Call a Stag a Horse

Call a Stag a Horse

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Once upon a time there was an old kingdom that had for many years enjoyed the wise rule of its Sovereigns. There came an unfortunate period when a young weak Prince, not particularly adept at ruling, ascended the throne. As it is with such rulers, a particularly power-hungry uncle became Regent to the new King and sought to seize power for himself before the boy King reached the age of maturity. There remained one snag in his plan of usurpation however, as many of the senior ministers remained loyal to the old Dynasty and would mount an effective opposition. To ensure his success the Uncle needed to ascertain with absolute confidence who among them were not his staunch supporters.

On the King’s birthday, last among many rare handsome gifts, the Uncle offered a very beautiful, stag and said” Your Majesty, I’m privileged to also present this rare stallion for your Highness’s riding pleasure.”

The King laughed good humouredly and said, “Your eyes must be failing you Uncle, for I see before me only a stag.”

At this point the Regent turned to address the many ministers that were present at Court, and with a grand gesture pointedly asked, “Good ministers, pray tell, is it a horse or a stag that you eyes behold?”

Some kept their silence, others, to please the Regent acceded readily that it was a beautiful stallion. Proud but unwise ones protested haughtily that it was a stag and further grumbled under their breath that the Regent had gone a bit too far this time with this shameless posturing.

In the days that followed those loyal, steadfast ministers who had dared to speak the truth were one by one demoted, framed, besmirched or libelled. Subsequently, all likely opponents were either publicly executed or quietly perished in the dungeons.

The young King, last of his line, was methodically driven to madness and then suicide, paving the way for the Uncle to seize the throne.

The End

The Puddle

The Puddle

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Once upon a time two young monks were happily travelling along an old country road. The sky that had been laden with dark ominous clouds most part of the day, however, soon gave way to torrential rain. They trudged along now with some difficulty as the earthen pathways instantly transformed into rushing rivulets. They had just veered around a corner when they came upon a pretty young girl in dire straits. Sporting an umbrella and dressed in her Sunday best, she appeared stymied by a particularly large puddle which the downpour had created directly in her path.

“Let me help you, “said one of the monks and, not waiting for her response, he lifted her in his arms, carried her over the puddle and let her gently down safely on the other side.

The monk’s companion said nothing, remaining unusually silent the rest of the way. That night as they prepared to sleep, unable to constrain himself, he grumbled in displeasure. “You should give extra prayers for absolution tonight, as you have so heedlessly flaunted our teachings and manhandled that rather pretty thing.”

“I left the girl there” his friend replied, plainly surprised. “Why is it that you are still carrying her?”

Fini

Be Like the Water

Retelling of Old Legends:

Be Like the Water 

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Once upon a time there lived a rather meek individual called Yori who strove to be strong. As he was interested in wrestling, he traveled to the farthest edges of the country and after repeated attempts finally got accepted in an illustrious school where a most famed master was the instructor.

Fueled by his enthusiasm he endured grueling training sessions to eventually become a great fighter. His timid nature however always stood in the way and in daily practice or special tournaments without fail he persistently got bested 
by the other initiates.

The teacher who’d earlier on recognized his true abilities was baffled by this. Suspecting Yori’s innate impediment, he initiated a private bout with Yori to test his skill. True enough, Yori, caught in the momentum of fight defeated his master on the first round. Subsequent bouts all proved to be the same.

You are a like the turtle,” the master told Yori one day. “But too often you cower under your shell, you need to come out.” and sent Yori to see his good friend, a Zen master at the nearby temple, for help.

“Not a turtle,” the Zen master nodded after hearing Yori’s account. “You shall be a Sweeping Wave.”

He instructed him on the preliminaries of meditation then told him to remain there the rest of the night imagining himself not as a human being who’s primarily afraid, not as an adroit wrestler, not anything but a great wave of the oceans. “Be like the tsunami,” he said to him before retiring to his private chamber. “Imagine your power sweeping, swallowing all and everything in your path. Then all will be well with you.”

Yori set motionless in darkness for hours contemplating the words of the Zen master.

At first his mind would not cooperate with his will, and he wondered about a great many useless things, places, people or past events, anything but the wave. Gradually however, his willpower won over his monkey mind and forced it to focus on the vast sea, volumes of water and then the waves. His mind now was pinned on that single giant wave. It grew larger and larger, washing over the shoreline, uprooting trees, structures, houses, and even the temple he was sitting in. Everything was encompassed by that giant wave. All that could be seen was the ebb and flow of the immense ocean.

At the first light of day when the Zen master emerged from his room he found Yori still meditating at the spot exactly as he’d left him. The master smiling patted Yori on the shoulder and said, “Now you are that invincible wave, go forth and always be thus.”

And true to fact, Yori from that day forth became an invincible fighter, winning every challenge and tournament. For decades his fame spread far and wide and he became the undefeated champion of the realm.

Fini

Cascading Flowers

Cascading Flowers

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Subhuti was one of the disciples of Buddha. One fine day seeking solitude, he decided on a short respite from the hot rays of the midday sun and rested under a fine old tree. He leaned his back to the sturdy trunk welcoming the gentle, fragrant breeze caressing his face. He closed his eyes and quietly reflected on the importance of emptiness, then his thoughts extended to the notion that nothing exists without bias and true impartiality. Suddenly flowers began to cascade on and all about him.

“We are praising you for your discourse on emptiness,” the falling petals whispered to him.

“But I have not voiced my thoughts.” Sabhuti protested.

“You have not spoken of emptiness, we have not heard any emptiness,” responded the swaying branches still decked in white delicate flowers. “This is the true emptiness.” Then the deluge of gleeful, smiling fragrant petals hugged Subhuti.

The Yellow Chrysanthemum

The Yellow Chrysanthemum

(Original story)

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Part One

 

Part Two

 

Part Three

 

Part 1

A long, long time ago there was a fierce and mighty general named Geronwu Muer who never lost a single battle. His military prowess rendered him invincible, so that the very mention of his name was enough to send ripples of fear through the enemy ranks. Each time the battle would be won even before it had started. In his mid years his glorious vocation suffered a serious setback when he received a devastating blow from the axe of an opponent. It crippled his sword arm and put an end to the legend of his invincibility.

Forced to retire to his country estate he allowed his well meaning friends to coerce him into a marriage. The day a boy was born to him was the greatest day of his life and filled his heart with hopes and dreams. The son, bereft of his mother at birth, would still be expected to fulfill Geronwu’s great aspirations. Hence, at barely five years of age the boy was subjected to gruelling military discipline and tutelage.

“I’m greatly disappointed in the boy.” Geronwu Muer confessed to a confidante one day as they shared a fine wine out on the veranda. “No amount of threat, pressure, or coaxing will deliver the result I seek. He is intelligent enough, physically fit, and agile enough in wielding the sword,” he shook his head grumpily, “but just doesn’t have it in him to be a warrior.”

“Do not lose heart my friend.” The confidante reached over and placed a comforting hand on Geronwu’s shoulder,” The boy is only five years in age after all,” he paused for emphasis, “and he does have some mighty boots to fill. Perhaps he will surprise us all by sprouting martial wings in his subsequent years.” He chuckled as he swallowed another mouthful of the fine wine.

“No. I have always been farsighted in such matters. I can see the writing on the wall. He will always be a disappointment to me.” Geronwu Muer shook his head morosely.

True enough, the subsequent years proved him right. The boy, Narcore, showed more inclination towards the literary arts and horticulture and excelled in them with the least effort whereas he struggled to achieve more than a mediocre rank in every aspect of his military training. As a result Geronwu Muer refused to have anything to do with the boy and spent his days drinking and carousing with his close associates. However, the boy had more in common with Geronwu than the father realized; for one thing, Narcore was courageous, passionate in his pursuits and rather strong willed and as hot tempered as his father.

“There is no denying it; I have a father that hates me. Never once has he tried to see things my way…. Heaven knows I’ve tried and tried to appease him but his expectations are far too unrealistic. How can anyone achieve those high standards of his. Why should I hang around only to be berated from dawn to dusk?”

The dejected ten year old Narcore simply seized the opportunity one day when his father was away and fled his despised circumstance. He took with him only a few of his prized possessions, a small knife, some dry food and the water skin then quietly snuck through the back gate without anyone knowing it.

“I will take my chance in the outside world. How much worse can it be?” A coward he was not. Fording the river he headed straight for the wilderness and the woods, knowing it would be harder for them to track him there. However, he soon came to regret his decision.

Part 2

Sudden violent gusts of wind arose, billowing the clouds up into an ominous flotilla that soon swallowed the sun. The forest creatures scurried off to seek shelter and Narcore was no exception as he too sought refuge from the impending heavy downpours. Crouched under a lip of rock in a crevice, he felt famished and decided to consume the last portion of his dried meat rations. He had been subsisting mainly on berries and roots, as he felt uncomfortable with hunting any animals.

As he swallowed the last bite a white hare, sheltering under a bush, caught his eye. He recalled the succulent morsels of meat the cook provided every day of the week. Rabbits were his specialty. On many an occasion Narcore had snuck into kitchen and watched the procedure. “It won’t be the same cooked over a campfire, but ….Hmmmm! “he hissed under his breath; nevertheless his mouth had watered in anticipation. He did excel in running, “I suppose I must try. “ With this thought in mind, he kept his eyes on the hare.

The moment the hare moved to scurry off Narcore darted from his shelter in hot pursuit of his game. But the hare was maddeningly swifter. Just as they reached a clearing it suddenly stopped, and, turning to face Narcore, growled. What happened next was unbelievable. The hare quickly grew in size to a monstrous proportion. Narcore brandishing his knife courageously fended off the fierce attacks and even managed to wound the beast. Suddenly a shrill cry coming out of nowhere shook the earth and at that very instance the monstrous hare, now seemingly reticent, vanished into thin air.

“Blast!” Narcore stamped his foot in a hot fury. Unwilling to forgo the fight he avidly scanned the perimeter but found not a trace of his opponent. The tall grass all about him swayed violently in the thrashing wind.

“What’s that?” He rubbed his eyes in disbelief and looked closer. “Is that a flower, a yellow chrysanthemum?” Forgetting his woes, he rushed towards it. But when he reached the exact spot, instead of a flower he saw a little girl in beautiful yellow dress crouching and poking the ground with a stick. She simply looked up and smiled at him unafraid.

“Are you lost, little girl?” he inquired. She answered him with a gentle shaking of the head.

He looked about him and, lo and behold, beyond the trees he spotted a trail of smoke which told of a dwelling. Then he noticed that twilight was encroaching upon them. The recent danger still fresh in his mind, he shook his head and said, “You shouldn’t be out here at this time and all alone! Come, I’ll walk you home.” He reached out a friendly, concerned hand. She shyly took it in hers and together they walked towards her home. Her parents were delighted at her safe return. They had just discovered Yechris’ (for that was their daughter's name) absence and were about to go look for her when they spotted the two children walking towards them.

Narcore spend a warm, cosy night and few more days and nights with Yechris and her parents. The adults had only exchanged a curious look between them, when Narcore that night decided to unburden his fear about the monster he’d encountered prior to meeting Yechris and smiled politely at his deep concern about their daughter’s well being should she encounter the same beast. Their subsequent reassuring manner and words soon put this fear out of Narcore’s thoughts.

He ate strange, but delicious, vegetarian food and spent his days tending the herbs and flowers planted in a fine enclosed garden at the back of the house. He would have been content to stay there forever but one day Yechris, looking very said, told him, “Tomorrow is the last day I can play with you.” And before he could inquire further she ran off into the house. The dinner was consumed in silence and everyone went to bed early that night.

The following morning when Narcore awoke, he found himself beside a grove of trees in the midst of a plush pile of grass that had kept him both dry and warm. Strangely enough, there was no sign of a house or garden anywhere. Just then he heard the sound of hound dogs and then sighted numerous mounted, armed man loaded with game of the hunt, racing towards him. They had been searching the countryside for him for the past several days and promptly delivered him to his home.

He expected the welcome he received from his father; “You ungrateful beast; how dare you be so defiant; if you weren’t my only offspring I would have had you whipped within an inch of your life then have your body torn asunder and fed to the wild dogs, for this! But don’t think your punishment will be any less severe. You deserve no leniency from me, and be assured, there are ways to make you regret your actions!”

In the subsequent days and weeks, Narcore faced the wrath of his father whose anger could not be assuaged with no amount of yelling and threats. Narcore received his punishments stoically however, enduring an even more restrictive, austere regimen than previously, one that was supposedly to build his character.

After his eighteenth birthday, when his father passed away Narcore, now the master of the house, gave full reign to his suppressed, but no less diminished passions for the literary arts, and began cultivating many varieties of chrysanthemums.

His garden soon had the best blooms and became the envy of all. He’d invested the family's money in rental properties to generate income enough for him to live frugally and contentedly. Often he would frequent the city markets and purchase new varieties of flower to enrich his garden.

Though he was of age, he refused to consider marriage and instead devoted all his spare time to creating magnificent chrysanthemum paintings, writing poems to the flower or simply tending the large chrysanthemum beds that flourished under his loving care.

Part 3

After his twentieth birthday, having saved up some spare money, he undertook a journey to the capital for the purpose of acquiring some rare chrysanthemums that his close friend Zoi had told him about. An introductory letter to the eccentric dealer procured him an appointment. Narcore’s genuine interest of chrysanthemums impressed the vendor enough to convince him to part with a very rare, coveted variety.

Armed with this prize, Narcore headed back home at once. While staying at an inn along the way he made the acquaintances of a very distinguished looking literati named Reijon who, along with his sister, was travelling in Narcore’s direction. As it was lonely on the road, Narcore befriended Reijon and, finding much in common especially their mutual love of chrysanthemums, invited both him and his bashful sister to be his guest for a time.

During their stay Narcore one day accidentally saw the sister without her head cover. He was immediately quite taken with her beauty. What’s more he could not shake the uneasy feeling that he’d seen her before. “In a painting, at the Pavilion or at a market?" But of course that was preposterous; for a fine upstanding lady, such as she was, would have had a very sheltered life.

As this gnawing notion that he had met her before persisted however, and during tea time with Reijon one day he delicately approached the subject of the sister and asked, “Your sister seems to be of an age, may I be so bold as to inquire: why it is she’s not yet married?”

Reijon smiled and said, “She’s been promised to a suitor for some time prior to this. We are waiting for him to turn 21 before the marriage can be arranged.”

Narcore’s heart crumbled, for he had been quite smitten from the first moment he’d laid his eyes on her. He quietly grumbled under his breath, not intending for Reijon to hear, “I shall turn 21 in two months. Pity I have no such luck.”

“Don’t be so sure, friend.” Reijon’s words just than startled him. He looked up aghast, looking into Reijon’s eyes in search for answers.

“Perhaps this may clarify things for you.” Reijon then smiled knowingly. “Though we’ve enjoyed your hospitality for over a year, with your upright manner you’ve never inquired after my sister’s name. As I have full confidence in you now, I shall divulge it: she is called Yechris, and I dare say you two had already met previously. Do you recollect?”

He waited for the information to sink in, and then nodded in the affirmative. “Yes, it was fate that brought you two together back then. I happened to be away with my tutor at the time. You have no idea of the danger you faced when you followed that white hare. He was truly an evil spirit that lured wayward travellers into his trap, and then devoured them." Seeing Narcore’s horror, he explained, “In answer to your unspoken question, no we are not the same; and the truth will be revealed to you all in good time. For now, I shall only say this; for some inexplicable reason my little sister and our parents happened to be in that hare’s meadow at that precise time. And that is why I say that you and my sister were destined to be together.

My parents have since passed away but as her guardian, and if it is agreeable to you, I am willing to accept you into our family as my brother-in-law.Narcore was so overjoyed at this that he blurted, “Of course, of course, nothing can be better.”

Soon after Narcore’s birthday he and Yechris were married. On their wedding night, after the bride was escorted to the nuptial quarters, a most queer thing occurred that now warrants further mention. You see, during the celebrations her brother, against Yechris’ advice, consumed an inordinate amount of spirits. Seeing the state he was in Narcore excused himself from the celebrants in order to safely escort his new brother-in-law to his quarters. Along the way however Reijon simply collapsed on the ground and no amount of coaxing would get him up. Fortunately they were alone at the time and the few remaining, extremely intoxicated, guests were preoccupied with the acrobatic performances of the entertainers. Luckily so, for the very moment Reijon had collapsed onto the ground, he had transformed into a wine-coloured chrysanthemum and sprouted roots that reached deep down into the earth. Bewildered, Narcore rushed off to his quarters and, finding his new wife seated coyly on the bed, told her all that had happened. She was mortified with the fear of discovery and, exiting through the back door, rushed off at once to where her brother taken up root. Gently pulling him out of the soil, they replanted him in a pot and secretly brought it back into their private chambers.

Needless to say, in all the excitement neither the bride nor the groom got any sleep that night as Yechris made a full confession to her husband. She and her family were chrysanthemum spirits, living as humans, and in her contrition she gave him the option of annulling the marriage if he so desired. But he would not hear of it, and furthermore he declared his increased fascination and undying love for her, promising to be a faithful, good husband to the end of their days. That night she willingly forfeited her immortality. By the following morning the brother had turned back into a human, suitably embarrassed and apologized profusely.

From that day forth Reijon took care never lose control again. One day he took his leave of them to start his life elsewhere, after promising to visit them from time to time.

The married couple lived happily and were blessed with many children each of whom they named after a different variety of Chrysanthemum.


The End

Hot Tea

Retelling of Old Legends

Hot Tea

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Once upon a time there was a gentleman who after a long successful career retired to a countryside mansion to enjoy the rest of his years in relative comfort.

He had many friends and countless hobbies to fill his days. What he most excelled in however, was the collection and preparation of tea. He’d delighted in this particular beverage ever since it was first introduced to him by a learned, highly esteemed professor that he was fortunate enough to befriend. Over the years he’d accumulated a vast knowledge about the many varieties of tea and the many ways of preparing it, using his extensive collection of the rarest teapots and cups.

It was a rare privilege indeed to be invited to one of his Tea gatherings that were always conducted with such pomp and ceremony.

Once, a supposedly learned, affluent relative was travelling from the Provinces to the City and called on him to pay his respects. At the end of a lavish feast, the host and guest both retired to the Tea-room where the relative was served the choicest tea steeped in precious spring water.

The relative enjoyed the tea so much that he repeatedly, after each sip, grunted, “Excellent!”

Delighted that his relative must appreciate the finer things, the host eagerly inquired, “Are you referring to the tea or choice of spring water.”

The last thing he expected was this explanation, “It’s the hotness of the tea which I like the best.”

The End

The Old Man Loses His Mare

Retelling of Old Legends:

The Old Man Loses His Mare

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(When events occur, who can rightly predict the outcome? Who can tell whether it happened for good or for bad, for fortune or for misfortune?)



Once upon a time an old frontiersman lived in a ramshackle hut. He lived modestly with his wife and son tending their small plot of land from sunrise to sunset. With never a cross word to anyone, always ready to land a helping hand, he was well liked by all his neighbours.

One spring day his untethered mare inexplicably ran off into the territory of a hostile tribe. On learning this, all his neighbours hastened to console him but the old man was not perturbed in the least. He simply shrugged and quietly said, “Who’s to say this is not a blessing?”

Some months later, the mare returned accompanied by a fine stallion. His neighbours this time rushed to congratulate him on his good fortune.

“Who’s to say this is not a misfortune?” His puzzling response sends the callers back home, shaking their heads.

Now it so happened that his spirited teenage son was fond of riding. At dusk after his chores were completed he yielded to temptation and, without a word to anyone, he simply mounted the stallion and galloped into the distance. They flew over the rough terrain jumping hedges, boulders and streams to test his as well as the horse’s mettle. At one ill-fated juncture, unable to clear a deep gully, the horse reared, throwing the boy to the ground and breaking his leg.

Again the worried neighbours rushed to offer their deep sympathy.

The old man once more shrugged it off. “Who’s to say this is not a blessing in disguise?”

That autumn the hostile border tribe having gathered up momentum, unleashed a wave of murderous raids to rape and plunder. All able bodied men were naturally called upon to mount a defence but by the time the reinforcements eventually arrived countless volunteers in this ragtag militia had lost their lives.

The son of the old man, being crippled, was spared from the fighting and so survived.

The old man said to his son, “Look how a misfortune may turn out to be a blessing and a blessing may be actually be a misfortune. It is impossible to predict what capricious fate has in store.”

The End