The Living Kuan-yin
a Chinese folk tale
from Sweet and Sour: Tales from China by Carol Kendall and Yao-wen Li
Even though the family name of Chin means gold, it does not signify
that everyone of that name is rich. Long ago, in the province of
Chekiang, however, there was a certain wealthy Chin family of whom it
was popularly said that its fortune was as great as its name. It seemed
quite fitting, then, when a son was born to the family, that he should
be called Po-wan, “Million,” for he was certain to be worth a million
pieces of gold when he came of age.
With such a happy circumstance of names, Po-wan himself never doubted
that he would have a never-ending supply of money chinking through his
fingers, and he spent it accordingly—not on himself, but on any
unfortunate who came to his attention. He had a deep sense of compassion
for anyone in distress of body or spirit: a poor man had only to hold
out his hand, and Po-wan poured gold into it; if a destitute
The Living Kuan-yin
widow and her brood of starvelings but lifted sorrowful eyes to his, he
provided them with food and lodging and friendship for the rest of their
days.
In such wise did he live that even a million gold pieces were not enough
to support him. His resources so dwindled that finally he scarcely had
enough food for himself; his clothes flapped threadbare on his wasted
frame; and the cold seeped into his bone marrow for lack of a fire.
Still he gave away the little money that came to him.
One day, as he scraped out half of his bowl of rice for a beggar even
hungrier than he, he began to ponder on his destitute state.
“Why am I so poor?” he wondered. “I have never spent extravagantly. I
have never, from the day of my birth, done an evil deed. Why then am I,
whose very name is A Million Pieces of Gold, no longer able to find even
a copper to give this unfortunate creature, and have only a bowl of rice
to share with him?”
He thought long about his situation and at last determined to go without
delay to the South Sea. Therein, it was told, dwelt the all-merciful
goddess, the Living Kuan-yin, who could tell the past and future. He
would put his question to her and she would tell him the answer.
Soon he had left his home country behind and travelled for many weeks in
unfamiliar lands. One day he found his way barred by a wide and
furiously flowing river. As he stood first on one foot and then on the
other, wondering how he could possibly get across, he heard a commanding
voice calling from the top of an overhanging cliff.
“Chin Po-wan!” the voice said, “if you are going to the South Sea,
please ask the Living Kuan-yin a question for me!”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Po-wan agreed at once, for he had never in his
life refused a request made of him. In
any case, the Living Kuan-yin permitted each person who approached her
three questions, and he had but one of his own to ask.
Craning his head towards the voice coming from above, he suddenly began
to tremble, for the speaker was a gigantic snake with a body as large as
a temple column. Po-wan was glad he had agreed so readily to the
request.
“Ask her then,” said the snake, “why I am not yet a dragon even though I
have practiced self-denial for more than one thousand years?”
“That I will do, and gl-gladly,” stammered Po-wan, hoping that the snake
would continue to practice self-denial just a bit longer. “But, your .
.. your Snakery … or your Serpentry, perhaps I should say … that
is … you see, don’t you … first I must cross this raging river,
and I know not how.”
“That is no problem, at all,” said the snake. “I shall carry you across,
of course.”
“Of course,” Po-wan echoed weakly. Overcoming his fear and his
reluctance to touch the slippery-slithery scales, Chin Po-wan climbed on
to the snake’s back and rode across quite safely. Politely, and just a
bit hurriedly, he thanked the self-denying serpent and bade him goodbye.
Then he continued on his way to the South Sea.
By noon he was very hungry. Fortunately a nearby inn offered meals at a
price he could afford. While waiting for his bowl of rice, he chatted
with the innkeeper and told him of the Snake of the Cliff, which the
innkeeper knew well and respected, for the serpent always denied bandits
the crossing of the river. Inadvertently, during the exchange of
stories, Po-wan revealed the purpose of his journey.
“Why then,” cried the innkeeper, “let me prevail upon your generosity to
ask a word for me.” He laid an appealing hand on Po-wan’s ragged sleeve.
“I have a beautiful daughter,” he said, “wonderfully amiable and
pleasing of disposition. But although she is in her twentieth year, she
has never in all her life uttered a single word. I should be very much
obliged if you would ask the Living Kuan-yin why she is unable to
speak.”
Po-wan, much moved by the innkeeper’s plea for his mute daughter, of
course promised to do so. For after all, the Living Kuan-yin allowed
each person three questions and he had but one of his own to ask.
Nightfall found him far from any inn, but there were houses in the
neighbourhood, and he asked for lodging at the largest. The owner, a man
obviously of great wealth, was pleased to offer him a bed in a fine
chamber, but first begged him to partake of a hot meal and good drink.
Po-wan ate well, slept soundly, and, much refreshed, was about to depart
the following morning, when his good host, having learned that Po-wan
was journeying to the South Sea, asked if he
would be kind enough to put a question for him to the Living Kuan-yin.
“For twenty years,” he said, “from the time this house was built, my
garden has been cultivated with the utmost care, yet in all those years,
not one tree, not one small plant, has bloomed or borne fruit, and
because of this, no bird comes to sing nor bee to gather nectar. I don’t
like to put you to a bother, Chin Po-wan, but as you are going to the
South Sea anyway, perhaps you would not mind seeking out the Living
Kuan-yin and asking her why the plants in my garden don’t bloom?”
“I shall be delighted to put the question to her,” said Po-wan. For
after all, the Living Kuan-yin allowed each person three questions, and
he had but…
Travelling onward, Po-wan examined the quandary in which he found
himself. The Living Kuan-yin allowed but three questions, and he had
somehow, without quite knowing how, accumulated four questions. One of
them, would have to go unasked, but which? If he left out his own
question, his whole journey would have been in vain. If, on the other
hand, he left out the question of the snake, or the innkeeper, or the
kind host, he would break his promise and betray their faith in him.
“A promise should never be made if it cannot be kept,” he told himself.
“I made the promises and therefore I must keep them. Besides, the
journey will not be in vain, for at least some of these problems will be
solved by the Living Kuan-yin. Furthermore, assisting others must
certainly be counted as a good deed, and the more good deeds abroad in
the land, the better for everyone, including me.”
At last he came into the presence of the Living Kuan-yin.
First, he asked the serpent’s question: “Why is the Snake of the Cliff
not yet a dragon, although he has
practised self-denial for more than one thousand years?”
And the Kuan-yin answered: “On his head are seven bright pearls. If he
removes six of them, he can become a dragon.”
Next, Po-wan asked the innkeeper’s question: “Why is the innkeeper’s
daughter unable to speak, although she is in the twentieth year of her
life?”
And the Living Kuan-yin answered: “It is her fate to remain mute until
she sees the man destined to be her husband.”
Last, Po-wan asked the kind host’s question: “Why are there never
blossoms in the rich man’s garden, although it has been carefully
cultivated for twenty years?”
And the Living Kuan-yin answered: “Buried in the garden are seven big
jars filled with silver and gold. The flowers will bloom if the owner
will rid himself of half the treasure.”
Then Chin Po-wan thanked the Living Kuan-yin and bade her good-bye.
On his return journey, he stopped first at the rich man’s house to give
him the Living Kuan-yin’s answer. In gratitude the rich man gave him
half the buried treasure.
Next Po-wan went to the inn. As he approached, the innkeeper’s daughter
saw him from the window and called, “Chin Po-wan! Back already! What did
the Living Kuan-yin say?”
Upon hearing his daughter speak at long last, the joyful innkeeper gave
her in marriage to Chin Po-wan.
Lastly, Po-wan went to the cliffs by the furiously flowing river to tell
the snake what the Living Kuan-yin had said. The grateful snake
immediately gave him six of the bright pearls and promptly turned into a
magnificent dragon, the remaining pearl in his forehead lighting the
headland like a great beacon.
And so it was that Chin Po-wan, that generous and good man, was once
more worth a million pieces of gold.
5?S
Did you like this tale? If so, there are many others like it waiting for
you in Sweet and Sour: Tales from China, which is a choice collection
of charming Chinese folk tales. And if you look in the folklore section
of your library, you will find hundreds of other books filled with tales
from many lands.
