The Orphan and the Ox

Long ago, there was a boy. His parents died when he was small. All he owned was a run‑down hut right at the edge of the village, plus an old ox. The villagers just called him Niulang, the Cowherd. He cared for the ox from sunrise until dark. They slept together in that hut. When there wasn't much food, he shared his rough grain with the ox.

That ox was really old. Looking at him, he seemed older than any ox ought to be. His fur was faded, his horns worn smooth, and he moved slow, like he was lost in thought. Still, the boy loved him. This was the only living thing around that never expected more from him than he could give. After work each evening, the boy would lean up against the ox's warm side and talk to him, like talking to a friend.

The village folks weren't cruel, not for a village. The women sometimes gave him old torn clothes. The men taught him how to fix a plow. But nobody took him in to live with them. He was a boy with no family, and the world tends to let kids like that grow up all by themselves.

One evening, after the boy finished talking and got ready to lie down, the ox spoke out of nowhere.

It didn't roar or bellow, not the usual noise oxen make. It talked in a quiet human voice, like someone who'd thought for a long time before saying a word. The boy sat up fast. For years he'd chatted to this ox, and the ox never answered back. Now inside that small hut, in the dark, the voice was right beside him.

“Tomorrow,” the ox said, “climb the mountain around midday. There's a pool deep in the woods. The Queen Mother of the West's daughters come down from heaven to bathe there. They leave their robes on the bank. Grab the youngest girl's robe, the one made from cloud. Without it, she can't fly back to heaven. Stay with her. She won't stay angry for long.”

The boy stared. He'd heard the village old women tell stories about heaven, but he never thought those tales were true. He looked over at the ox, and the ox looked back. Its eyes were old and calm, knowing things an ox had no business knowing. “How do you know all this?” the boy whispered. “I wasn't always an ox,” the ox said. “It's enough that I know.”

The boy couldn't sleep that night. He lay awake in the dark, the ox resting next to him. Neither one said a word. When dawn came and the first light showed, he got up, splashed cold stream water on his face, and headed up the mountain, just as the ox told him. His heart was pounding, but he went anyway.

He didn't have any real plan. All he had was the old ox's words, a direction to walk, and that strange hope you get when you're a boy who's never dared hope for much. He walked through pine trees. The mountain was quiet. Far ahead through the trees, he heard running water.