The Lord of Wind
By the Hutuo River stands a half-fallen Wind Temple with a wind-worn stone the villagers call the Lord of Wind. The minor god who governs this wind is long forgotten by name. When Widow Shen's autumn grain nears rotting, she sets a bowl of new rice and asks for wind; the god sends a night of dry west wind. Each autumn she brings rice; after her daughter forgets, the bowl stands empty, and when the wind rises the old locust leaves rustle, as if answering: I know.
The Lord of Wind
By the Hutuo River stood a Wind Temple, half its wall fallen in; the image inside was no proper god either, only a wind-worn stone faintly shaped like a bowed man. The villagers called it the Lord of Wind, and came to knock their heads when the drought dragged or the boat fought an adverse wind — though mostly it did nothing for them.
The one who governed this stretch of wind was indeed a minor god, his name forgotten by all. He cared little to show himself, and only when the wind rose would he sit a while on the boughs of the old locust behind the temple, and watch the small doings of the world below.
In the river-bend lived a widow, Shen by name. The third year after her husband drowned in the Hutuo, she kept two meager mu of land and a daughter. That autumn the skies stayed close for days; the grain ripened yellow but would not dry, and a rain threatened to rot it in the field. By day Widow Shen cut; by night she spread it on the threshing ground — yet not a thread of wind came. She thought of the fallen temple and carried a bowl of new rice to set before the stone. She asked for nothing, only said, 'Lord of Wind, if it is convenient, blow a little.'
The minor god heard her from the locust bough. He need not have answered — such small matters the Heavenly Court never reckoned as merit. But he remembered how long it had been since any offered him homage, how thin the smell of incense had grown, and so he flicked a sleeve and sent a night of west wind. It was not much, but dry, and by daybreak the grain had shed its damp.
Widow Shen rose at dawn to find the grain as dry as before, but the bowl of rice was gone. She supposed a wild cat had taken it, and set out another at the temple; again it vanished by morning. The third time she crept to watch by night, and in the moon saw a thin man in grey sitting by the stone, bowl in hand, eating in small mouthfuls.
She told no one. Each autumn after, she brought a bowl of new rice to the temple. The minor god asked nothing more, only let this river-bend keep an extra thread of wind when wind was due.
Years passed; Widow Shen grew old, and her daughter married out. On her deathbed she told the girl, 'Don't forget the rice at the temple.' The daughter promised, but went only two years, and then let it lapse.
The Lord of Wind still governs this stretch of wind. Only the bowl of new rice stands empty before the stone, slowly taking dust. When the wind rises, the old locust's leaves still rustle, like someone answering: I know.