The Robe of Cloud

The pool sat in an open spot high up the mountain. Water collected in a stone basin there, so clear you could count every stone that sank to the bottom. The boy got there at noon, and saw exactly what the ox had told him. Seven maidens were in the water laughing. Their robes lay on the bank like seven little piles of cloud.

These were no mortal women. The boy had only ever known the worn, weathered women of the village, and he knew it straight away. Their skin glowed. Their hair moved as if caught in a wind that wasn’t really blowing. They were the Queen Mother’s daughters, come down from heaven’s palaces to bathe in the cold water. And he knew he was not supposed to be watching them.

He ducked behind a tree. The ox hadn’t told him to hide, but his shyness pulled him there. He glanced over at the robes. The six older sisters left theirs in separate piles. The youngest one, the ox’s girl, set hers a little off to the side. It was nothing like the rest. He could see it was woven from real cloud, pale and shifting in the light, almost like it breathed.

He stepped out from behind the tree. He didn’t run, didn’t try to cover his face. He walked to the bank, picked up the cloud robe and held it in his arms. It was far lighter than he’d imagined, warm too, as if it had been sitting in sunlight. He just stood there holding it.

The maidens spotted him and screamed. They scrambled toward the bank. In an instant, six of them wrapped their robes around themselves and rose into the air, streaking with light, heading back the way they came. That left their youngest sister alone in the water with nothing to cover herself.

The youngest wasn’t truly scared. She was furious. She climbed out of the water, keeping herself modest, and stood right in front of him demanding her robe back. She said her name was Zhinu the Weaver, seventh daughter of the Queen Mother. What he’d done could bring ruin down on his whole village. Give it back, she said. Now.

The boy would not hand it over. He tucked the robe behind his back and told her who he was. An orphan. No father, no mother. All he had was an old ox that had spoken to him that morning. He said he wasn’t a thief. He told her the ox had said her anger would fade soon. Then he just stood and waited, because there was nothing else he could do.

Zhinu looked him over. She saw a worn boy with rough hands and a gentle face, clutching her cloud robe behind his back like a kid who’d snatched a sweet. She saw he meant no harm. She saw he was lonely, in a way she’d never known. Up in heaven she had her sisters. Here on earth this boy had no one. The water was cold. The robe was warm. She had no idea what to do.

She stayed. There’s no fancy explanation for how it happened, only this: she stayed. Once she saw he would not force her, she put the robe on at last. She went down the mountain with him, back to his hut at the village edge. The old ox waited by the door, and the boy thought its eyes looked happy.