Mixed FairyTales And Stories

The Magic Brocade A Tale of China

Once in China there lived an old widow and her son, Chen. The widow was known all over for the brocades that she made on her loom. Weaving threads of silver, gold, and colored silk into her cloth, she made pictures of flowers, birds, and animals, so real they seemed almost alive. People said there were no brocades finer than the ones the widow wove.

One day, the widow took a pile of brocades to the marketplace, where she quickly sold them. Then she went about buying her household needs.

All at once she stopped. “Oh, my!”

Her eye had been caught by a beautiful painted scroll that hung in one of the stalls. It showed a marvelous palace, all red and yellow and blue and green, reaching delicately to the sky. All around were fantastic gardens, and walking through them, the loveliest maidens.

“Do you like it?” asked the stall keeper. “It’s a painting of Sun Palace. They say it lies far to the east and is the home of many fairy ladies.”

“It’s wonderful,” said the widow with a shiver and a sigh. “It makes me want to be there.”

Though it cost most of her money, the widow could not resist buying the scroll. When she got back to her cottage, she showed it to her son.

“Look, Chen. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? How I would love to live in that palace, or at least visit it!”

Chen looked at her thoughtfully. “Mother, why don’t you weave the picture as a brocade? That would be almost like being there.”

“Why, Chen, what a marvelous idea! I’ll start at once.”

She set up her loom and began to weave. She worked for hours, then days, then weeks, barely stopping to eat or sleep. Her eyes grew bloodshot, and her fingers raw.

“Mother,” said Chen anxiously, “shouldn’t you get more rest?”

“Oh, Chen, it’s so hard to stop. While I weave, I feel like I’m there at Sun Palace. And I don’t want to come away!”

Because the widow no longer wove brocades to sell, Chen cut firewood and sold that instead. Months went by, while inch by inch the pattern appeared on the loom.

One day, Chen came in to find the loom empty and the widow sobbing. “What’s wrong, Mother?” he asked in alarm.

She looked at him tearfully. “I finished it.”

The brocade was laid out on the floor. And there it all was—the palace reaching to the sky, the beautiful gardens, the lovely fairy ladies.

“It looks so real,” said Chen in amazement. “I feel like I could step into it!”

Just then, a sudden wind whipped through the cottage. It lifted the brocade, blew it out the window, and carried it through the air. The widow and her son rushed outside, only to watch the brocade disappear into the east.

“It’s gone!” cried the widow, and she fainted away.

Chen carried her to her bed and sat beside her for many hours. At last her eyes opened.

“Chen,” she said weakly, “you must find the brocade and bring it back. I cannot live without it.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll go at once.”

Chen gathered a few things and started to the east. He walked for hours, then days, then weeks. But there was no sign of the brocade.

One day, Chen came upon a lonely hut. Sitting by the door was an old, leather-skinned woman smoking a pipe. A horse was grazing nearby.