“Come, Storyteller’s granddaughter,” he said. “You will be needed too.”

Pinmei nodded and, without taking Yishan’s hand, climbed onto the dragon’s back.

CHAPTER

61

The stonecutter waited for Amah to awaken before he started work. He watched as her eyes opened, but to his dismay, he saw them fill with tears.

“It is nothing,” Amah said, wiping her tears and waving him away. “I dreamed of my granddaughter, and when I woke to see the bars of the prison cell…”

“I know,” the stonecutter said, reaching for her hand. Tears filled his eyes as well. “Sometimes I wonder if the face I remember is truly my daughter’s.”

“I hope they are both safe and protected,” Amah said as another tear fell.

“My friend,” the stonecutter said, “perhaps that is not a thing to hope for. You lived on the mountain because you wished your granddaughter to be safe. But even on the mountain, danger came. For, truly, the safest place in the world is this prison cell.”

Amah stared at the stonecutter and slowly nodded. “You are wise,” she said, “wiser than me.”

“No,” the stonecutter said, shaking his head. “I am just a common stonecutter.”

“Hardly,” Amah said as she looked with appreciation at his finely cut stones. “You are quite a master.”

“Ah, this is nothing,” the stonecutter said humbly, waving his hand. “If I only had my own tools or just a chisel of good quality… then perhaps I could make something worthy of you calling me that.”

“It is your skill, not the tools, that make you master,” Amah said. “Just like Painter Chen and his magic paintbrush. It needed the skill of a master.”

“I do not know that story,” the stonecutter said. “Tell me.”

There was once a boy named Liang who longed to be an artist. But as he was the son of a poor fisherman, there seemed little opportunity for him to become one. Nevertheless, he would draw whenever he could. Everyplace he went was covered with his drawings.

What Liang wished for most was a paintbrush. He would often sneak to the studio of the local craftsman and watch him make paintbrushes and inkstones, hoping there would be a discarded one for him to take. Unfortunately for him, there was never anything—not a swath of goat hair or even a piece of stone—for the boy to take.

But one day, Liang was alone on his father’s boat in the water. He was supposed to be minding the fishing nets, but he had found a fine piece of bamboo and was using it to draw pictures with water on the inside of the boat. So, he was quite surprised when the boat pulled violently, the motion matched with a pained cry.

Liang looked over the edge of the boat, and there, under the surface of the water, was the figure of a girl. Her hair had gotten tangled in his fishnets and she was pulling to free herself with such force she was sure to drag his boat under. Quickly, the boy took out his knife and cut the girl’s hair. Freed, the girl swiftly disappeared without even looking at him. But as she swam away, he saw that instead of legs, she had a fish tail.

Liang scratched his head, almost believing it had been a dream. But when he pulled up his fishnets, he saw the lock of hair was still caught in it. As he pulled out the strands of hair, he marveled at its texture. So smooth and delicate, they were almost like threads of water. The boy stared at it.

Using the twine from his fishnet, he quickly attached the hair to his bamboo stick.

“A fine brush!” Liang cried out in joy.

And it was indeed a fine brush. Liang did not realize how wonderful the brush was, however, until he dipped it into the water and painted a frog on the wood of his boat. To his amazement, when he finished, a real frog croaked from his picture and jumped away!

With such a brush, Liang’s life changed. He painted ink and paper for himself, a magnificent boat for his father, and a luxurious silk robe for his mother. Everything he painted came to life, and all around him rejoiced.

The news of the magic paintbrush reached the ears of a new, young judge of the village. This judge was not only new, but was also unscrupulous. He quietly ordered some thugs to steal Liang’s paintbrush.

When Liang’s paintbrush was brought to the young judge, he eagerly began to paint. With the finest ink and paper, he painted a mountain of gold, but only a pile of dirty stones sprang from the page. He tried to paint a bowl of gold ingots, but instead a bowl of foul-smelling, rotten dumplings formed. Finally, he decided to paint a simple bar of gold. But when he finished, the bar turned into a vicious yellow snake and the judge had to call his servants to get rid of it.

Realizing he could not use the paintbrush himself, the judge had Liang brought to him.

“I heard your paintbrush was stolen,” the judge said to him craftily, “so I had my officers search for it, and we’ve found it. I’m happy to return it to you.”

Liang, of course, was suspicious, but he thanked the judge and reached to retrieve his special brush.

“Do you think,” the judge said, again in a wily tone, holding the brush just out of Liang’s reach, “you could paint something for me, before you go?”

Liang knew this was all a ploy, yet he could only nod.

“What do you wish a picture of?” Liang asked.

“It would be nice to have some gold,” the judge said. “Perhaps a chest or two?”

“Ah, but a chest of gold would eventually empty,” Liang said, thinking hard. “You need the Golden Chicken. It lays eggs of pure gold.”

“A chicken that lays eggs of gold?” the judge said, his eyes lighting with greed. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”

So, taking the brush, Liang painted a chicken with golden feathers and red eyes. The chicken clucked and immediately laid an egg of solid gold. The judge fell upon his knees to collect it.

“I’ll go now,” said Liang. The judge nodded, barely noticing the boy’s departure as he crawled behind the chicken to catch more eggs.

Many weeks later, the judge had collected a room full of golden eggs—the door to the room was locked with a special key only he carried. The chicken was given a special henhouse surrounded by a high, secure fence. But one day, as the chicken was pecking bugs outside, a soft rain fell. Immediately, the chicken disappeared, and in its place was a wet piece of paper, a blurry painting of a chicken on it.