The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl

Number 22. The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. If you walk outside on a clear night in the middle of summer and look straight up into the deepest part of the dark, you will see a pale, glowing ribbon of light spilled across the sky. In China, where this story has been told for more than 2,000 years, they do not call this ribbon the Milky Way. They call it the Silver River. They say its waters are made of stardust and cold celestial light, and they say it was drawn across the heavens by the hand of a queen, all because of a boy, a girl, and a very wise old ox. Our story begins long ago, in a valley where the green hills folded into one another like the pleats of a heavy silk robe. In this valley lived a young man named Niulang. His name meant the cowherd, and indeed, he had very little else to his name. Niulang was a boy of quiet habits and a kind heart. He had lost his parents when he was very young, leaving him in the care of his elder brother and his brother's wife. Now, his brother was not a wicked man, but he was weak, and his wife was a sharp-tongued woman who looked at Niulang and saw only an extra mouth to feed, a pair of boots that wore out too quickly, and a share of the family farm that she did not want to divide. When Niulang came of age, his sister-in-law decided it was time to rid herself of him. "The farm cannot support two families," she said one morning, her voice like the scraping of a dry iron pot. "It is time for you to make your own way in the world, Niulang. We are generous people, so we will not send you away empty-handed. You may take your inheritance." She marched him out to the edge of the property and pointed to a patch of land. It was a steep, rocky hillside where nothing grew but stubborn weeds and thorny bushes. Then, she pointed to the stable. Inside stood an ox. But this was not a grand, powerful beast of burden. It was an ox that had seen far better days. His hide was thin and gray, his horns were chipped and curved at odd angles, and his knees were swollen with the stiffness of many winters. He stood with his head hanging low, his breath coming in slow, whistling sighs. "There," said the sister-in-law, crossing her arms. "The hillside and the ox. A noble start for a young man. Now, pack your blanket and go." His brother looked away, too ashamed to meet Niulang's eyes, but he said nothing. Niulang did not argue. He did not cry out against the unfairness of it. He simply went into the stable, placed his hand gently upon the ox's scarred flank, and said, "Well, old friend, it seems it is just you and I." The ox turned his massive, heavy head and looked at Niulang with eyes that were surprisingly bright, deep, dark pools of liquid brown that seemed to hold a quiet, ancient patience. The ox let out a soft rumble in his chest, as if to say he understood. Niulang led the ox up to the rocky hillside. He worked from dawn until the stars began to pierce the twilight, clearing the sharp stones with his bare hands, building a small, rough cottage of mud brick and thatch, and planting what few seeds of millet and cabbage he could afford. It was backbreaking work, and there were many nights when Niulang went to bed with an aching back and an empty stomach. But he never neglected his companion. Every evening, before he ate his own simple bowl of porridge, Niulang would walk down to the valley stream to fetch clean water for the ox. He would search the edges of the forest for the sweetest, tenderest clover, and he would use a wisp of straw to brush the dust and biting flies from the beast's gray hide. He talked to the ox as if the animal were his wisest friend, telling him of…

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