(no subject)
Long ago, when the moss hung down from trees like curtains and the ancestors’ last breaths still whistled through bamboo groves at night, there was a remote mountain village with no healer or apothecary. The village was so isolated that gradually the youth of the village migrated to larger villages. Eventually, there were more ghostly singers than villagers to listen to them. On one of those nights when the spirit dirges hung in the air, Old Man Feng and his wife said goodbye to their son. They were waiting for death. They had two sons, but only one stayed at the village. (The other son, Ling, had traveled to the city to seek his fortune, but the vegetation surrounding the village were so dense that he stumbled over a baby dragon, startling it to give a loud cry. By the time its mother had charged over to them and finished stating her opinion, all that was left of Ling was a shadow burnt into the tree behind him.) The older son, Long was the only young person remaining in the entire village. He sat opposite his parents, his body hunched and his eyes staring so fixedly at the ground that he looked like a hungry heron searching for a meal.
Between them stood the meal pot containing the last dredges of rice porridge and bamboo. The father sat up straight and looked at his wife first, then pleaded, “Son, you must leave this village. Like us, it is dying, and we can only wait for our time to pass. It is your duty to carry on our name, so that our graves will never be forgotten.” But Long just shook his head.
“Father, my duty as a son is to care for my parents. I will stay with you.”
His father changed his tone from urgency to scorn. “Then not only you will die, but the memory of this village as well. Who will keep our spirits at peace if no altars are made to them. You must go.”
Long shook his head again. “The ancient writings says that there is one other way,” he said, and before his parents could protest, he stuck his hand in the pot. He stirred with his other hand, and ladled the broth into his horrified parents’ bowls. “If you drink this,” he told them, “you will live forever. It is the greatest gift a child can give his parents.”
His mother’s face was growing paler with each minute. With a single gasp, she cried, “that’s not how life is supposed to work. It is we who should give you life!” But she drank from the bowl, as did her husband.
“I am still alive,” her son replied. “And now, so too will you be, forever.”
In many recounts of this tale, this is where the story ends. However, they are not this story.
Within a few days, all of the other villagers had recognized the improvement in the Feng couple’s health, as well as Long’s missing hand. They remembered the scripture on the ultimate Filial Piety, and guessed at what happened. At first they complimented the Fengs on their luck in having such a son, but soon their jealousy climbed on their backs and grew and grew, until the villagers’ spines bent crooked from the weight. Why should the Fengs receive the gift of life, just because their own sons and daughters had left?
One day, Old Man Li knocked on the door. When Long opened it, he found Li’s back bent so far that his chin grazed the ground. “Please...” Li croaked. “I cannot go on like this. I have no son to offer me life’s flesh. I am old, I do not need immortality. Perhaps you could suffer just a wrist or a knuckle, so I can walk tall again. After all, you are not going to use that arm anyway.”
Long was appalled that Old Man Li had the imprudence to ask him such a favor. However, the people of the village had been as kind to him as blood relatives. And it was true that he would not be using that arm anymore. Once more, he dipped his arm shallowly into the soup pot and stirred with his other hand. Li eagerly filled his own bowl. Rejuvenated, he stood up, his back so straight that Li’s head almost touched the ceiling. Before he left, he bowed, his chin grazing the floor one last time.
It was not, unfortunately, the last time to happen to Long. Within one week, Long had already used up his entire arm. When a villager came to him to ask for some soup, they found him with his foot already in the pot, while he stirred with his other hand. By the second week, he was required to sit down all the time, since he had lost both legs. Finally, on the third week, Long faced the last villager’s request. All that remained of Long was his head and his other arm, still stirring the pot for others. The villager took charge of stirring so Long could put his other arm into the soup. The head, the last remaining part of his body, went missing the next day. The last words he said were: “I am empty now. I have nothing left to give. I am sorry.”
Between them stood the meal pot containing the last dredges of rice porridge and bamboo. The father sat up straight and looked at his wife first, then pleaded, “Son, you must leave this village. Like us, it is dying, and we can only wait for our time to pass. It is your duty to carry on our name, so that our graves will never be forgotten.” But Long just shook his head.
“Father, my duty as a son is to care for my parents. I will stay with you.”
His father changed his tone from urgency to scorn. “Then not only you will die, but the memory of this village as well. Who will keep our spirits at peace if no altars are made to them. You must go.”
Long shook his head again. “The ancient writings says that there is one other way,” he said, and before his parents could protest, he stuck his hand in the pot. He stirred with his other hand, and ladled the broth into his horrified parents’ bowls. “If you drink this,” he told them, “you will live forever. It is the greatest gift a child can give his parents.”
His mother’s face was growing paler with each minute. With a single gasp, she cried, “that’s not how life is supposed to work. It is we who should give you life!” But she drank from the bowl, as did her husband.
“I am still alive,” her son replied. “And now, so too will you be, forever.”
In many recounts of this tale, this is where the story ends. However, they are not this story.
Within a few days, all of the other villagers had recognized the improvement in the Feng couple’s health, as well as Long’s missing hand. They remembered the scripture on the ultimate Filial Piety, and guessed at what happened. At first they complimented the Fengs on their luck in having such a son, but soon their jealousy climbed on their backs and grew and grew, until the villagers’ spines bent crooked from the weight. Why should the Fengs receive the gift of life, just because their own sons and daughters had left?
One day, Old Man Li knocked on the door. When Long opened it, he found Li’s back bent so far that his chin grazed the ground. “Please...” Li croaked. “I cannot go on like this. I have no son to offer me life’s flesh. I am old, I do not need immortality. Perhaps you could suffer just a wrist or a knuckle, so I can walk tall again. After all, you are not going to use that arm anyway.”
Long was appalled that Old Man Li had the imprudence to ask him such a favor. However, the people of the village had been as kind to him as blood relatives. And it was true that he would not be using that arm anymore. Once more, he dipped his arm shallowly into the soup pot and stirred with his other hand. Li eagerly filled his own bowl. Rejuvenated, he stood up, his back so straight that Li’s head almost touched the ceiling. Before he left, he bowed, his chin grazing the floor one last time.
It was not, unfortunately, the last time to happen to Long. Within one week, Long had already used up his entire arm. When a villager came to him to ask for some soup, they found him with his foot already in the pot, while he stirred with his other hand. By the second week, he was required to sit down all the time, since he had lost both legs. Finally, on the third week, Long faced the last villager’s request. All that remained of Long was his head and his other arm, still stirring the pot for others. The villager took charge of stirring so Long could put his other arm into the soup. The head, the last remaining part of his body, went missing the next day. The last words he said were: “I am empty now. I have nothing left to give. I am sorry.”