Shen of the Sea/Ah Mee's Invention

 

SHEN OF THE SEA

AH MEE'S INVENTION

"A shamelessly rainy day, my honorable Brother Chi."

"That is truth, esteemed Brother Cha. It rains perfectly hard. There will be plenty of leisure in which to beat the children."

Ching Chi was merely quoting an old Swa Tou saying. Every one knows that on rainy days old and young are crowded, arm against elbow, in the house; often to get in each the other's way—and misunderstandings are likely to arise. Then the bamboo is brought into play—and there are wailings. That is how the Swa Tou saying originated. When Ching Chi used it, he did so in fun, and, no doubt, to make talk.

But Ching Cha thought that his brother was speaking with earnestness. His face, made glum by the rain and by secret troubles, brightened at such a pleasing prospect. "Ho. Leisure to beat the children? What an utterly excellent idea. I, myself, will cut bamboos for your hand. Ah Mee is the one to beat. He played at being a mad wild elephant—oh, so perfectly wild, and with such trampling—in the midst of my huang ya tsai patch."

Ching Chi seemed altogether astonished. His face showed that he thought Ching Cha must be overstepping the truth. "What? What do you say to me, honorable Brother Cha? Ah Mee playing wild elephant in your cabbage patch? But I thought that I told him, emphatically, to break no more of your cabbages."

"It is no blemish upon my lips. It is the truth," said Ching Cha, sullen and hurt because Chi disbelieved. "He played elephant in my cabbages. Come and I will show you."

"Oh, no." Ching Chi shook his head. "It is raining far too hard. I'll speak of the matter again to my son."

Ching Cha adjusted his wei li (rain hat) the straighter and shuffled off through the downpour. As he went he muttered something that sounded like "Wou tou meng." If that is what he really said, he called Ching Chi a stupid old noddy.

But Ching Chi merely laughed. He had no intention of beating Ah Mee, his "pearl in the palm," his son.

Now whether Ching Chi was right or wrong is a pretty question. Some persons answer it one way, and some, another. But there is no question about this. . . . Ah Mee was terrible. If anything, he was as bad as that lazy Ah Fun, son of Dr. Chu Ping. Here is their only difference. Ah Fun never did what he was told to do. Ah Mee always did what he was told not to do. But he did it in such manner as to leave a loophole. He always had a perfectly good excuse. Take the matter of his uncle Ching Cha's cabbage patch. . . .

Only a day or so before, Ah Mee had pretended that he was a fierce and furious dragon—a loong. As a fierce and furious dragon, he threshed this way and that through Uncle Ching Cha's very delectable cabbages—causing much hurt. Ching Chi, the parent, told Ah Mee never again to play dragon in Uncle Cha's cabbages. "Ah Mee, you must never again play dragon in your honorable uncle's cabbage patch. If you do, I shall speak to you most sharply." And Ah Mee said, "Yes, sir," and obeyed. He pretended to be a ferocious wild elephant. He didn't play dragon again. Oh, no. Not at all. He was very careful not even to think of a dragon. He was a weighty elephant—amid the cabbages.

Ching Chi, the fond parent, lived with his wife—her name is forgotten—and the son, Ah Mee, and a little daughter, in a neat house that stood in the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. Ching Chi was a carver of wood, and ivory, and jade. His bachelor brother Ching Cha who lived next door, did scrivening—wrote things with a blackened brush upon parchment and paper—and the wall, when he had no paper. Some people said they were stories, but certainly they brought in no money. As for that,

Oh, no, not at all. He was very careful not even to think of a dragon. He was a weighty elephant—amid the cabbages.

neither did Ching Chi's carvings bring in any money. Yet Chi was a good carver. His designs were artistic, and his knife was obedient to the slightest touch. From an inch block of ivory he could carve seven balls—one inside the other. Howbeit, Chi was neither famous nor wealthy. Instead of carving pagodas and trinkets for sale in the bazaars, he spent most of his time in carving toys for Ah Mee—who promptly smote them with an axe, or threw them in the well, or treated them in some other manner equally grievous.

For six months Ching Chi worked to carve a dragon. When finished, the loong was a thing of beauty. In the bazaar it would, perhaps, have fetched a bar of silver from some rich mandarin. But fond Ching Chi gave it to Ah Mee. And Ah Mee, tiring of it after five minutes of play, hurled it through the paper-covered window.

Are windows made to be broken? Are toys fashioned only to be thrown away? Certainly not. Papa Chi wagged a finger at Ah Mee and he spoke thus, "Ah Mee, most wonderful son in the world, you must not throw your dragon through the window into the back yard again. What I say, that I mean. Don't throw your dragon into the yard any more." Having said, he proceeded with his work, carving beautiful designs upon teak-wood blocks . . . for Ah Mee's pleasure.

And Ah Mee said, "Very well then, Tieh tieh (Daddy), I won't." He proceeded with his work—which was to pile carven teak-wood blocks high as his not-so-long arms could reach. There was one block covered with so much exquisite carving that it gave little support to the blocks above. For that reason the tower wavered and fell. Ah Mee promptly lost his temper. Made furious beyond endurance, he seized the offending block and hurled it through a paper-paneled door.

Who will say that Ah Mee was disobedient? He had been told not to throw his toy dragon through the window. But had his father, Ching Chi, told him not to heave a block through the door? Not at all. Ching Chi had said nothing about blocks, and he had pointed his finger at the window. Nevertheless, Mr. Ching felt almost inclined to scold his son. He said, very sternly, "Ah Mee. . . . "

"Whang. Bang. Bang," came the sound of sticks on the door frame. Crash—the door flew open. In rushed stalwart men, dressed in the King's livery, and bearing heavy staves. "Oh, you vile tung hsi (east west—very abusive talk), you murderer," screamed the men. "Are you trying to assassinate your King? What do you mean by hurling missiles into the King's sedan as he is carried through the street? Answer, before your head falls."

But Ching Chi was unable to answer. He could only press his forehead to the floor, and tremble, and wait for the quick death he expected. Meantime, Ah Mee pelted the King's men with various large and small toys—including a hatchet.

King Tan Ki, seated comfortably in a sedan chair, was being carried through the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. He had no thought of danger. Peril had no place in his mind. The street seemed a street of peace. When lo—from a paper-covered door there came a large missile, striking a slave and falling into the King's lap. Instantly the body-guard rushed to the terrible house and battered in the door. But King Tan Ki felt more curiosity than alarm. He examined the object that had so unceremoniously been hurled into the sedan. At once his interest was quickened. The King knew good carvings—whether they came from old masters, or from hands unknown. Here was a block carved with superlative art. Tan Ki wished to know more of the artist who carved it.

Ching Chi was still kneeling, still expecting instant death, when the King's chamberlain rushed in. The Chamberlain uttered a sharp order. The body-guards grasped Ching Chi and hastened him out of the house, to kneel at the King's sedan. Ah Mee fired a last volley of broken toys at the retreating chamberlain. . . . Not especially nice of him, perhaps, but then, no one had forbidden it.

Fortune had smiled her prettiest upon the house of Ching Chi. King Tan Ki was immensely pleased with the old engraver's work. The odds and ends of toys that had been fashioned for Ah Mee, now graced the palace. There they were appreciated. Every day Ching Chi worked faithfully, carving plaques and panels and medallions for the King. He was wealthy. Upon his little skull-cap was a red button. He was a mandarin, if you please. Only mandarins of the highest class may wear ruby buttons on their caps. . . . And Ah Mee was worse than ever.

To say it again, for emphasis, Ah Mee was worse than ever—if possible. He dabbled in all the hundred-and-one varieties of mischief. All day long it was "Ah Mee, don't do that." "Ah Mee, don't do the other." "Don't. Don't. Don't." Papa Ching was so tired of saying "Don't" that his tongue hurt every time he used the word. Occasionally he changed his talk and said the opposite of what he really meant. Thus he would say, "That's right, little darling, fill papa's boots with hop toads and muddy terrapins, and that will make papa happy." Or, "Pray take another jar, my precious. Eat all the jam you possibly can. Six jars is not at all too much." For Ah Mee doted on jam. It was a passion with him. He started the day on jam, finished the day on jam. Every time a back was turned, his fingers sought the jam pot. Indeed, rather frequently he ate so much jam that there were pains . . . and the doctor.

Ching Chi took a bird cage from the wall and hung it on his arm. (In that land when gentlemen go for a stroll they usually carry their pet larks, instead of their pet chous.) At the door he paused and said to Ah Mee: "Little pearl in the palm, please refrain from too much mischief. Don't [there it was again] be any worse than you are really compelled to be. Of course, it's quite proper for you to put arsenic in Mother's tea, and to hit baby sister with the axe again. And you may burn the house if you feel so inclined. . . . I want you to have plenty of innocent fun. But don't [again] be bad. For instance, don't, I beg of you, don't get in those jars of jam any more."

Off went Ching Chi with his lark singing blithely.

Ah Mee was quite puzzled. "Don't get in the jars of jam." How in the world could he get in the little jars? It was silly. He was much larger than any one of the jars. But perhaps Tieh tieh meant not put a hand in the jars. That must be it. Ah Mee made a stern resolve to keep his hands out. Not so much as a finger should go in those jars. . . .

Obedient Ah Mee arranged several of his father's carven plaques on the floor, and tilted a jar. The plaques were beautifully decorated flat pieces of wood, somewhat larger than dinner plates. They made reasonably good dishes for the stiff jam. Surrounded by little mountains of jam, Ah Mee sat on the floor and . . . how the mountains disappeared. Really, it was fairish tasting jam.

When Ching Chi came home and discovered his carvings smeared with black and sticky jam, that good soul fell into a passion. First he screamed. Next he howled. Then he seized the plaques and flung them from him, flung them with all his strength. Flinging seems to have been a family failing.

Ching Chi was weeping for sorrow, and
Then he seized the plagues and flung them from him.

howling with rage when his brother Cha entered the room. The quick eyes of Brother Cha soon saw that something was amiss. He gazed at the wall where the plaques had struck. He gazed at the jam-coated plaques. Then he too howled, but with joy. "Oh, Brother Chi," he shouted. "You have chanced upon a wonderful invention. It is a quick way for making books. What huge luck." He led Brother Chi to the wall and pointed. "See. For reason of its jam, each plaque has made a black impression on the wall. Every line of the carving is reproduced upon the wall. Now do you understand? You will carve my thoroughly miserable stories upon blocks of wood. Ah Mee will spread black jam upon the carven blocks. Then I will press the blocks upon paper, sheet after sheet, perhaps a hundred in one day. . . . With the laborious brush I can make only one story a month. With the blocks—I can make thousands. Oh, what a wonderful invention."

Ching Chi carved his brother's stories upon wooden blocks. Ah Mee spread the jam thickly—only pausing now and then for a taste. Ching Cha pressed the blocks upon paper, sheet after sheet. . . . There were the stories upon paper—all done in a twinkling, and with little expense. The poorest people in the land could afford to buy Ching Cha's most excellent stories.

Thus was invented Yin Shu (Make Books) or, as the very odd foreign demons call it in their so peculiar language—"Printing." Ching Chi, his brother Ching Cha, and Ah Mee, all had a hand in the invention. As a matter of exact truth, Ah Mee had two hands in the invention (or in the jam), so he is generally given all the credit. His monument reads, "Ah Mee, the Inventor of Printing."

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