No one there seemed to have missed him much. His cold-hearted wife lost no time in setting him to work, ordering him to haul some boulders to his uncle’s garden. Dripping with sweat, Yu Jung pushed, rolled, and carried
any number of enormous rocks from the riverbed, mournfully recalling what Confucius had said: To be poor without resentment is difficult indeed. “Willingly would I die in the evening,” he muttered repeatedly to himself, nostalgic for the happy life he’d experienced in his dream, “could I but hear the voice of Blue Bamboo in the morning.”
Po-i and Shu-ch’i did not keep the former wickedness of men in mind, Confucius tells us, and hence the resentments directed toward them were few. Our Yu Jung too, possessing as he did the lofty-mindedness of one who aspires to the way of the superior man, made at first every effort to refrain from despising his heartless relatives or speaking out against the uneducated hag who was his wife, preferring to bury himself in the classics, cultivating refinement and purity of taste. In time, however, the contempt to which he was relentlessly subjected became more than he could bear, and during the spring of the third year since his return he delivered another blow to his wife’s head. “Just watch me. I’m going to be somebody,” he said, and marched off, bursting with noble ambitions, to sit once again for the government exam.
Unfortunately, he failed it this time too. It seems our hero simply wasn’t much good at taking tests. On his way back home, he stopped again at the King Wu Shrine on the banks of his now-beloved Lake Tung-t’ing. Everything his eyes beheld brought back delightful memories, but these only served to increase his sorrow a thousandfold, and standing there before the shrine he began to weep and lament at the top of his voice. When the sobs finally subsided, he took what little money he had in his pocket and purchased some scraps of mutton, and these he scattered in the courtyard as an offering to the sacred crows. He watched them swoop down from the trees to peck at the meat and wondered if Blue Bamboo was among them. But the ebony-feathered birds all looked so alike that he was unable even to tell male from female.
“Which one of you is Blue Bamboo?” he said, but not a single crow so much as looked up at him; the scraps of mutton enjoyed their undivided attention. Yu Jung wasn’t ready to admit defeat, however. “If Blue Bamboo is among you, let her remain last,” he announced, his voice choked with immeasurable longing.
Soon the mutton was gone. Two of the crows flew back to the woods, then a group of five, and so on, until only three remained searching the ground for meat. Seeing this, Yu Jung felt his heartbeat quicken and his palms begin to perspire, but once these last three had ascertained that not a scrap was left, they too flew off without so much as a backward glance. So great was Yu Jung’s disappointment that he grew dizzy and nearly fainted, but still he found it impossible to tear himself away. He sat down on the balcony and let out sigh after sigh, as he watched the mists of spring crawling over the surface of the lake.
“Now that I’ve failed the examination twice in a row, how am I to return home with any dignity whatsoever? My life is not worth living. I’m told that long ago, during the epoch of the Warring States, valiant Ch’u Yuan, the father of poetry, threw himself into these very waters and drowned, shouting: ‘The world is drunk; I alone perceive the truth!’ If I were to drown myself in Lake Tungt’ing, this sea of sweet memories, who knows but that Blue Bamboo might be watching somewhere and weep for me? Blue Bamboo is the only one who has ever loved me. All the others in my life are nothing but dreadful, self-seeking ogres. ‘Every ebb has its flow’—so that old man said to encourage me three years ago, but it was a lie. People born to misery are destined to remain forever in misery. Is this what it means to know the illustrious decrees of Heaven? Ha, ha! Let me die now, then! If Blue Bamboo weeps for me, that’s all I ask. I have nothing else left to hope for.”
Thus our Yu Jung, though supposedly steeped in the Way of the ancient sages, gave in to the depths of his despair and resolved to end his life in the waters of Lake Tung-t’ing. When night fell, a hazy full moon floated up in the sky; the border between the lake and the heavens was lost in a white, misty blur; the wide, flat shore shone as bright as day; the willows along the bank hung heavy with dew; the countless blossoms of a distant plum grove glistened like so many precious gems; and from time to time a faint breeze, like a sigh from heaven, whispered over the sand. A perfectly lovely evening in spring—knowing that this was to be the last he would see of this world, Yu Jung wet his sleeves with tears, and when the melancholy cry of a wild monkey echoed through the night, his sorrow reached the point no man can bear. He was about to plunge into the water when he heard a flutter of wings behind him, and then a melodious voice:
“Long time no see.”
Yu Jung turned to see a beautiful woman of twenty or so, with pearl-like teeth and eyes that glistened in the moonlight.
“Who are you?” he said. “Forgive me,” he added. “I’m sorry.”
“Naughty boy,” said the woman, slapping him lightly on the arm. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your Blue Bamboo?”
“Blue Bamboo!”
Yu Jung leaped in astonishment. He hesitated for a moment but then abandoned all reserve and threw his arms around her.
“Let go! I can’t breathe!” she said, laughing and slipping deftly out of his embrace. “I’m not going anywhere. From now on I’ll be at your side forever.”
“Yes! Tell me it’s true! I looked for you and couldn’t find you, and I was just about to jump in the lake and end it all. Where have you been?”
“Far from here, in Han-yang. After we lost you I left this place, and now I’m a sacred crow of the Han River. An old friend of mine from the shrine came to me this evening to tell me she’d seen you, and I flew here as fast as my wings would carry me. Blue Bamboo is with you now, my love. You mustn’t think any more about dying—I simply won’t have it. But look at you. You’ve lost weight.”
“I don’t wonder. I failed the examination again. There’s no telling how they’ll treat me at home if I go back now. I’m just so fed up with this life!”
“You suffer because you think the only life you can have is in the place you were born. ‘Green hills are where you find them’—isn’t that a line from a poem you scholars are always quoting? Come see my house in Han-yang. I’ll show you how wonderful it is to be alive.”
“But Han-yang is such a long way,” said Yu Jung. At some point they had left the balcony of the temple and begun to stroll along the moonlit shore together. “Confucius says: While his parents are alive, a good son does not wander far afield.” Ever willing to display some fragment of his virtuous learning, Yu Jung delivered these words with a grave and scholarly look on his face.
“What are you talking about, silly? You’re an orphan.”
“Oops. You knew that, did you? Still, though, I do have a lot of relatives back home who are the same as parents to me. What I wouldn’t give to show them a Yu Jung who’s made a great success of himself! They’ve always treated me as if I were an absolute fool. I know! Rather than going to Han-yang, I’ll take you back home with me. Imagine their surprise when they see that beautiful face of yours! That’s it, that’s what we should do. Come with me. Just once in my life I’d like to stand tall in front of those relatives of mine. To be respected by those back home is the greatest happiness, and the ultimate victory, for any man.”
“Why are you so concerned about what the people back home think? ‘Fame-seekers’—isn’t that what they call those who strive to be respected in their native districts? Your village fame-seekers are the thieves of virtue—that’s in the Analects too, you know.”
So crushed was Yu Jung by this stunning rebuttal that he could only bow his head in surrender. “So be it: take me to Han-yang,” he said, then tried to hide his embarrassment by reciting a poem. “Those who have passed beyond,” he intoned, even as he realized the quote’s irrelevance, “take refuge in neither day nor night.”
`You’ll go?” cried Blue Bamboo. “Oh, I’m so glad! I’ve already asked my servants to prepare the house for you. Close your eyes for a moment.”
Yu Jung obediently let his eyelids droop shut. He heard the flutter of wings again, felt a thin garment fall over his should
ers, and instantly had the sensation of being light and buoyant. When he opened his eyes, both he and Blue Bamboo were crows. Their jet-black feathers gleamed in the moonlight as they hopped along the shore and then spread their wings and left the ground, crying out as if with a single voice.
For hours they flew, swerving and swooping erratically as they followed the winding Yangtze River on its great northeasterly journey, three thousand leagues by the pale light of the moon. When night at last faded to dawn, the tile roofs of the silent, sleeping houses of Han-yang, the city of canals, appeared ahead, shining in morning mist, and now they could see the trees of that fair city, the fragrant, lush green grasses of Parrot Isle, and Yellow Crane Tower and Ch’ing-ch’uan Pagoda murmuring together of days gone by from opposite banks of the brightening stream, where white-sailed boats busily plied the current. Soon they were directly above the lofty peak of Ta-pieh Mountain, at the foot of which lay the vast waters of Moon Lake and beyond which the Han River meandered off to the northern horizon. Confronted with this panoramic view of the Venice of the Orient, Yu Jung remembered Ts’ui Hao’s famous poem—“The paths that lead to home, where can they be? These misty waters bring only grief”—and as he dreamily muttered the lines to himself, Blue Bamboo began to circle serenely over a small island in the Han.
“We’re home,” she called over her shoulder, and he fell in behind her, describing a leisurely circle over the island and looking down to see, amid the luxuriant green river willows bedewed as if with wisps of smoke, a lovely little palace, like a doll’s house, from which at that very moment five or six doll-like maidservants came running out, looking up to the sky and waving. Blue Bamboo signaled to Yu Jung with her eyes, furled her wings, and dove headfirst toward the palace, and he followed right behind her. The moment they alighted on the island’s green grass they were once again a noble young gentleman and his lovely lady. Surrounded by the maidservants who’d come out to greet them, they smiled at each other, joined hands, and walked to the front door of the charming little palace.
Blue Bamboo led Yu Jung to the palace’s innermost chamber. It was dark inside; the gold and silver threads of the curtains glinted dully in the dim, smoky blue light of a single candle. Next to the bed was a small red tray laden with rare wines and delicacies.