When the Sea Turned to Silver
Page 12

“Ah, I see.” Amah nodded again. “How interesting. The past repeats itself.”
“The past?” the stonecutter said, looking at Amah. “You know of another stonecutter who shared my fate?”
“Almost,” Amah said. “The story is very similar.”
“Tell me,” the stonecutter said.
Long ago, a strange stone from the sea rolled up onto the shore. It was smooth, pure white, and the width of a gang of wine. The townspeople were sure it was lucky—perhaps even a gift from the Sea King himself. Finally, word of the stone came to the ears of the magistrate of the town.
The magistrate was well known for his ruthlessness, as well as his greed. He was powerful, so powerful! The magistrate was said to have the ear of the emperor’s most trusted advisor, and his own son was king of a neighboring city. As a result, he ruled his area with absolute power, roaring his orders so constantly the villagers called him Magistrate Tiger.
When Magistrate Tiger roared for the stone, his subjects brought it without delay. The magistrate marveled at the stone’s beauty. Immediately he called in the most skilled stonecutter in the village.
“Carve me a dragon from this stone,” the magistrate ordered. “An immortal dragon of power cut from this stone will be a fitting sculpture for my formal chamber.”
A dragon! The stonecutter gulped. Only the imperial family was allowed to use an image of a dragon. The magistrate’s imperial connection was only by his son’s marriage—not considered strong enough to claim a dragon! But he knew better than to protest, so he nodded and took the stone to carve.
As he carried the stone, it seemed to wriggle and squirm in his arms. “Bubble… bubble… glub… glub…” the stone seemed to whisper to him. “Shh,” the stonecutter whispered back. “You are to be a dragon.”
However, when the stonecutter began to carve, the head that formed was not a dragon’s. The carved eyes gazed at him with such a reproachful stare that the stonecutter set down his tools.
His young son, who often helped him with his work, stood next to the stonecutter in silence.
“Baba,” the stonecutter’s son said finally, “that stone does not want to be a dragon. It wants to be a fish.”
The stonecutter nodded, but his head hung with heaviness. He could not carve a dragon from this stone. But Magistrate Tiger…
“Glub, glub,” the stone said, and when the stonecutter raised his head to look at the stone, he saw the beseeching eyes of a trapped creature.
“Poor fish!” the son said. “Baba, it wants to be free!”
The stonecutter knew he could not ignore the stone’s plea. He sighed and began to carve.
Ninety-nine days later, the magistrate came to collect his dragon and, instead, found a stone fish. The fish glistened as if it had just jumped out of the water, its every scale carved with such delicacy they seemed transparent. It was a masterpiece.
Of course, that did not matter to the magistrate. He was furious to be presented with a fish when he had commanded a dragon. He ordered the stonecutter to be taken away and executed.
That night, the magistrate could not sleep. “Bubble, bubble, bubble,” something kept whispering to him. “Glub, glub.”
The fish! the magistrate thought. In the morning, he ordered that the fish carving be brought to him.
The stonecutter’s son brought it. Knowing he was carrying his father’s last masterpiece, the stonecutter’s son could not help but begin to weep. But just as his salty tears touched the stone, the fish began to wriggle and twist.
“Glub, glub!” said the fish. It was alive!
“Quickly!” Magistrate Tiger roared. “Water!”
Immediately, the servants brought a wood tub filled with water from the kitchen. The stonecutter’s son released the fish, and it began to swim.
How amazing it was! Its every curve was an iridescent medley of color. Its every movement was a joyful dance. It flipped and splashed with such delight that even the selfish magistrate smiled. All who saw the fish could not help but feel happy, if only for that brief moment.
The magistrate was extremely proud. His magical stone fish was talked and whispered about everywhere. His people tried to catch glimpses of it. His flattering assistants fawned over it. His noble friends admired it. There was even talk that the emperor himself was interested in seeing it. “The happy fish,” they murmured. “Have you seen it? Magistrate Tiger has a marvel!”
“It is too bad the fish swims in such a humble home,” one of the magistrate’s assistants said. “A wooden kitchen tub does not seem fitting for a creature.”
“Yes,” Magistrate Tiger said, struck by the thought. “You are right. Have the finest gang brought here. The fish shall have a new home.”
Soon, a decorated gang was brought to the magistrate’s chamber and filled with water. But as the servant lifted the fish, it writhed and twisted, jumping out of the servant’s hands.
Crack! The fish lay lifeless on the floor—now broken pieces of stone.
The magistrate held the stone parts in his hands and tried to fit them together. “My fish!” he cried. “My fish! Get the stonecutter to come fix it!”
The others stared and gulped. “We cannot,” one said finally. “You had the stonecutter put to death. And there is no one else skilled enough to mend it.”
The magistrate was silent for a moment, realizing the truth of his assistant’s words. He gave a roar of rage, perhaps cursing himself for his own lack of vision.
“Ah! But the stonecutter did not die!” the prisoner said. “His son did not know it at the time, but he was able to get away, and later they both fled the magistrate’s land together!”
“Did they?” Amah said.
“Yes, yes,” the prisoner said with pride. “I know this because that stonecutter was my ancestor! He passed his skill down from generation to generation to…” The man broke off and looked closely at Amah. His face broke out in a wide smile.
“I know who you are!” he said, almost with glee. “There is only one person other than my own grandmother who would know that story and could have told it the way you did. You must be the Storyteller!”
“I have been called that,” Amah admitted.
“Ah! I truly am a lucky one after all,” the stonecutter said. “For to be in prison with the Storyteller is to not be in a prison at all.”