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, was skilled with the spear, and the other, Dun, was skilled with the shield. Where they truly excelled was when they worked together, where they could venture deeper into the forest because they were immune from wolves and tigers, who would have hindered the other hunters, as they mostly 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. During the feast, a villager stood up to give a toast: “Mao, you are fair but strong. This feast that lay before you could not have come but from the point on 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 not 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 words.” He then went separately 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 none will 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-Duns shall I make! Would that not be better?”
The two sisters took to heart their father’s words to each of them. Soon, they sought glory, and, working together at first, and then apart, they brought the village so much harvest that the villagers could no longer finish eating. Before the rotting corpses of deer and boars, each of the sisters proclaimed: “to eat my meat, wear my name on your sleeves. Mao meat for Mao sleeves, and Dun for Duns. 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 game, 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 this 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, blocking their path. “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 shot back. “Spears are fashioned from trees, and freely do they stand 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.
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, was skilled with the spear, and the other, Dun, was skilled with the shield. Where they truly excelled was when they worked together, where they could venture deeper into the forest because they were immune from wolves and tigers, who would have hindered the other hunters, as they mostly 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. During the feast, a villager stood up to give a toast: “Mao, you are fair but strong. This feast that lay before you could not have come but from the point on 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 not 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 words.” He then went separately 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 none will 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-Duns shall I make! Would that not be better?”
The two sisters took to heart their father’s words to each of them. Soon, they sought glory, and, working together at first, and then apart, they brought the village so much harvest that the villagers could no longer finish eating. Before the rotting corpses of deer and boars, each of the sisters proclaimed: “to eat my meat, wear my name on your sleeves. Mao meat for Mao sleeves, and Dun for Duns. 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 game, 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 this 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, blocking their path. “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 shot back. “Spears are fashioned from trees, and freely do they stand 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.