The Crane Immortal

In the Yunmeng Mountains dwelt an old man of the Tao clan, past seventy and childless, alone in his thatched hut. In his last years a strange sickness took him, and he lay wasted, beyond the help of medicine. He made his peace with death, and day by day watched only the white clouds beyond his window. On a night of bright autumn moon, as he lay abed, there came a sharp sound in the court, like rending silk. He roused himself and opened the door, and beheld a white crane standing on the step—vermilion crown, snow-white plumes, eyes like stars. The crane bowed its head and spat forth a thing red as cinnabar, laying it by the old man's pillow; then with its beak it parted his lips and let the pellet fall within. He swallowed it, and a warmth spread through his throat, as of fine wine. At dawn the sickness was gone, and he walked as a youth. The crane stayed and would not leave; the old man fed it stream-fish, and it did not shy. After ten days, when he was hale again, he opened the gate and let it go. The crane circled thrice above, its cry clear and far, as if in thanks, then spread its wings and was lost in the clouds. A year later a neighbor passed the mountain and found the hut empty, the hearth cold. Some said they had seen upon the highest peak an old man in hempen robe and staff, a white crane standing at his side, facing the wind in solitude, severed from the world of men. The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: The crane with a single pellet gave the old man back his body; the old man with his own body honored the crane's freedom. Forgetting both self and other, they found their liberty. And those who cage a crane to amuse their age—know they that when the crane is gone, the man too must go?