The Turtle Spirit

In the southern marsh there lay a pond some acres wide, wherein, so the tale ran, an old turtle dwelt—its years beyond counting, and skilled in the art of changing shape. In the village lived old Master Zhou, a master of the board, whose hand at eighty trembled not. On every moonlit night a white-robed elder would come to the pond's edge and beg a game. His mien was antique and plain, his speech gentle; yet each match he staked a thing: if Zhou won, the pond should stay full and the fields know no flood; if the turtle elder won, drought and deluge would fall out of season, and the crops suffer. At first Zhou's skill prevailed; for three years running he won, and the marsh stood deep, the harvests doubly rich. The villagers blessed him, knowing not why. In the fourth summer, Zhou grew vain with wine and slack at the board; he misplaced a single stone and lost. That year came a great drought—the pond's bed split like tile, the grain withered to ash. Zhou, stricken with remorse, sought another game and won by his utmost wit; within ten days the rains returned and the pond was full. But Zhou thought within himself: I am old and shall die; who then shall master this creature? He called his sons and grandsons, pointed to the pond, and warned them: Play not at the board with the old man of the water. A single careless stone concerns the life of a whole village. When he had spoken, the pond moon was still, and the white-robed elder came no more. The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: A game upon the board bore the withering or flourishing of a whole village. The old man's caution was no cowardice—he knew that what one age could rely on, the next might not. And they who hold a little power and lightly set down a stone—what, then, is this pond to them?