanity lay upon the floor. Her lustrous hair—sacrificed—to make a feast for the King. Hastily donning her father’s wei li, she dashed from the house. There was no trouble in making a bargain. The tradesman’s first offer was almost within reason and Tiao Fu had no time to wrangle. She bartered her hair for cooked fowls and rice and all that goes to make a dinner.