The Story Of The Stone Read Online Free PDF

the worst excesses of Chinese opera?”
    “One,” the toad said promptly.
    “Who?”
    “You,” said the toad. He turned to me. “Boy, do you realize that entire cemeteries are dedicated to this antique assassin? How many corpses did he leave behind during that weird fling you had with the birds?”*
    *
    
    
     See
    
    
    
    
     Bridge
    
    
     of Birds (St Martin's Press, New York, 1984).
    “Well, maybe twenty or thirty,” I said. “But that was only because—”
    “Begone!” the toad yelled. “Begone, and let an old man die with dignity.”
    “Old?” said Master Li. “If my oldest grandson hadn't eaten an untreated blowfish, he'd be about your age.”
    “The problem with you is that you refuse to expire from old age,” the toad snarled. Then he quoted Confucius. “ 'A fellow who grows as old as you without dying is simply becoming a nuisance.' ” He turned back to me. “I, on the other hand, shall succumb with serenity, secure in the sanctity of my soul. Boy, just look at the soul shining through my eyes! It's like a goddamned flower!”
    It is dangerous to play the quoting game with Master Li. “ 'When I return from trampling flowers, the hooves of my horse are fragrant,' ” he said softly.
    The toad turned pale. “Now, look here, Li Kao, there's no need to find offense where none was intended. All I seek is the True Path that will lead me to the Blessed Realm of Purified Semblance.” The thought of his newfound purity emboldened him. “Begone!” he cried. “Begone, you animated accumulation of antiquated bones, and take the sulphurous scent of sin with you.”
    He turned and glared back at me.
    “Also,” he added, “take this walking derrick.”
    Master Li stood up and bowed, and I followed his example, and we turned and walked away over the grass, and a gentle bubbling chorus of goo-goo-goos faded behind us.
    3
    The journey to the
    
    
     Valley
    
     of
    
     Sorrows
    
    
     was not a long one, and three days later I climbed to a ridge overlooking the valley. It was quite early in the morning. I mopped the dew from a large flat rock, and we sat down and waited for the mist to clear. As it did I realized that the
    
    
     Valley
    
     of
    
     Sorrows
    
    
     was like a bowl with a chip in it, the chip being the gap to the south that opened to other valleys in the distance. Winding around and down the sides of the bowl was a lovely path of trees and flowers — too lovely, from my point of view. No peasant in his right mind would waste that much arable land on flowers when something useful could be planted. Conspicuous waste is the boast of wealth and power, and it makes me nervous.
    “The peasants are paid not to plant it,” Master Li said, reading my mind. “It's called Princes' Path, and the reason for it lies in a fairly long story.” He swept his hand across the valley. “Rich or poor?” he asked.
    I mentally dug my toes into the earth. “Neither,” I said. The soil seems to be good, but there isn't much of it. Too much rock and shale on the hillsides, and the marsh at the west side is salty. The valley probably supports a small population quite well, but there can't be much left over."
    “Excellent,” Master Li said. “The first feudal lord of the valley discovered how hard it was to make money from the place and set an admirable precedent by drinking himself to death. His successors followed his esteemed example, and every few years the peasants could look forward to the banquet that accompanied a noble funeral. What do you think their reaction was when a certain Prince Chou turned out to have a cast-iron liver, and lasted thirty years?”
    Peasants are the same everywhere, and I said confidently, “They have never forgiven him to this day. They tell their children nasty stories about Callous Chou the Pinchfist Prince, and strangers can tell where he was buried by watching the direction when farmers pee in the fields.”
    “Right you are, although Callous Chou stories are rare