The Star Lovers

All you who are true lovers, I beg you to pray to the gods for fair weather on the seventh night of the seventh moon. For the sake of patience and for the sake of dear love, pray, and be kind, so that on that night there may be no rain, no hail, no cloud, no thunder, and no creeping mist.

Hear the sad tale of the Star Lovers and give them your prayers.

The Weaving Maiden was the daughter of a Deity of Light. Her home was on the shore of the Milky Way, which is the Bright River of Heaven. All day long she sat at her loom and worked her shuttle, weaving the bright clothes of the gods. Warp and woof, hour after hour, the colorful cloth grew until it lay in folds at her feet. Still she never stopped working, because she was afraid. She had heard a saying: “Sorrow, endless sorrow, will come upon the Weaving Maiden when she leaves her loom.”

So she worked, and the gods had more clothes than they needed. But she herself, poor girl, was poorly dressed; she cared nothing for her clothes or for the jewels her father gave her. She went barefoot and let her hair hang loose. Now and then a long lock fell onto the loom, and she threw it back over her shoulder. She did not play with the children of Heaven or enjoy herself with the young gods and goddesses. She did not love or cry. She was neither happy nor sad. She sat weaving, weaving... and wove her very being into the many-colored cloth.

Now her father, the Deity of Light, grew angry. He said, “Daughter, you weave too much.”

“It is my duty,” she said.

“At your age to talk of duty!” said her father. “Shame on you!”

“Why are you displeased with me, my father?” she said, and her fingers kept working the shuttle.

“Are you a block of wood or a stone, or a pale flower by the road?”

“No,” she said, “I am none of those.”

“Then leave your loom, my child, and live; enjoy yourself, be like others.”

“And why should I be like others?” she said.

“Never dare to question me. Come, will you leave your loom?”

She said, “Sorrow, endless sorrow, will come upon the Weaving Maiden when she leaves her loom.”

“A foolish saying,” cried her father, “not worth believing. What do we know of endless sorrow? Are we not gods?” With that, he gently took the shuttle from her hand and covered the loom with a cloth. He had her dressed in very rich clothes, and they put jewels on her and crowned her head with flowers of Paradise. And her father gave her as husband the Herd Boy of Heaven, who tended his flocks on the banks of the Bright River.

Now the Maiden was truly changed. Her eyes were like stars, and her lips were red. She went dancing and singing all day long. She spent long hours playing with the children of Heaven and enjoying herself with the young gods and goddesses. She walked lightly; her feet were shod with silver. Her lover, the Herd Boy, held her by the hand. She laughed so much that the gods themselves laughed with her, and high Heaven echoed with sounds of joy. She was careless; she thought little of duty or of the clothes of the gods. As for her loom, she never went near it from one moon to the next.

“I have my life to live,” she said. “I will not weave it into a web anymore.”

And the Herd Boy, her lover, held her in his arms. Her face was covered with tears and smiles, and she hid it on his chest. So she lived her life. But her father, the Deity of Light, was angry.

“This is too much,” he said. “Is the girl mad? She will become the laughingstock of Heaven. Besides, who will weave the new spring clothes of the gods?”

Three times he warned his daughter.

Three times she laughed softly and shook her head.

“Your hand opened the door, my father,” she said, “but surely no hand, either of god or of mortal, can shut it.”

He said, “You will find it otherwise, to your cost.”

And he banished the Herd Boy forever to the far side of the Bright River. The magpies flew together from far and near, and they spread their wings to make a fragile bridge across the river, and the Herd Boy crossed over by that fragile bridge. And immediately the magpies flew away to the ends of the earth, and the Weaving Maiden could not follow. She was the saddest being in Heaven. Long, long she stood on the shore, holding out her arms to the Herd Boy, who tended his oxen, desolate and in tears. Long, long she lay and wept on the sand. Long, long she brooded, staring at the ground.

She got up and went to her loom. She pushed aside the cloth that covered it. She took her shuttle in her hand.

“Endless sorrow,” she said, “endless sorrow!” Then she dropped the shuttle. “Ah,” she moaned, “the pain of it,” and she leaned her head against the loom.

But after a little while she said, “Yet I would not be as I was before. I did not love or weep, I was neither happy nor sad. Now I love and I weep—I am happy, and I am sad.”

Her tears fell like rain, but she took up the shuttle and worked diligently, weaving the clothes of the gods. Sometimes the cloth was gray with grief, sometimes it was rosy with dreams. The gods had to wear strange clothes. The Maiden’s father, the Deity of Light, was at last well pleased.

“That is my good, hardworking child,” he said. “Now you are calm and happy.”

“The calm of dark despair,” she said. “Happy! I am the saddest being in Heaven.”

“I am sorry,” said the Deity of Light. “What shall I do?”

“Give me back my lover.”

“No, child, that I cannot do. He is banished forever and ever by the decree of a Deity, which cannot be broken.”

“I knew it,” she said.

“But I can do something. Listen. On the seventh day of the seventh moon, I will call the magpies together from the ends of the earth, and they will make a bridge over the Bright River of Heaven, so that the Weaving Maiden can cross easily to the waiting Herd Boy on the far shore.”

And so it was. On the seventh day of the seventh moon, the magpies came from far and near. They spread their wings to make a fragile bridge. And the Weaving Maiden crossed over by that fragile bridge. Her eyes were like stars, and her heart was like a bird in her chest. And the Herd Boy was there to meet her on the far shore.

And so it is still, oh, true lovers—on the seventh day of the seventh moon, these two keep their meeting. Only if the rain falls with thunder and cloud and hail, and the Bright River of Heaven is swollen and swift, the magpies cannot make a bridge for the Weaving Maiden. Alas, what a sad time!

Therefore, true lovers, pray to the gods for fair weather.

Now, on the same night, far away, there was another story.

Jofuku was the Wise Man of China. He read many books and never forgot what was in them. He knew all the characters as well as he knew the lines on the palm of his hand. He learned secrets from birds and beasts, from herbs and flowers and trees, from rocks and metals. He knew magic, poetry, and philosophy. He grew full of years and wisdom. All the people honored him, but he was not happy, because he had a word written on his heart.

The word was “Mutability.” It was with him day and night, and it troubled him greatly. Moreover, in the days of Jofuku, a tyrant ruled over China, and he made the Wise Man’s life a burden.

“Jofuku,” he said, “teach the nightingales of my wood to sing me the songs of the Chinese poets.”

Jofuku could not do it, even with all his wisdom.

“Alas, lord,” he said, “ask me another thing and I will give it to you, even if it costs me the blood of my heart.”

“Be careful,” said the Emperor. “Mind your ways. Wise men are cheap in China; am I someone to be dishonored?”

“Ask me another thing,” said the Wise Man.

“Well, then, make the peony smell like the jasmine. The peony is brilliant and imperial; the jasmine is small, pale, and foolish. Nevertheless, its perfume is sweet. Make the peony smell like the jasmine.”

But Jofuku stood silent and downcast.

“By the gods!” cried the Emperor. “This wise man is a fool! Here, some of you, cut off his head.”

“Lord,” said the Wise Man, “spare my life, and I will sail to Horaizan, where the herb of immortality grows. I will pick this herb and bring it back to you, so that you can live and reign forever.”

The Emperor considered this.

“Well, go,” he said, “and do not dawdle, or it will be the worse for you.”

Jofuku went and found brave companions to go with him on the great adventure. He manned a junk with the most famous sailors of China, loaded it with supplies and gold, and when everything was ready, he set sail in the seventh month, around the time of the full moon.

The Emperor himself came down to the seashore.

“Hurry, hurry, Wise Man,” he said. “Fetch me the herb of immortality, and see that you do it quickly. If you return without it, you and your companions will die.”

“Farewell, lord,” called Jofuku from the junk. So they set off with a fair wind in their white sails. The boards creaked, the ropes quivered, the water splashed against the junk’s side, the sailors sang as they steered a course eastward, and the brave companions were merry. But the Wise Man of China looked forward and looked back, and was sad because of the word written on his heart—Mutability.

Jofuku’s junk was on the wild sea for many days, steering a course eastward. He and the sailors and the brave companions suffered many things. Great heat burned them, and great cold froze them. They were hungry and thirsty, and some fell sick and died. More were killed in a fight with pirates. Then came the terrible typhoon, with mountain-sized waves that swept over the junk. The masts and sails were washed away with the rich supplies, and the gold was lost forever. The famous sailors were drowned, and all the brave companions, every one. Jofuku was left alone.

In the grey dawn he looked up. Far to the east he saw a mountain, very faint, the color of pearl, and on the mountaintop grew a tall tree with spreading branches. The Wise Man murmured:

“The Island of Horaizan is east of the east, and there is Fusan, the Wonder Mountain. On the heights of Fusan grows a tree whose branches hide the Mysteries of Life.”

Jofuku lay weak and weary and could not lift a finger. Nevertheless, the junk glided nearer and nearer to the shore. The sea grew still and blue, and Jofuku saw the bright green grass and the many-colored flowers of the island. Soon troops of young men and maidens came, carrying flower garlands and singing songs of welcome. They waded out into the water and pulled the junk to land. Jofuku noticed the sweet and spicy smells that clung to their clothes and hair. At their invitation, he left the junk, which drifted away and was never seen again.

He said, “I have come to Horaizan the Blessed.” Looking up, he saw that the trees were full of birds with blue and golden feathers. The birds filled the air with lovely music. On all sides hung oranges and citrons, persimmons and pomegranates, peaches and plums and loquats. The ground at his feet was like rich cloth, embroidered with every flower that exists. The happy people of Horaizan took him by the hands and spoke kindly to him.

“How strange it is,” said Jofuku. “I do not feel my old age anymore.”

“What is old age?” they said.

“Neither do I feel any pain.”

“Now what is pain?” they said.

“The word is no longer written on my heart.”

“What word do you speak of, beloved?”

“Mutability is the word.”

“And what might that mean?”

“Tell me,” said the Wise Man, “is this death?”

“We have never heard of death,” said the inhabitants of Horaizan.

Meanwhile, in Japan, there was another wise man. His name was Wasobiobe. He was just as wise as the Wise Man of China. He was not old, but young. The people honored him and loved him. Often he was happy enough.

It was his habit to go out to sea alone in a small boat, to meditate in the wild and watery waste. Once, while he was doing this, he happened to fall asleep in his boat, and he slept all night while his boat drifted eastward. When he woke in the bright morning light, he found himself under the shadow of Fusan, the Wonder Mountain. His boat lay in the waters of a river on Horaizan, and he rowed her through the flowering iris and lotus, and jumped ashore.

“The sweetest spot in the world!” he said. “I think I have come to Horaizan the Blessed.”

Soon the young men and maidens of the island came, and with them the Wise Man of China, as young and as happy as they.

“Welcome, welcome, dear brother,” they cried. “Welcome to the Island of Eternal Youth.”

After they had given him some of the delicious fruit of the island, they lay down on a bank of flowers to listen to sweet music. Then they wandered in the woods and groves. They rode and hunted, or bathed in the warm seawater. They feasted and enjoyed every delightful pleasure. So the long day went by, and there was no night, for there was no need of sleep; there was no weariness and no pain.

Later, the Wise Man of Japan came to the Wise Man of China. He said:

“I cannot find my boat.”

“What does it matter, brother?” said Jofuku. “You do not need a boat here.”

“Indeed, my brother, I do. I need my boat to take me home. I am homesick. That is the truth.”

“Are you not happy in Horaizan?”

“No, because I have a word written on my heart. The word is ‘Humanity.’ Because of it I am troubled and have no peace.”

“Strange,” said the Wise Man of China. “I once had a word written on my heart too. The word was ‘Mutability,’ but I have forgotten what it means. You should forget it too.”

“No, I can never forget,” said the Wise Man of Japan.

He sought out the Crane, who is a great traveler, and begged her, “Take me home to my own land.”

“Alas,” said the Crane, “if I do that, you will die. This is the Island of Eternal Youth. Do you know that you have been here for a hundred years? If you go away, you will feel old age, and weariness, and pain, and then you will die.”

“It does not matter,” said Wasobiobe. “Take me home.”

Then the Crane took him on her strong back and flew with him. Day and night she flew, never stopping and never tiring. At last she said, “Do you see the shore?”

And he said, “I see it. Praise be to the gods.”

She said, “Where shall I carry you?... You have but a little time to live.”

“Good Crane, on the dear sand of my country, under the spreading pine tree, there sits a poor fisherman mending his net. Take me to him, so that I may die in his arms.”

So the Crane set Wasobiobe down at the poor fisherman’s feet. The fisherman lifted him up in his arms. And Wasobiobe laid his head against the fisherman’s humble chest.

“I might have lived forever,” he said, “but for the word that is written on my heart.”

“What word?” said the fisherman.

“Humanity is the word,” the Wise Man murmured. “I have grown old—hold me close. Ah, the pain...” He gave a great cry.

Then he smiled. Then his breath left him with a sigh, and he was dead.

“It is the way of all flesh,” said the fisherman.