The Toad Spirit
By the reed-fringed bend of the Yuan River, a boy named Ge Qing lives with his ailing grandfather. When a great drought dries every well, a giant toad his grandfather once spared reveals a hidden spring and saves the old man's life. Each year the boy leaves food at the marsh; the toad, sometimes a green-clad child, returns in silence. A quiet tale of one meal repaid with a living spring.
At the bend where the Yuan River turns, there lies a fishing village called Reed-Flower Crossing. Most of its people live by the net. The boy Ge Qing lost his parents young and kept house with his grandfather, an old man now frail. Qing alone worked a small boat and cast his weave to earn their bread.
East of the crossing lay a stagnant marsh, and deep among the reeds dwelt a giant toad, broad as a winnowing basket, its back knobbed with warts. The villagers called it Old Toad and kept their distance, fearing it drank men's souls. Yet Qing's grandfather had once saved it: in a year of great flood the creature was hauled up in his net; the old man saw in its eyes something like tears and cut the cord to set it free. After that he would toss a handful of rice at the water's edge each day, and the toad did not flee.
A year of bitter drought came. The Yuan ran thin to nothing; every well and spring went dry. The village quarreled over water, and blows were heard daily. The old grandfather, sick with thirst, lay abed, and Qing searched in vain for a drop to give him.
At midnight he heard a low croak outside the lattice. He opened it and saw, in the moonlight, the great toad crouched upon a stone, its three legs stirring as if it would stand. Qing shrank back in fear. Then the toad spoke, in a voice like an old woman's: "Little lad, fear not. I owe your grandfather a bowl of rice; now I would repay it. Beneath the marsh runs a hidden spring. Follow me."
Qing took it for a demon, yet his grandfather's life hung by a thread, so he went. The toad leaped before him, three legs touching earth, and led him to a clump of withered reeds at the marsh's heart. It bowed its head and struck the ground thrice. Qing dug, and before three feet the clear water welled up, cold and sweet. Overjoyed, he filled his gourd and hurried home, and the water drew his grandfather back from the brink.
After that Qing left rice at the marsh each night, and the toad came to eat. Sometimes it took the shape of a green-clad boy, sitting on the stone to listen to Qing's tales of the river, laughing softly and saying never a word.
When autumn deepened, Qing came one day to find the rice untouched and the toad gone. He searched everywhere and found no trace, only a small green stone left upon the rock, smooth as jade and warm to the touch. Qing kept it in his breast.
The next year drought returned. Qing set the little stone in a bowl of water, and the water would not spoil; those who drank were healed. The villagers marveled, but Qing told them nothing of its source.
Each Mid-Autumn he set out wine and rice by the marsh and wished the old toad well from afar. Fishermen passing at night later spoke of a three-legged thing crouched in the moonlight upon the stone, which in a breath became a green-clad child, bowed, and was gone. None dared draw near.
When Qing was old, his children asked whence the stone came. He only smiled and said, "The repayment of a single meal."
The Chronicler of the Strange would say: Men say the strange creatures have no feeling, yet Old Toad, for one bowl of rice, repaid a spring that gave life — beside those who forget a kindness, what a gulf divides them. The way of giving and return lies not in weight but in a single sincere thought. The grandfather tossed his rice expecting nothing; the toad answered with a spring, asking no bargain. That old warmth of heart was found, of all places, in a brute of the mud. One can only sigh.