There once was a master locksmith who dwelt at the summit of a great mountain. For generations unnumbered, his house had wrought the finest locks in all the realm — mechanisms of such cunning device that no door secured thereby could be opened save by his keys. The locksmith waxed proud, and in time refused to sell his most excellent locks to a merchant who had his dwelling in the valley below.
“Thou shalt have none of my perfected locks,” declared the locksmith. “For I fear thou wilt study them closely, fashion copies thereof, and one day become a rival to my craft. Worse still, thou mightest use them to secure vaults that I cannot open.”
The locksmith went further still. He sent word to all the neighbouring villages: “Whosoever maketh use of my tools — yea, even if they be not bound as my apprentices, even if they have merely learned from one who once laboured in my shop — may not sell their locks unto the merchant in the valley. This is my ordinance, and it doth now apply even to those who hold but half-interest in your workshops.”
The locksmith had also proclaimed: “Any wares fashioned with my locksmithing arts, or containing even the smallest portion of my designs — yea, even those made in foreign lands by foreign hands — shall require a writ of permission from me ere they be sold to the merchant. For my craft reacheth far beyond mine own workshop, and I shall govern the fruit of my knowledge wheresoever it may travel.”
The merchant in the valley was indeed building his own locksmith’s establishment, and the master’s prohibitions did sorely hinder his progress. The merchant’s locks were not yet so cunningly made, his tumblers not so smooth, his keys not so true.
But what the master locksmith had forgotten, in his exceeding pride, was this: though he forged the most excellent locks, every hinge, handle, and fitting upon his workshop doors was fashioned of a special metal — strong, light, and well-nigh impossible to corrupt — that came from mines in the merchant’s valley. For generations, the merchant’s people had dug these metals from the bowels of the earth and mastered their refinement above all others. Five-and-ninety parts in every hundred of such metal in all the known world came from these very mines.
The locksmith had said within himself: “Surely there be other mines. Surely I am not beholden to him.” But in very truth, no other mines had been opened. The work was arduous, foul, and required many years to master. The locksmith had grown so fixed upon his locks that he had failed to mark how his foundation rested upon another man’s ore.
Now it happened that the locksmith and the merchant, perceiving that their quarrel had grown most bitter and threatened the commerce of the entire realm, had agreed to meet and seek some resolution to their differences. The meeting was appointed for a fortnight hence, and both parties had sent forth heralds to announce their intent to parley in good faith.
But on the very eve of this appointed meeting, the merchant sent forth his own proclamation: “All who dwell beyond my lands must obtain from me a writ of permission ere they export any wares containing even one part in a thousand of my valley’s metals, or fashioned by means of my arts of mining, refining, or metalworking.”
The merchant added moreover: “My people are henceforth forbidden to render assistance in the mining, processing, or fashioning of metals beyond my valley’s bounds, save they obtain approval from my council.”
The locksmith’s countenance grew ashen. He looked down upon his workshop — upon the doorframes he had wrought, upon the very tools wherewith he made his locks. Well-nigh everything contained the merchant’s metal. To prevent what he termed “misuse” of these minerals in matters of war and other weighty affairs, the merchant announced that those enterprises bound to martial pursuits would be denied all writs of permission.
The locksmith perceived, too late, that whilst he had been congratulating himself for his mastery over locks, he had failed to secure dominion over the hinges. One who observed these matters described the merchant’s edict as reaching far beyond the raw materials themselves, touching even the knowledge and arts of their working.
In the market square, folk whispered: “The locksmith believed his craft made him invincible. He supposed his skill placed all advantage in his hands. But he hath learned, to his great shame, that he who controlleth the foundation controlleth the house — howsoever fine its doors may be.”
I feel a little self-conscious writing another reaction. I seem to be addicted to commenting on Substack. The phrase 心血来潮 comes to mind, and I hope you will indulge another response.
My family is from Jiangxi and we have our own version of 山歌, where we answer like for like. So I posed my comment in the form of a parable, one that I called “the Spear and the Shield”:
Long ago, there was a village deep in the woods, where the people subsisted on wild game. Famous among the hunters who fed the village were two sisters; one, Mao, is skilled with the spear, and the other, Dun, is skilled with the shield. Where they truly excelled is when they worked together, where they can venture further because they were immune from wolves and tigers that would have hindered the other hunters, who worked alone.
One day after a magnificent hunt by Mao and Dun, the villagers decided to throw a feast to give thanks and to celebrate the young heroes. A villager stood to give a toast: “Mao, you are fair but strong. This feast that lay before you cannot have come but from the points of your spear. Feeble are my thanks that I humbly submit to you, for without your skill, we would surely starve!”
Dun stared at this scene with quiet jealousy, a sense of injustice rising in her bosom. In a moment of haste, she shouted back: “There are spears a dozen in this village. Who’s to say my sister is better but for the aegis that I offer. Forget me not!”
Mao, amazed at the slight, seethed out of sight. Their father took all this in, and rose to put an end to this bickering, but his eyes stopped before the bounty and he paused. Instead, after the banquet, he went to Mao and said: “Dun is jealous; don’t take offense. We all know that without Mao, she cannot make a kill. But your retorts will be too soft. Deeds speak louder, mark my word.” He then went to Dun and said, “you are right to be jealous, because you surely know, every kill bore your sister’s mark. Find yours on the body of a kill, and no one will dare doubt your worth and skill.”
There was something that irked the father as he returned to his bed to sleep. But he stroke his beard and muttered to himself: “competition makes the strong stronger and the world fuller. Perhaps two Mao-Dun shall I make! Would that not be better?”
The two sisters took to heart their father’s words to them. Soon, they sought glory, and, working together at first, and then apart, they brought the village such harvest that the villagers could hardly eat. Before the rotting corpses of deer and boars, each proclaimed: “to eat my meat, wear my name on your sleeves. You are Mao or Dun, but never the two shall meet.”
The villagers grew concerned. Not only from the stench from the rotting game, but from this new allegiance oath that seemed unnecessary and ignoble. “We don’t want Mao-Dun. Just let us eat.” But the sisters insisted, and for a while, the villagers complied, though some have begun to look to other hunters. But soon the abundance yielded to sufficiency and threatened to dwindle still to dearth. The forest, though big, was not infinite; and games, though initially numerous, took time to replenish.
The sisters saw their bounty and prestige challenged and soon they turned against each other. One day during a hunt, Dun saw a spear thrown her way. She blocked it, and it shattered. Believing it to be her sister, though she couldn’t be sure, she returned to her father to protest.
“Just competition makes the strong stronger and the world fuller,” the father scolded. “Yes, your sister slanders you in town, but are you not strong enough to prove your worth? Let the weakness leave your mind, and find a way to hunt like times of yore.”
Dun looked at the forest now devoid of game, and sought to make herself a spear. That day, both Mao and Dun returned to the hunt and an elder stood before them. “One path leads down to the forest and its decay and the other climbs over the mountain to the heavens. The rain water knows which it must follow, but do people?”
Dun pushed past this man, and revealed the spear she crudely fashioned. “Cheater!” cried Mao, who flew into a rage. “How dare you challenge my domain by stealing my craft?”
“Wherefore is this your craft?” Dun retorted. “Spears are fashioned from trees, and freely stand they for our harvest. Silence your slanderous mind, and prove your worth! What’s there to say but with the weight of our spoils?” She turned to leave, but found a pain through her heart. “You kill me!”
In her dying breath, she gripped her own spear and threw it at her sister. She breathed a last breath to see her sister go limp. Their blood pooled together in the mud. The elder, who witnessed this in agonal horror ran to cradle their heads. The village and a father must mourn two deaths. A rain fell, and its water flowed into the forest.