Spring came early that year and didn’t linger. April in Hanshan already felt like July. To escape the heat, the itinerant sandal-maker and peasant/poet Chen Hsi-wei decided to make his way north to Yanzhou along with the swan-geese. When he arrived in the town of Taiyuan, he followed his routine, setting up his sign against a wall in the marketplace. Business was always brisk in springtime. Last year’s worn-out sandals would need replacing. Hsi-wei took several orders.
Hsi-wei’s sojourn in Yanzhou occurred just as his name was becoming known. Copies of some of his poems had begun to circulate, such as the popular “Yellow Moon at Lake Weishan,” which had been set to music, and his powerful “Letter to Yang Jian.” One of his customers was a veteran named Huang. He had recently completed his service on the frontier and was in a mood to chat. He introduced himself and asked Hsi-wei for his name. When he had his answer, Huang stroked his chin thoughtfully, picking over his memories.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “A sandal-maker named Chen Hsi-wei.” He took in the poet’s dusty jerkin and patched trousers. “Absurd to ask, but I was told that the author of a certain letter to Yuan Jian is supposed to be a sandal-maker named Chen.”
Hsi-wei remained silent. Huang glanced at the wall, much as he had during his years on guarding the Empire’s frontier.
“A copy of that letter to the future emperor wound up at our garrison. It had been sent to our general, Pei Xingyan, who read it out to us and told us of its effect. We asked to hear it again, every night for a week.”
“I see,” said Hsi-wei with a smile he was still too young to conceal.
Huang became impatient. He stood up straight as a pistache tree, as if for his general’s inspection. “The commander said that letter got the bandit-rebels pursued and punished for all their pillaging, murders, and rapes. Sandal-Maker, you certainly don’t look like my idea of a poet, so I don’t suppose you are the one who wrote that letter. But tell me, was it you who wrote that letter?”
“As it happens, sir, I did.”
Huang looked skeptical. “Prove it?”
Hsi-wei leaned back against the wall and recited the last lines of his letter-poem:
“Lord, spare the girls at least. Surely it’s enough
to have made us destitute orphans and widows.”
Yuchi Jiong looked down on her with contempt.
“What presumption!” he growled and motioned to two men.
“Rape this bitch then toss her down that well.”
Thus did the rebel Yuchi Jiong deal with the loyal
village of Juan Xin Cai Cheng in the province of Chiennan.
Huang stared sternly at Hsi-wei. “Did you just memorize it, or did you really write it?”
“First the former,” said Hsi-wei, “then, I suppose, the latter.”
Huang smiled, nodded, took a step back and gave Hsi-wei a small bow. “Well then, I’m honored to meet you, Master Chen Hsi-wei. Believe me, you’d have more than one cheer if you’d fetched up at the front.”
“Many thanks, Mr. Huang. Now, how many pairs would you like? Just the one?”
Apart from the change of seasons, little of interest happened in Taiyuan, still less in the surrounding countryside. Huang foresaw some potential advantage in telling the wealthiest man in town that a poet had arrived in Taiyuan. This was the merchant and landlord Li Muchen, a close friend of the district magistrate, whose brother lived in Daxing where he held a position in the Ministry of Rites. Li was a good man, generous and esteemed. The common people all bowed to him; however, behind his back, they said he was better at managing his tenants than his haughty wife and unruly children.
Hsi-wei took enough orders that he would need a place to stay while fulfilling them. He usually went to a local tavern and asked for the humblest room, even a corner in the stable. He was about to go in search of lodging when a young man dressed in a simple but clean brown robe approached and asked if he were Chen Hsi-wei, the poet.
Hsi-wei pointed to his sign. “As you see, I make sandals but yes, also verses.”
The young man bowed.
“My master, Li Munchen, would be pleased if you would be his guest at dinner this evening. It’s early yet, but if you like we could go now. I’ll show you the way.”
Hsi-wei said he had first to obtain both straw and lodging but would be honored to accept Mr. Li’s gracious invitation.
The young servant told Hsi-wei how to get to the Li villa. “Please come as soon as you can,” he said. “The family likes to eat early.”
Hsi-wei had no trouble obtaining straw from one of the peasants in the marketplace, but he was turned away at two taverns, both run by suspicious men who feared robbers. Not for the first time, or the twentieth, he would have to sleep in the open. The day was temperate, but the night would be cold. Hsi-wei left his bundle of straw in the marketplace—who else would want it?—took up his bag and set off to the west of the town as the servant had instructed him.
The Li villa was large, almost sprawling. The glazed roof tiles looked new and the blue paint on the walls was flawless. Two pear and two wisteria trees stood guard on either side of the pillared entrance. Hsi-wei could see two outbuildings in the back and an extensive garden with magnolias, more fruit trees, ornamental shrubs, and beds of flowers, some already in bloom.
A middle-aged woman, another servant, instructed to watch out for the guest greeted Hsi-wei before he could knock at the door. Hsi-wei had no better clothes than his old trousers and leather jerkin but he had brushed the dust from them. Over his shoulder he carried the leather bag containing his tools, half-a-dozen small scrolls, an inkstone, two brushes, plus a change of underclothing. The servant evinced surprise at the appearance of this guest but said nothing. She gave the poet a perfunctory bow and conducted him inside.
The Li family was gathered in the center room, a large parlor with red walls, three couches covered in silk the color of green jade. Three children sat together on the couch to the left, their parents on the one to the right. Mr. Li got to his feet to receive his guest.
Li Muchen was a handsome man of about forty, lean, with a serious yet kindly face that ended in a neatly trimmed beard. The children stayed seated, a large dog at their feet. The dog began to stand, wanting to get a sniff of the stranger; but the older boy grunted and pushed his head, and the dog reluctantly sat back down. The children stared at their guest much as the female servant had. Then the older boy whispered something to his brother and they both giggled. Their little sister, watching them closely, then did the same.
Mrs. Li was beautiful though not attractive, slim for a woman who had borne three children. Her face was severely symmetrical with large eyes, a small nose, and thin lips that seemed to Hsi-wei to express disappointment or perhaps scorn. She was wearing one of the new block-printed silk robes, with large pink peonies.
Mr. Li invited Hsi-wei to put down his bag and take a seat on the third couch so that he was flanked by the mother to one side, children on the other. Hsi-wei noticed the little girl giving the big dog a kick. It was not a hard kick; perhaps it was even a friendly one, but she repeated it every ten seconds.
“Please stop that, Lihua,” said Mr. Li who then introduced his family. “My wife Xia,” he said, nodding down at her. “The big boy is Yuxuan, his brother is Fu, and Lihua’s our daughter. They’re all devils,” he said affectionately but still with an edge. “And our dog is called Kuai who is the opposite of a devil.”
“We named him Kuai because he’s supposed to be so clever,” said Yuhua sarcastically.
“Children, our guest is Chen Hsi-wei, a most unusual man, a maker of straw sandals. . .”
Here Yuxuan interrupted again. He scoffed and touched his lambskin boots. “Straw sandals,” he whispered to his brother who gave a little chuckle.
“But,” said Mr. Li, “Mr. Chen is also a maker of poems, well-known ones. Your uncle in the capital even mentioned him in a letter. It seems his poems are being read in the capital and with approval.”
Hsi-wei sat still and silent. Approved in Daxing? This was news to him.
“He is passing through our district, and I’ve invited him to dine with us. Master Chen, where are you staying?”
“I’m honored by your kind invitation, Mr. Li, and glad to meet your family. I’m afraid I didn’t have time to find a place in town, but I can easily do so later.”
“No, no. I can’t have you wandering the streets at all hours looking for a bed. You’ll stay the night here with us. Tian!”
As the servant was being summoned, Hsi-wei observed that the little girl resumed kicking the dog, also that the two boys were rolling their eyes and exchanging punches.
Tian, the woman who had admitted Hsi-wei, rushed into the parlor.
“Prepare the yellow room for our guest. He’ll be staying the night.”
Tian looked astonished, but she bowed and left to do her master’s bidding.
“You’re too generous,” said Hsi-wei.
“Not at all. In his letter, my brother mentioned that one of your poems has become especially popular. He didn’t send the poem, but he did give the title and wrote that it’s even been set to music. Could you perhaps recite it for us? It’s something to do with the moon and a lake, I believe.”
“Of course, if you wish.”
Hsi-wei stood and recited the poem people call “Yellow Moon at Lake Weishan.”
“That really is very fine,” said Mr. Li and turned to his wife. “Don’t you think so, my dear?”
Mrs. Li did not answer the question. “So far as I know, all our peasants are illiterate,” she said in a high, tight voice. “I wonder how it is that a traveling sandal-maker came to write poems.”
Hsi-wei explained that as a boy he had done a service for the future Emperor Wen and was offered a reward. “I asked to be educated.”
Mrs. Li raised her fine eyebrows. “Weren’t you offered money or land—or a woman?”
“I was, but I preferred to learn. I was sent to a hard Master who set me to copying the ancient verses of the Shijing masters and Cao Cao. Then, I’m not sure how, the wish to emulate them overcame me.”
“That sounds ambitious,” observed the lady, “even prideful.”
“Perhaps so, Mrs. Li. To me it simply felt like a compulsion.”
“We’re starving,” whined Yuxuan. “When are we finally going to eat?”
Mr. Li frowned. “Soon. But first, we’ll ask our guest for one more poem. Wouldn’t you like that? It’s good for you children to know poetry—and to meet a poet.”
Yihuan crossed his arms. His brother and sister followed suit.
Hsi-wei tried to think of one of his poems that might appeal to the children. He settled on the one about the little girl who settled the feuds between Night and Day and Summer and Winter, the one people call “Meiling’s Good Idea.”
The boys squirmed and Lihua went back to kicking the long-suffering dog.
“Ah,” said Mr. Li grinning broadly. “That was charming, Master Chen.”
Mrs. Li nodded without much conviction.
“Well, I think it’s just silly,” said Yuxuan. “Summer and Winter and Night and Day can’t talk, and you can’t talk to them either.”
“Can we eat now?” moaned Fu.
Lihua gave the dog two quick kicks in his flank.
Dinner was a banquet with four courses. Hsi-wei was impressed and ate heartily. First, there was white fish with dipping sauce, then a flavorful chicken soup with green beans and chilis. The main course was thin-sliced beef prepared with ginger and scallions, served with rice. The feast wound up with a huge fruit platter as dessert.
The table conversation was polite but hardly lively or inclusive. Mr. Li questioned Hsi-wei about his education and his travels. Being a peasant, His-wei could not resist telling of the suffering he had witnessed, the droughts, floods, famines, and the suffering owing to conscriptions. In this affluent, comfortable home, over the sumptuous food, he felt it an irresistible duty to speak of such things. Mr. Li asked serious questions, especially about conditions in the south, which he had heard were bad, while his wife made clear by her silence and reluctance to look at Hsi-wei that she was uninterested. The boys actually laughed at Hsi-wei’s tales of suffering, as if they didn’t believe such misery existed and didn’t care if it did.
When the meal was over and the table was left to the servants to clear, Hsi-wei noticed Lihua furtively unfolding a napkin and feeding a handful scraps to Kuai.
Just as they were settling back into the parlor, there came three loud knocks on the door. The young servant ran to open it. It was a peasant of about thirty, skinny, apologetic, and agitated.
He bowed low to Mr. Li, then to his wife, and then the children as well. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir, but there’s a problem. Chun and Bao are having a row about boundaries. They’re yelling at each other and I’m afraid it’s turning nasty. Please, sir, could you come and settle the matter before something terrible happens?”
Mr. Li was displeased. “I suppose I’ll have to go,” he grumbled. “Please excuse me, Master His-wei.” To his wife he added, “I’ll get back as soon as I can. Please see that our guest is comfortable.”
After Li left, there were a few long minutes of silence. Mrs. Li called the children and hugged the two youngest. When she reached out to Yuxuan, he pulled away. “I’m bored,” he said. “There’s still plenty of light out. Fu and I want to go out to the garden and play.”
Lihua said she wanted to go to the garden, too.
Mrs. Li smiled indulgently. “Very well but take the dog with you.”
Hsi-wei, not eager to spend time alone with Mrs. Li, turned to the children. “We could go to your beautiful garden together. You could show me around.”
The children looked doubtful. “And I could tell you a story,” said Hsi-wei. He pointed to the dog. “The story’s about dogs and one of them, the most important, is named Kuai.”
Lihua liked the idea of a story about a dog named Kuai. The boys were less enthusiastic but, as there was little to do in the garden beside running around, they agreed Hsi-wei could join them.
Mrs. Li looked suspiciously at Hsi-wei. “Tian!” she called loudly, and the woman servant Tian ran in from the kitchen still clutching holding a towel. She bowed to her mistress.
“The children and our guest are going out to the garden. I want you to keep an eye on them.”
The garden looked splendid and serene in the fading sunlight. The air was full of the aromas of springtime. The boys dashed into out to the flower beds. The dog romped with them a bit then relieved himself on his favorite shrubs. Fu picked up a stick and began knocking the blooms off poppies and roses. His brother caught a grasshopper, showed it to his sister, then threw it to the ground and told her to step on it which, after a moment of reluctance, she did. Hsi-wei watched all this from a bench under a magnolia tree. Tian had taken her place on the steps leading to the doorway to the villa and looked at the setting sun. At last, the children came over to Hsi-wei.
“How about that story,” said Fu.
“Yes, the one about the dog, about Kuai,” said his sister.
“Well, if you’ll sit down, I’ll tell it to you.”
“What? On the ground?”
“We should get the bench.”
“Your clothes belong on the ground. Just look. Ours are clean.”
Hsi-wei said nothing.
“Oh, very well,” muttered Yuxuan, “though I don’t see why we should do what you say.” He glanced across the garden to Tian. “We never do what she says, do we?”
Fu giggled. “No, we don’t.”
“Kuai, come here!” Lihua hollered, but the dog didn’t do what she said either.
When the children were settled at his feet, Hsi-wei began his story.
“Kuai was a big dog, as clever as his name. He lived in a village with a family named Bao, a mother, father, and three children. And there were a lot of dogs nearby with whom Kuai was friends. The Baos were poor peasants. They all lived in a hut with only one room, and it was smaller than your kitchen. Everyone, even the children, had to work hard to make a living from their small plot of land. Still, they loved each other and were happy. But then two misfortunes struck them and their neighbors. First, the most able-bodied men were conscripted to work on the Great Canal.”
“Why?” asked Lihua.
“This is how peasants pay their taxes. They either go into the army or work on the Emperor’s projects. So, after Mr. Bao went off, Mrs. Bao and the children had to work still harder. Then came the second misfortune, which was even worse than the first, a terrible drought. There was no rain for two whole months and all the villagers’ crops dried up. The rice and pickled vegetables they had laid aside soon dwindled and people became terribly hungry.
“Kuai also went hungry, of course. But he stayed faithfully with the family even when they could spare hardly any food for him. Then one day he went to visit his friend, a female dog named Shu who lived with Xiang family. Kuai was shocked by what he saw. The Xiangs had butchered Shu. Mrs. Xiang and her oldest son were skinning poor Shu with knives.”
The children looked shocked. Fu protested that this was not a nice story, not like the ones Tian and their mother told them. But Hsi-wei went on.
“Kuai wasted no time informing his friends, Xiaodou, Ji, Ban, Ping, and Gan. He told them what he had seen and said, ‘The masters fed us as long as they could and now they are going to have us feed them, just like the pigs they ate last autumn.” So, all the dogs in the village decided to escape such a fate. That very afternoon Kuai led them away from the fields, into the thick woods. But all the dogs had spent their lives being fed, sleeping in huts, playing with children. They were not experienced hunters. They grew famished. Catching a hare was difficult and the mice were quick and too small. As they wandered through the forest, they came on a yezhu, which is a wild pig with sharp tusks. Desperately hungry, they tried to bring the creature down, but the boar was strong, and they were weak from lack of food. Unfortunately, Ping was mortally wounded, gored in his flank.”
Lihua gave a little moan of protest, but the boys told her to be quiet.
“Kuai led the surviving dogs away, deeper into the forest. They were now as lean in spirit as in body. That night, Kuai made a plan, a desperate one, a plan to do the thing they had avoided. In the morning, he explained it to the others. ‘We’ll have to raid the villages of the masters. There might be some piglets there, a bit of cooked rice, offal in the middens. Let’s rest up today and try our luck tonight.’
“Their first attempt was successful. They found discarded scraps, old vegetables and spoiled meat. They bared their teeth at the masters who came to chase them away. They growled at the children who tried to hit them with sticks. Desperation made them brave. The pack of dogs worked together, carrying off anything they could eat. It felt good to have something in their bellies but not to have fought with the masters, not to have growled at the children. Of that, they were ashamed, but Kuai told them to think of what they’d done as vengeance for poor Shu.
“The next time they raided a village, a huge, ferocious chow named Chong was ordered by his master to drive them off. But Chong didn’t obey. He too was starving. Chong joined the pack and became especially devoted to Kuai.
“The same thing happened at other villages and soon the pack had grown to twenty dogs. They raided at night and hid in the forest during the day. They did not find a great deal of food and they were still always hungry, but they found enough to survive.
“Then, at last, in springtime the rains returned. The land flourished. The fields turned from brown to green. Kuai told the pack that the time had come to find new masters, to sleep on warm blankets inside tidy huts, to play again with children, and to live as they once had and were meant to do.
“And that is what happened. The pack dispersed. They found new families to live with, to protect, and new children to be loved by and to love.”
Lihua brightened up. “So, they all were happy?”
“Most were,” said Hsi-wei with a frown, “but not all, I’m afraid. Kuai’s new family loved him, especially a little girl named Mei. Kuai proved a steadfast watchdog and an obedient companion who was useful in fetching things and guarding the children. The whole family was delighted with the stray they had taken in. Because they thought him clever, they named him Kuai.
“Kuai was well taken care of, and he took good care of his new family. But then one day a cousin of the mother’s, a man who lived in another village, came for a visit. He recognized Kuai as the leader of the pack of wild dogs that the year before had raided his village and killed his precious only pig. The children protested. How could the cousin know that their dog was the same dog? Mei swore that her beloved Kuai was a very good dog and would never kill a pig. The cousin said nothing further until after the children had gone to bed. Then he spoke to their parents, demanding justice for his pig and warning them. ‘Don’t you see that animal is dangerous? It’s been wild,’ he declared. ‘He’s a threat not just to your chickens and pigs but the children as well. He’s a threat to the whole village. He has to be killed.’”
The three Li children stared at Hsi-wei with big eyes and open mouths.
“And so, early the next morning, while the children were still asleep, as the father held the dog down, the cousin took an axe and beheaded Kuai.”
The appalled children sat in silence for a full minute. Then Lihua began to cry. She hugged her dog, who had settled beside her. Fu struggled to hold back his tears, but Yuxuan leapt up and stamped his foot.
“That’s a horrible story, Sandal-Maker! And it’s just lies. Dogs aren’t like that. They don’t talk; they don’t have feelings. People don’t eat them or cut off their heads. And peasants don’t starve.” He went red in the face and raised his voice. “There’s plenty of food in the empire. Father said so when Tian lied and told us she’d gone hungry when she was little. He said the Emperor makes sure everyone always has enough to eat. People don’t starve just because it doesn’t rain for a while.” As he strode away toward the villa, his brother and sister got to their feet and dashed past Tian, running to their mother. Kuai stayed put. Apparently, he preferred to stay by Hsi-wei.
Yuxuan, Fu, and Lihua gave Mrs. Li their versions of Hsi-wei’s story. She dried her daughter’s tears and said this showed it was very wrong of their father to have invited that terrible, dirty, and presumptuous peasant into their home.
“I’ll tell him so the minute he gets back. Tian!”
The servant rushed in.
“Put the children to bed right away. Then fetch our unwanted guest and show him where he’s to sleep. I don’t want to see him again before my husband returns.”
Mr. Li was kept away until after midnight. He arrived home cross and exhausted, wanting only to sleep; but his wife was still up, waiting for him. In her impatience she had grown even more furious.
“Listen to me. That sandal-maker of yours took the children out to the garden and told them a terrible story about starving peasants and desperate dogs. He even called one of them Kuai and the horrid story ended with his getting his head struck off with an axe! I want him gone, Muchen!”
Mr. Li sighed, yawned, and began taking off his clothes. “In the morning, Xia. Not now. Not now.”
At dawn, Mrs. Li shook her husband awake.
“What is it? Fire?”
“Not fire. I woke you to get that filthy upstart out of here as you promised. And do it before the children wake up.”
There was no breakfast for Hsi-wei, nor did he expect one. Li found his guest dressed and waiting for him in the parlor, his bag at his feet.
Li looked at Hsi-wei half angrily, half ruefully.
“My wife tells me you frightened the children, Chen. You told them some dreadful story about starving peasants, desperate dogs, and a beheading. It’s no wonder my wife was up with them half the night. You have to leave at once. But I see you’re ready.”
Hsi-wei bowed. “I’d have left last night, Mr. Li, but I couldn’t do so without thanking you for your hospitality.”
“Well then,” said Li, only a little mollified, “now you’ve done so. I know my children aren’t perfect, but they don’t deserve to be terrorized by a stranger. And my wife had to deal with it alone. Just go.”
Hsi-wei opened his bag, took out a small scroll, and handed it to his host.
“What’s this?”
Hsi-wei hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Just a few verses I wrote last night. Thank you again, Mr. Li. Farewell.”
These are the verses Hsi-wei left with Li Muchen.
A sparrow flutters in the dirt; a wing is broken.
Meiling’s father died at the Canal; her mother
launders the soiled underthings of the rich;
her little barefoot sisters cry from hunger.
Meiling gently picks up the sparrow, feeds it,
does all she can to mend the broken wing.
A poor hatchling’s fails at its first flight,
flutters down from the wisteria to the blue tiles
of the just-swept courtyard where Hongxu—
pudgy, pampered, mother’s pet, father’s despair—
looks about then, with his new lambskin boot,
stamps the life out of the tiny, trembling wren.
To read more Hsi-wei tales, click here
About the Author
Robert Wexelblatt is a professor of humanities at Boston University’s College of General Studies. He has published ten collections of short stories; two books of essays; two short novels; three books of poems; stories, essays, and poems in a variety of journals, and a novel awarded the Indie Book Awards first prize for fiction.
