Across the landscape of the soul, over the bridge of the heart, past the horizon of the imagination, and through the celestial eternities—
this is where one may look for TianDi.
It is endless. It is perfect.
For this each man hopes. For this each man searches.
--Li Xin De
Across the rolling, grassy hills of ShangHai; over the fragile, silver lakes of SuZhou; past KaiFeng where the yellow river flows; and through the wise, ancient deserts of the inner country, sits a small village. To the people of the country, it is TianDi. To the people of TianDi, it is home.
Across the golden, majestic hill; over the noble, bold rock walls; past the young, peaceful gardens of bamboo; and through the muddy, giving roads, stands a small rice field, overflowing with pink flowers. To the people of the village, it is the rice field of Zhao. To the family of Zhao, it is home.
And it is from here, the story is told.
Zhao Xin De was born many years ago in the province of WuXi. Weaned on the great coast of the middle continent he grew in size and age. From the time he was a tiny baby to the time he was a young boy, Zhao Xin De learned a fisherman’s life. His old father fished, and his grandfather fished before him. “The family of Zhao are fishermen,” his old father once told him, when he was of the age to accompany him on the small boat. “If we cease to catch fish, we cease to exist,” he said.
Zhao Xin De had just turned twelve. He knew of family traditions, but his heart was not in them. “But we are destitute, old father. We catch fish, but we still starve.”
His father sighed heavily and replied, “We do not fish for our mouths alone, small son. We fish that we may feed the village, too. Is it better that one family eat well and all others starve, or that we all eat little, and all live on?” Xin De did not want to think about it. “This day will yet look kindly upon us small son. Do not worry. Bie Dan Xin Ba. The gods will not overlook our boat. Pray for fish small son. Pray for prosperity.” And so little Zhao prayed. “Qi Qiu Yu Duo. Qi Qiu Yu Duo.” And when the hours had passed, when night had settled in, and when the moon peaked above the golden horizon, large and powerful, Zhao Xin De continued in prayer. But the boat of Zhao remained barren.
His father spoke not a word, but cast his net yet another time, far, deep into the dark ocean. Little Zhao one more time called upon the gods, this time for strength to stay awake, but not even the gods could overpower the stubborn will of his father. When the net splashed upon the waters next, the moon hovered in the west. Zhao Xin De lay asleep. Finally, his father looked upon his sleeping child and solemnly rowed for the shore.
“A man without fish has no home,” he whispered to himself. “What good is the mother who forever is without child? A man without fish has no home. What good is the breast that gives no milk? …I am without fish. I am without a home…” These parting words hung heavily through the cool of the night, and in the morning they rested still, quietly upon the oceans current, silent, mysterious, rolling mist, disappearing with the gentle touch of the rising sun.
Rays of light spoke to little Zhao and he stirred, a fragile body wrapped in an old canvas blanket, lying asleep on the planks of the little fishing boat. The boat rested on the hard sands, tiny waves lapping at its edges, calling the boy’s name, whispering for him to rise, beckoning him home. He awoke, but he was alone. The father of Zhao Xin De had gone—never to be seen again.
That night Zhao Xin De had an evil dream. In it a great dragon roared down from the top of GaoShan and destroyed his village. He ran from his burning home, amidst the screams of his people. High, high in the sky, the great dragon carried away his mother, clutched tightly in its great claws. “Bu Yao!” Xin De screamed, “MaMa!”--tears streaming down his face. The roar of his voice disappeared, swallowed by the night; his tears fell lifeless, unnoticed, to the ground. He collapsed in a heap, trembling and sobbing. “MaMa. MaMa.” As he cried, a reassuring hand tugged at his shoulder, pulling him near. He awoke, sobbing into his mother’s breast.
“Xiao AiZi, Qing Ni Bu Yao Ku A. …Do not cry,” she whispered, rocking his trembling body back and forth, back and forth, in and out of the shadows of the moon; then laying him back down to sleep, kissing his forehead. “Wo Ai Ni, my only son.”
Zhao Xin De’s dream continued. The flames of his burning village grew in size and power, violently thrashing at the peace of the black night. Terror seized his body; he tried to run, but the flames leaped about him in every direction. Trapped, little Zhao watched the burning corpse of his beautiful home, its skeleton remains toppling to the ground. The flames drew nearer and nearer, lashing out at the helpless body of Zhao Xin De. “Wo Bu Yao Si,” he cried. “Wo Bu Hui Ba! I will not die!” As if in answer to his command, it began to rain and the fires vanished, smothered into the ground of his beautiful homeland. The rain fell fast and hard, each drop stinging, pelting his face, his arms, and his back. Zhao Xin De ran, tumbling to the ground, rolling to a stop, crawling, trying to get away from the destruction. He opened his eyes, wiping dirt from his face and saw the rain bouncing off the land. He opened his mouth to catch the drops on his parched tongue. But it was not rain at all, the dark heavens had opened, but it was rice that fell from their clouds.
When little Zhao’s mother awoke early the next morning and peeked into the room of her beloved son, she fell to her knees and wept. Painted neatly on a yellow piece of parchment were several characters. “MaMa, Wo Ai Ni. I have gone to follow the destiny that is mine. DaoLu. ZhenLi. The fish have remained silent in my presence. It is rice I hear calling my name. Fish have seen the death of my father, my beloved mother. They will not see the death of me. I will make much money and then I will return. Si Zhan Huo Ren Kai.”
“Si Zhan Huo Ren Kai,” she sobbed. “Si Zhan Huo…Si…Zhao Xin De… My beloved son…” The loss was too great for anyone to bear. Alone in the house of Zhao, with the name of her son on her trembling lips, she quietly passed into the next life.
For months, Zhao Xin De traveled the land of the central country, seeking his destiny. “Here comes Zhao Xin De, the nomad of the Mainland,” people whispered as he passed through their village. “There goes Zhao Xin De. Son of a fisherman,” they said as he traveled across the fields and forests of their homeland. “To where are you going?” they asked. “For what purpose have you abandoned your calling?” “Your people will starve.” His reply was always the same: “I am called Zhao Xin De; son of Zhao Lin Feng. I am going to Tian Di. I am going to harvest rice. There is much money in rice, you know. I am going to harvest rice that all may live.”
Mocking laughter greeted his response every time. The people would laugh and others would even spit upon him. “Fool. TianDi? Across the desert? There is no such land foolish Xin De. You will not find what you seek.” “You have forsaken your family, following after foolish ideas. You have forsaken your people.” “QuanGuo DiuLian Le. You cannot succeed. You will die. ‘Ren Wei Cai Si.’” “ We all will suffer. We have seen it,” said the wise men of the land.
But Zhao Xin De walked on. “You have seen nothing,” he replied. I will find it.”
He traveled on, working his way across the land. In the province of XiAn, he stopped to rest at the house of Hua, and there he fell in love.
“I am called Hua Mei Li, daughter of Hua Zhao En,” she said.
“I am Zhao Xin De. I am looking for TianDi. I am going to harvest rice that all may live.” Never before had Xin De looked upon such a beautiful woman; she was indeed a beautiful flower. Against the dry, brown, unchanging backdrop of XiAn, she was a vision of perfection; a masterpiece of the great artists of BeiJing. Her vibrant pink gown, her bright smile, her long, shiny, black hair competed with the sun. Her eyes invited all, like the moon, round and bright, large and powerful. Wherever she went, the wind followed close behind, caressing her skin, smoothing it as the ocean does a stone. It was soft and pure—a beautiful brown; her body, tiny, meek, submissive. The creations bowed before such beauty. Throughout his life, Xin De had heard tales of women with the beauty of gods, but never before had he thought it possible that one would take interest in him.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered. “I will marry you. This day, the house of Zhao and the house of Hua shall become one. Hua Qian Yue Xia. We will unite.”
“My Lord,” she acquiesced with a smile, lowering her head in a dutiful bow of respect.
The marriage was complete by the rising of the moon, and that night Hua Mei Li knew her husband.
The year passed.
“We will call him Zhao Yong En. Courage and Grace will be his forever,” prophesied Zhao Xin De, gently rocking the tiny body of his new born son back and forth, back and forth, in and out of the shadows of the moon.
“Zhao Yong En,” his wife nodded.
Another year passed. From the time the sun replaced the moon to the moment the sun went down again, Xin De assisted the kin of Hua in the construction of a temple—work in exchange for food to eat and rice to plant.
“You have been good to me, father of my wife. Xie Xie. Thank you.”
“It is a beautiful temple, my new son. Our ancestors will bless you.”
“They already have. They have led me to your daughter. They have seen me through wake and sleep, through light and dark. I have more than I can ask for--a beautiful family, rice to plant, a destiny to realize. We will miss you LaoBa. It is for certain. YiDing Hui. But we will make much money and then we all will be happy. Then we will return. You will see.”
The father of Hua Mei Li nodded. “A day will not go by we do not pray to the gods for your protection. Qi Qiu Yu Duo.”
The next morning Zhao Xin De, his wife, and his son were gone. For months they traveled across the angry desert land, until two years had completely passed from the time Xin De first left his home in WuXi.
For many months more, they made their way across the dry, cracked desert, seeking the destiny, the wealth of TianDi. They suffered much, though. Mirages plagued them by day, hunger tortured them by night. At the point of passing, Zhao Xin De stumbled over the peak of a barren, desert mountain. He was tired. His face had long been torn by the heat of the great sun. The chapped skin on his body peeled and flaked with each passing of the great wind. His clothing completely gone, a torn canvas blanket, thrown about his waist, flapped in the wind. Behind him, trailed his beautiful wife, embracing their beautiful child. Delicately wrapped around them, protecting their face and arms from the brutal sun, was the clothing of Xin De.
At the peak of the mountain they saw it. Below them, a beautiful, green, lush valley extended across a gap of land. They gazed down upon it and then at each other. They wept.
Deep in the descending valley between two desert mountains, rested a lush pool of land, protected by the golden hills from the wind. Like a bowl, it gathered water from the rains and it prospered. The green foliage covered every inch, from one corner to the next. Willow trees hunched over gracefully, their branches arching down, sucking life from little golden pools of water. Xin De saw a lone fish jump and he smiled. Tiny forests of bamboo swayed in the light breeze, offering shadow to growing grass.
“We live. This truly is where Heaven and Earth meet. TianDi Lai Le.”
Filled with a renewed spirit, the small family of Zhao marched into the valley, into the land that would become their new home. For two more years, Zhao Xin De toiled and labored. A small, humble cottage was erected; a beautiful, second son arrived; overgrown forest turned into crude, muddy pathways; bold, rock walls stood tall; the gentle land gave before the dominant will of man—land was tilled, rice was sewn. Each new day found Zhao Xin De in the middle of his rice field, sewing and caring for his seeds. He looked after them as he would his own children. Sometimes, late in the night, he could still be found outside, in the middle of his rice field. He would wade through the shin-deep waters, admiring each young sprout, the soft mud oozing around his toes and feet. At other times, he would retire to the grassy knoll just in front of his field, and, under the ancient willow tree, pray, asking the god of the land to visit them with prosperity, to look kindly upon the rice he had harvested. At all times he would cheerfully sing:
“Wo de Jia. Mei Wei de Jia Zai TianDi Shang Women Bian Yige Mei Hua. Wo de Jia. Hua Qian Yue Xia…”
“It is a beautiful song I sing,” he whispered to the waters of the rice field, reflecting the moon, large and powerful. “It is a beautiful song I sing for you. That you may grow, grow and bring life to us all.”
But at the end of each season, his rice field remained barren. At first his sprouts thrived, healthy and green, but the end of the first month always found them withered, an ugly brown. His labor and prayers fell lifeless, unnoticed, to the ground. One night, after the moon had risen directly above him, he went home, his head hung low, his heart even lower.
“A man without rice has no home. A man without a home has no family. A man without a family has no country. A man without a country has no identity. A man without identity has no meaning.” As he repeated this over and over to himself, the memories of his life, the sorrow and joy of each decision brought tears to his eyes. He saw his father cast the fishing net one last time. He saw the pain in his father’s eyes and in his movements as he gently placed a canvas blanket over him to keep him, his only son, warm through the cool of the night. He saw his mother. In her eyes he saw love, a deep, encompassing love, nursing him back to sleep. He saw, again, the great dragon of his dream, destroying all he had ever loved.
Zhao Xin De reached his home, dejected. “Such a humble home,” he whispered to himself. “I should have listened to the wise men of the inner country. I am a fool. Because of my foolish dreams I have lost everything. Because of them I have lost my rice, my riches, my happiness.”
He walked slowly into his home and looked in upon his two little sons. The light of the moon shone brightly in, casting shadows from a willow tree onto their faces. Zhao Xin De kneeled at the corner of Yong En’s mat and gently petted his cheek and forehead. “My son. My son.” He kissed each, and then walked into his room and kissed his wife, pushing her dark hair back with the flesh of his palm. She stirred and meekly opened her eyes, black, shiny; love. Round and bright like the moon. Large and powerful.
“Shhhh. ShuiJiao Ba. Sleep.I am here. I am still here.”
She closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep. Kneeling by her side he began to cry. His tears fell from the corners of his eyes, then streamed down his cheek, gathering at his chin, suspended in time, finally falling, slowly falling to the dirt floor. A puff of dust arose then settled, and the ground selfishly absorbed each tear.
“ZaiJian. Wo QingRen, ZaiJian. …Until we meet again.”
Zhao Xin De leaned over, kissed his wife one more time and then he was gone; through the door, passed the rock walls, and over the muddy roads. He soon came to his beloved rice field. “A rice field that gives no rice is as the mother who gives no milk.” He walked up to it and peered down at his reflection. If he didn’t know it was he who looked into it’s mirror, he would not have recognized himself. He had changed so much since he first left home, a twelve-year-old boy, weak and idealistic. Now he had grown much, taller and stronger, wiser, yet more the fool. As he thought again upon his past and the lonely road ahead of him, a tear formed at the corner of his eye. He fought hard to hold it back--the last test of his honor--but it fell, falling to the rice waters below him, disturbing the peace of their solemnity.
Moon-shaped ripples spread out from the central point of his tear. They grew larger and larger in size, then taller and taller in height until the outermost towered over Xin De. It washed over the far edge of his rice field violently. Zhao Xin De stood in shock upon his grassy knoll, watching the edge crumble into the water, dissolving upon impact. The water then began to bubble and fear seized him. He wanted to run, but his feet were stuck, firmly lodged deep in the muddy foundation, caught between dirt and root. Suddenly, the silver waters of the rice field changed; bright reds, greens, yellows, oranges emerged—all swirled together in maddening, chaotic patterns, taking shape here, then there. Xin De desperately tore at the bindings around his feet, digging, ripping, ferociously pulling, trying to get loose.
The colored swirl of water turned full circle and rushed in a wave of fury toward his struggling body. As it neared him, the colors seemed to leap out of the waters. Zhao Xin De crouched low to the ground, preparing his body for impact. He shielded his face and watched through his arms as a great dragon—green and red, yellow and orange—roared from the water, mouth gaping open, wide and terrible, claws, great and threatening, scratching at the air. He tore from the binding ground and flung his body into the dirt. The dragon, long and thin, emerged completely from the water and flew over Xin De’s head. A rush of wind from the dragon’s flight sent Xin De flying back, fast and hard. He hit the willow tree and they both tumbled back into the foliage, tearing up the bamboo, uprooting the thick grasses.
Zhao Xin De jumped to his feet and ran. In the whisper of the wind he heard the silent, evil voice of the dragon, calling the names of his wife and children. He had to reach his house before the great dragon did. His body flew through the valley like the desert wind, fast and furious. Branches struck out at him, whipping his body, tearing his flesh. He ran on, oblivious to pain. Suddenly, he heard the scream of his wife. She was calling his name. Tears poured from his eyes, rushing past the sides of his face, blurring his vision. The image of his wife just minutes before—her beautiful, loving eyes--came back to him over and over and over again as he ran.
Her eyes, so round and bright, large and powerful. He ran and ran and ran. He heard the voice of his first son, and the piercing cries of his second. A pillar of fire shot high into the air. Zhao Xin De tore through the forest wall into the opening of his homeland, fuming, a wild animal protecting the pack.
The dragon was nowhere to be seen. His house crumbled beneath the weight of the flames, and his wife, his beautiful wife, stood at the other end of their home, frantically searching for their children.
“Hua Mei Li!” he called, but she could not hear him.
She suddenly ran wildly to her left, scooping up her second son, cradling him to her breast. She grabbed the hand of Yong En and ran as fast as she could.
“Mei Li!”
Suddenly, the dragon roared from behind the golden mountain, its glassy eyes reflecting the moon, the land, the fire, Xin De watching in terror, his wife and two children running.
“Mei Li!”
The dragon roared forward. Closer. Closer.
“Mei Li!”
Closer and closer.
“Mei Li!”
His wife heard his voice and looked up. Tears streaked her face and she smiled. Her eyes spoke to his heart. “Wo Ai Ni,” they said. “I knew you would not abandon us. I love you. YongYuan Dou Hui. Forever. Forever. Yong Yuan Dou—“
Gone. In an instant, the dragon was gone, too, flying over the mountain, land tumbling from his jaws. Zhao Xin De fell to his knees, still, very still, unable, unwilling to move, staring at the horror before him. A giant, crude hole in the land he had suffered to cultivate, gaped wide open in front of him—silently screaming. With his land went his family. His home burned before him. He stumbled forward like a drunk, down, down into the hole. And there he knelt on the ground, alone. He could not move. He could not weep. He did not even try. The moon disappeared with the gentle touch of the rising sun. Its rays spoke to Zhao Xin De, whispering his name, beckoning him to rise. But he would not.
Days passed. The flames that had consumed his house nights before, smoldered, a pile of ash, gray and lonely. A thin stream of smoke split the sky, high, high above the majestic hill and the noble rock walls; high above the giving roads and the peaceful bamboo. From far away the people of the central country looked toward the inner country to the southern horizon, where the smoke divided the heavens. The people of SuZhou stood in amazement. The artists of ShangHai captured its beauty and mystery. And the wise men of KaiFeng wept bitterly.
Finally, the body of Zhao Xin De fell over. The loss was too great for anyone to bear. Alone in the hole, with the name of his wife on his trembling lips, he quietly passed into the next life.
Years passed. The old men and women passed, too and the young gave birth to the future. Populations grew and communities expanded, stretching farther and farther south, past the inner country.
And not many years ago a young family of great numbers traveled across the golden deserts, climbing hill after hill, until one day, at the peak of a great yellow hill, they peered down upon a lush, green valley. Ancient willow trees, round stones, and thick forests of bamboo dotted the land. Pools of water overflowed with fish. Overgrown trails testified of great animal migration, and back behind the forest wall, deep down, in a giant, crude hole blossomed a rice field. The water, smooth and calm, overflowed with mature rice plants, ready to gather, to feed, to extend life. And to the side of each, bloomed a most beautiful pink flower—more beautiful than eyes had ever seen.
“Hua Hen Mei Li,” said one of the men, picking the flower, handing it to his wife, great with child. He turned to the group of friends and family. “We will live here. In this beautiful valley. This land truly is where Heaven and Earth meet. This truly is our TianDi.”
