The Happy Years

They got married in the village, just the way villagers do. There wasn't much of a feast, not with how poor the boy was, but neighbors still turned up. They came mostly out of wonder. This girl who'd come down from the mountain was more beautiful than anyone there had ever laid eyes on. They stared at her, then over at the cowherd. No one said a word. It wasn't their place. And she'd chosen him, after all.

Zhinu wove cloth. Up in heaven, she'd been the one to weave the clouds themselves. Here on earth, she made fabric unlike anything the villagers had ever seen. Silk that shifted color as the light hit it. Cool through summer heat, warm when winter rolled in. It held its dyes tight, like the cloth had drunk them right in. Villagers came to buy from her. The cowherd took the cloth to market to sell. Within a year, their run-down hut turned into a proper house, then a working farm. They weren't poor anymore.

They had kids. First a son, then a daughter. The two ran wild all over the farm. The old ox hadn't spoken a single word since that night long ago. He'd watch the children from his stall, and no one could tell if he minded any of it. The boy and girl grew up. Their parents loved them deeply. For a long stretch, the years slipped by slow, like a calm river.

Each evening the cowherd would sit and look at his wife. He still could barely believe it. Once he'd owned nothing at all, and now he had this: a wife not born of this earth, children of his own blood, a roof to keep out the rain, and an old ox who'd known how everything would unfold. He'd tell her so. Zhinu would smile and say she was the one who'd made the choice.

But time works differently up in heaven. At last, the Queen Mother of the West, in her jade halls, noticed her seventh daughter never returned home. The six older sisters had flown back, shaken, and told her what had happened. A boy stole the robe. Their sister stayed behind. When the Queen Mother heard the tale, her face stayed flat, but those who served her said later they'd never seen her look quite like that.

She would not come down herself at first. She was far too high a lady for such work. She sent messengers to earth, shaped like gusts of wind. They found the farm. They saw the Weaver at her loom, the cowherd standing by the door, the two children playing in the dirt. The messengers flew back and reported what they'd seen. Then she stood, put on her peach crown, and came down in person. Some matters could not be trusted to messengers alone.

It started as a normal morning. The cowherd was out working the fields. The old ox had been growing weaker for days, and he called the boy over to his stall. The cowherd knelt beside him. The ox spoke for the final time. When I die, take my hide and keep it safe. When the day comes you need to rise up to the sky, put it on. It will carry you. Then the ox closed his eyes and passed away. The cowherd cried. This was the truest friend he'd ever had.

He did what he was told. He took the hide, tanned it, and set it aside. He didn't fully understand what it was for. He thought the old ox might have been rambling near the end. He buried the ox behind the farm under a cypress tree, then went back to his wife and children. He tried to pretend their quiet life would keep going the same way.

It would not. That same afternoon, the sky above the farm went dark. No storm clouds, just a heavy, looming presence. The Queen Mother of the West stood in their yard. Cold hung thick all around her. Her voice stayed flat, no rise, no fall. Zhinu. Come home. Zhinu had been at her loom. She set down her shuttle and stood. She had to go. No one could refuse the Queen Mother's will.