The Magic Painting

In ancient times, so long ago that I can’t even remember which emperor ruled the Celestial Empire then, there lived a strong, clever, and handsome young man named Zhu-zi. He had already turned twenty, but he was still unmarried. Zhu-zi never complained about his solitary life, though he was often overcome with sadness. One day, his mother said to him:

"Oh, my son, we already live in poverty and hardship. And this year, the imperial officials have taken everything from us. They’ve stripped us of whatever grew on our meager patch of land. Who would marry you when we can’t even feed ourselves?"

More than three months passed. The New Year was approaching. It would be nice, thought the mother, to enjoy some dumplings during the holiday. But she and her son had nothing to eat except bran and bitter herbs. There was no white flour for dumplings in the house—how could poor people afford it? At least they still had half a measure of sorghum flour! But dumplings couldn’t be made from flour alone; they needed filling, and vegetables were expensive. She would have to buy some radishes.

The mother called her son and said:

"My son, we have ten coins left. Take them, go to the market, and buy some radishes. I’ll make dumplings."

Zhu-zi took the money and went to the market. But as soon as he reached the vegetable stalls, he saw an old man selling ancient paintings. In one of the paintings, there was a girl of such indescribable beauty that Zhu-zi couldn’t take his eyes off her. He gazed and gazed—and fell in love. Without a second thought, he gave the old man his last ten coins, took the painting, and went home.

When his mother saw that her son had brought back a painting instead of radishes, she sighed and thought, "It seems we won’t be eating dumplings after all." But she kept silent and said nothing to her son.

Zhu-zi took the painting to his room and went out to look for work. He returned home in the evening, lit a candle, and suddenly heard a rustling sound: hua-la-la. What was that? It couldn’t be the wind entering the house. The young man raised his head and saw the painting on the wall swaying. It swayed one way, then the other. What kind of miracle was this? The beauty stepped out of the painting and sat down beside Zhu-zi. The young man was both overjoyed and frightened. Then the maiden smiled and spoke, and all his fear vanished. They talked, and their love grew hotter and hotter. Before they knew it, the night had passed. But as soon as the rooster crowed, the girl returned to the painting. Zhu-zi could hardly wait for evening—would the beauty come down from the painting again or not? When evening came, she appeared once more.

This continued for about a month. But one day, the maiden stepped out of the painting with a sad expression, her head bowed. Zhu-zi asked her what was wrong. She sighed and said:

"I’ve fallen in love with you, and it pains me to see you work from morning till night, yet still live in poverty. I want to help you, but I’m afraid I might bring misfortune upon your household."

Zhu-zi passionately exclaimed:

"Whenever I remember that I’ll see you in the evening, my heart fills with such joy that I fear neither poverty nor hunger."

The maiden didn’t let him finish and asked:

"Is it fair that you live in such bitter need? Here are twenty coins. Go to the market tomorrow and buy some silk thread. But be careful—no one must find out about me."

Zhu-zi did everything as the beauty instructed. That evening, she came down from the painting and said:

"Go to sleep, and I’ll work."

The first rooster crowed, and dawn broke. Zhu-zi opened his eyes and blinked: the entire room sparkled with silk and satin—the beauty had woven them overnight. He stared at them, spellbound, then rushed to his mother. When the mother saw the silk and satin, she froze, unable to believe her eyes. Her son explained everything: how the maiden came down from the painting every evening, how they fell in love, how she gave him twenty coins and told him to buy some silk thread, and how, when he woke up, the room was filled with shimmering silk and satin.

The mother was overjoyed but also afraid: this couldn’t be for nothing. She thought this but said nothing to her son. Zhu-zi took the silk and satin to the market and returned home with a heap of money. From then on, the mother and son lived in comfort.

But one morning, when Zhu-zi went to the fields and his mother was busy with chores, a Daoist monk came to the village to collect alms. He looked at the old woman, gasped in alarm, and said:

"I see a sign of magic on your face."

The woman remembered what her son had told her about the magical painting and trembled with fear.

The monk continued:

"If you don’t want sorrow and death to come to your home, give me the painting immediately. There’s a beauty painted on it, and she’s weaving silk and satin for you."

When the woman heard that the monk knew everything about the painting, she became even more frightened. She rushed into the room, tore the painting from the wall, rolled it up, and headed for the door. But then she heard a heavy sigh. The beauty sighed and said, almost crying:

"Tell your son that I am in a distant land. If he loves me, let him go to the land of Xiyu. I’ll wait for Zhu-zi all my life, until he comes."

The poor mother said nothing. She hurried to the gate, gave the painting to the monk, and told her son nothing, hoping he would forget the beauty.

When Zhu-zi returned from the fields, he saw that the painting of the beautiful maiden was gone—only a nail remained on the wall. He rushed to his mother. She told him about the Daoist monk who had predicted sorrow and disaster if she didn’t give him the painting. It goes without saying how heartbroken the young man was. He lay down on the kang and stayed there until morning. When he tried to get up, he couldn’t—a severe illness had overcome him. His mother called every healer and tried every remedy, but nothing worked. Day by day, the young man grew weaker, and his mother saw that death was near. She sat by his bed, wept, and said:

"Zhu-zi, my only son, I’ve never gone against your will. Let it be as you wish. I see you’re dying of love."

Her son replied:

"I won’t lie to you. If I could just see her one more time, my illness would vanish in an instant."

As he spoke, tears streamed from his eyes.

His mother said:

"Ah, Zhu-zi, I realize now that I shouldn’t have given the painting to the monk. But listen to what I’m about to tell you. When I took the painting off the wall and rolled it up to give to the monk, I heard someone sigh heavily, and then the maiden said, almost crying, ‘Tell your son that I am in a distant land. If he loves me, let him go to the land of Xiyu. I’ll wait for Zhu-zi all my life, until he comes.’ I didn’t want to tell you, thinking you’d forget her, but it seems that won’t happen. Only no one knows where this land of Xiyu is, and you’re so ill now."

But hope had already ignited in Zhu-zi’s heart. Day by day, he grew stronger.

One day, his mother packed all the money they had earned from selling the silk and satin into a cloth bag. Zhu-zi led a horse out of the gate, mounted it, took the bag of money, waved goodbye to his mother, and rode off to the west.
How many days had passed—whether many or few—was hard to say, but Zhu-zi had spent all the money from the linen pouch. He had even sold his horse long ago to pay for food and lodging, yet the land of Siyu remained nowhere in sight. Zhu-zi had no choice but to hire himself out for daily labor. He earned a little money and set off on his journey again.

The young man walked for many days. When he grew weary, he would remember the maiden, and it was as if his strength returned. Villages became fewer and farther between, and often he had to sleep in the fields.

One day, he didn’t encounter a single village the entire day. His mouth was parched—not a drop of water, not a grain of rice. And once again, he had to spend the night under the open sky. The next morning, he awoke and suddenly noticed a small ravine nearby. Overjoyed, Zhu-zi ran to the ravine, only to find it dry—the stream had long since dried up. He walked along the ravine and suddenly spotted a small hollow with a bit of water. He climbed down, crouched, and was about to drink when, out of nowhere, a small black fish appeared. Zhu-zi looked at it and said:

"Little fish, little fish! If I drink this water, you won’t survive even an hour. If I don’t drink, I’ll die of thirst. But within two days, you’ll die anyway, because this water will dry up. What should I do?"

The young man thought and thought, and finally came up with an idea. He took a handkerchief, soaked it in the water, wrapped the fish in it, drank what remained at the bottom, and continued on his way.

How far he walked—whether a lot or a little—I cannot say, but the sun was already beginning to set. Suddenly, Zhu-zi saw a wide river flowing from north to south before him. It was so deep that no matter how long he looked, he couldn’t see the bottom. Disheartened, Zhu-zi sat on the bank, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, he remembered the fish and said:

"I don’t know what I’ll do myself, but you, little fish, swim away to your heart’s content!"

With that, the young man released the fish into the river. The fish shimmered in the sunlight for a moment and then disappeared. Zhu-zi looked to the right, then to the left: the river seemed endless, as if it flowed into the sky. There was no boat in sight. How could he cross to the other side? Would he never see his beloved again? The young man hung his head and walked away.

As he walked, he suddenly heard someone call his name:

"Zhu-zi!"

He turned around—no one was there. It must have been his imagination, he thought. Who could be calling his name here?

And then he heard it again:

"Zhu-zi, Zhu-zi, wait!"

This time, when Zhu-zi turned around, he saw a tall young man dressed in black.

The young man asked:

"Do you want to cross to the other side?"

Zhu-zi replied:

"I do, but I don’t know how."

The young man said:

"I can help you in your plight. I’ll build a bridge in an instant."

With that, the young man broke off a willow twig and threw it into the river. In that same moment, the twig turned into a narrow bridge. Zhu-zi was so overjoyed that he forgot to thank the young man. He ran across the bridge, and when he stepped onto the other shore and looked back, neither the bridge nor the young man was there. Only the little black fish splashed merrily in the water.

Zhu-zi continued on his way. He climbed a hill and saw a small village in the valley below. On its northern edge stood a two-story house, and at the gate stood an old Daoist monk. Seeing that the sun was already low, Zhu-zi decided to ask for lodging for the night. The old Daoist frowned for a long time but finally agreed to let the young man in, leading him to the right wing of the house. They entered a room with walls covered in colorful paper. There was a bed and a small table.

The monk said:

"Go to sleep, but don’t touch anything."

With that, he left.

Zhu-zi lay down and thought, "What is there to touch when there’s nothing in the room?" But as he lay there, a sense of unease overcame him. He tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Suddenly, his hand accidentally brushed against the wall. His heart skipped a beat. What was this? Beneath the paper, he found a small door. He tore away the paper, and a moonlit path appeared in the room. Zhu-zi opened the door slightly and saw a garden, with a path leading straight to a pavilion where a light glowed. Suddenly, a woman stepped out of the pavilion. Zhu-zi quickly closed the door, but in the silvery moonlight, he had glimpsed her face. It was his beauty—the very one who had descended to him from the painting each evening, his beloved whom he had searched for so long. The young man opened the door again and called out:

"Is it really you?"

The woman signaled for him to be quiet, then approached and whispered:

"So you’ve come to the land of Siyu. I knew you would find me. Now, let’s escape from here. I’ve stolen the old Daoist’s magic sword, and I’ll kill him if he tries to chase us."

With that, the woman tore off a piece of her robe, spread it on the floor, and told Zhu-zi to stand on it beside her. As soon as he did, the cloth turned into a cloud and began to rise into the sky. Zhu-zi flew on the cloud as if carried in a palanquin.

Suddenly, the beauty leaned toward him and said:

"The old monk is chasing us after all, but don’t be afraid. Close your eyes and don’t look back until I tell you. I can handle him alone."

With that, she drew the magic sword. At that very moment, thunder struck, the wind howled, and a downpour began. A terrible cry shook the surroundings, followed by silence. The woman then told Zhu-zi to open his eyes. The young man looked and saw that he and the beauty were standing on solid ground. At their feet lay the decapitated body of a shapeshifter.

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The Magic Painting

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