This is a story about an old man, a wind chime and a little girl. It has a somewhat surprising ending, which you shall see for yourself upon reading it. I hope you enjoy it. It is also based on true events.

THE RELUCTANT WINDCHIME

I.

Many, many years ago, far away and across the seas, in a foreign land with hot, sultry weather and great stands of bamboo peppering the low wooded hills, an old man went out one day into those hills, searching for bamboo staves suitable for rebuilding his humble cottage.

The old shack had suffered the torment of a great many monsoon rains over the course of its existence. Large sections of it were now in a shambles. Bent pieces of it were always sloughing off, like matted fur on a panther during shedding season. But, being bamboo, they did not deteriorate altogether at once and remnants remained in little piles around the cottage like reminders of some not quite fully evident disaster of a minor order.

The old man himself was also bent, weathered and a survivor of many years of hard life. His face had the quality of tanned leather, worked through as it was with wrinkles and creases. His eyes viewed the primitive splendor of his surroundings with a calmness that belied the challenging difficulties such a life demanded, exacted incrementally from his life force.

As he shuffled up one particular hillside behind the shack, his gaze fell upon a splendid thicket of bamboo that crowned the landscape. The fronds growing there were particularly rich, luxuriant and bursting with the sort of determined, ever-persisting life spirit only bamboo is capable of.

As he approached, he initially felt that there was no apparent way either through or around it, such was the formidable stand it presented. However, after he had gotten somewhat closer, he noticed that there was in fact a slender path threading through it…a path only relatively small carnivorous animals might take if they were not too engorged with recent kills.

At his side, a sharp-bladed long knife dangled from his tattered old belt. He frequently made use of it at such times as this, slashing and cutting bamboo fronds that seemed to be particularly promising for his purpose. This time, however, it appeared as if he would have no need for the bite of its merciless edge, since the small path soon opened up a bit and grew into a slight clearing in the midst of this magnificent growth.

Finally, he stood in what appeared to be the exact center of the bamboo thicket, marveling at the verdant greenery that surrounded him. Bemused, his ancient eyes almost twinkled, if one can imagine an ancient grandfather’s eyes alight with such unaccustomed delight. It was almost like being in the midst of a living, growing fortress…tall spikes of bamboo clustered around on all sides like so many pikes jutting out ahead of a band of warriors preparing for hopeless battle.

Savoring the spectacle momentarily, he paused and listened to the deep stillness that lay all about. Not a sound penetrated this grove, not a bird’s song nor the rustle of a small animal disrupted the perfect quietude that existed here. Not even an insect buzzed or hummed in its deep solitude. Looking up, he took in the leafy circle of azure blue sky directly over him and silently thanked the gods and goddesses of this forest for sharing their peaceful repose with him, however briefly.

Was this what paradise was like, he wondered? Was this a hint of what the Great Buddha said awaited those who achieved complete harmony with all things? As quickly as the thought arose he cast it aside, for he was here on business, not to muse upon the imponderable mysteries of a universe he certainly made no pretext of trying in the least to understand. Leave that for the sages. He had no time to engage in foolish wonderment.

The brief and fragile moment of absolute peace subsiding within him, his hand pulled the long knife from its protective cover and he gazed at the stalks arrayed before him. Quickly sizing them up, he began to cut the tallest and strongest of the bamboo fronds, placing them in a small pile until he had gathered together about 10 of them.

As he turned to place the long knife back in his sash, his foot suddenly caught on a tall frond he had not previously noticed and he fell forward, landing on the pile of fresh-cut bamboo. The bamboo cushioned his fall, of course, but he glanced up at the impertinent strand he had tripped over, with unthinking irritation. Unsheathing his knife, he took a swipe at it, cutting it off at near ground level and tossed it on the pile of cut fronds.

Removing the stalks from that strange central hollow in the thicket had posed a few problems, but after some adept work and clever balancing, the old man was finally able to remove all the tall spears he had cut and had arrayed them in an orderly pile just outside the grove so that he could tie a sisal rope around them. Soon, with a bemused glance back at the bamboo grove he had helped himself to, the old man began hauling them back down the hill to his small shanty.

It took some time, but eventually he had them back down the hill and laid them in a pile nearby. Tomorrow he would start the difficult and laborious process of replacing the more decayed and weather-beaten upright stalks in his shack with the fresh replacements.

II.

That night, after eating his simple fare of boiled rice and taking care of his accustomed, modest toilet, the old man went to bed. Asleep, he dreamed a most peculiar dream. In it, the bamboo he had cut became strangely animated, the stalks glowing with a soft and barely perceivable green aura.

No longer were the cut stalks lying in an orderly pile. They were now re-rooted in the ground, once again growing, sprouting and filled with a palpable energy that was both puzzling and strangely disturbing. One stalk in particular grew tallest in their midst, despite the fact that it was not the thickest nor the largest frond among them. Over their tops a circle of bluest sky grew and grew and grew, until the dazzling light of that indescribable azureness became too bright to look at. It made no sense at all. The old man awoke with a brief start just as that dreamlike dazzle began to hurt his ancient eyes.

The next day, as he had planned, he began to work repairing his old shack and soon the strangeness of that unusual dream faded completely from his memory.

After a full day of sweaty toil, enduring the uncomfortable warmth of the sun’s heat that saturated the humidity, he had largely finished. The shack was again in reasonable repair and from all the stalks he had assembled the previous day only one was left…a tall but slender frond that had found no use in his repairs.

Gazing at it, he idly wondered if there was something he could still do with it, since bamboo has hundreds upon hundreds of uses in China. Then, it occurred to him that perhaps he could dry it out and construct something from it that would be salable in the village that lay not far from his shack. Even a few pennies was far more than he had at the moment. With this in mind he set the solitary stalk out on a rocky outcropping nearby where it could catch the full heat of the sun and dry out. Having done so, he just as quickly forgot about it as he had the dream.

III.

The rest of the year passed quickly, as they always do for old men. There was always so much to do, food to be sourced, chores to be done, repairs to his meager possessions to be undertaken, clothes to be mended. The list went on and on, as did the months, until finally the monsoons had again returned.

One day the old man passed the rocky area and noticed that the tall, slender bamboo frond he had cut and place there the previous year was still where he had left it. The sun and heat of the passing months had dried it out exactly as he had intended and it had acquired a tawny sheen of tan coloration that indicated it was sufficiently dry to work with.

Thus, taking it with him, he returned to the shack and thought about what he could possibly make from it as a handicraft item that might make him some money, however small that might end up being. Finally, after smoking his old pipe at length and giving the idea some thought after his chores one day, he hit upon the idea of perhaps making a wind-chime from it.

After making use of his few idle moments to craft a wind-chime, the bamboo began to take shape in the form of 6 hollow tubes, suspended from a large half-shell by small cords, with a central clapper made of wood. When the wind blew, the clapper would strike the hollow bamboo tubes in random order, creating a pleasantly muted background sound that resonated with a non-specific, peaceful energy. When one closed one’s eyes, one could almost imagine a mountain zephyr swooping down from the heavens to dance with the bamboo before resuming its eternally aimless journey in the skies.

Finally, after he had finished his work, the old man stood back and critically viewed his efforts. It would suffice, he thought. Not the product of a highly skilled wood craftsman or artist, but an honest and solidly made instrument that reflected the chi or spirit energy of all life around us.

Several days later, he was on his way to the village intent on selling his creation for whatever small amount he might be offered when he was unexpectedly stopped by a younger stranger, who was also quite obviously poor, from his appearance.

“What have you there, ancient grandfather?” inquired the young man, with a smile. He was looking at the small bundle of short bamboo rods that the old man had lashed to his pack. “Is that a child’s toy?”

The old man looked at the younger individual with some hesitation, for this was an isolated hilly path through remote stands of bamboo and undergrowth that filled the surrounding landscape. Trying to discern his motive in remarking on the small package of wood, the old man reflected disconcertedly on the fact that it was an isolated and lonely section of the trail, with few passers-by.

“Would you have any money that you could spare to help me, honored grandfather?” the young man queried.

At this point, the old man felt a stab of intense distrust and suspicion, for the younger man had a blade in his sash-band that caught the sun’s rays and glittered wickedly.

“Alas, young man, I am most regretful to inform you that I have nothing of value that would help you. I have barely the wherewithal to sustain myself!”

The young man’s face underwent an immediate change upon hearing this, and his demeanor visibly and abruptly transformed him into a definite threat.

“Bah, you lie. That is a pack on your back. It probably has something of value hidden in it. Hand it over, grandpa, if you value your miserable old hide!”

The old man clutched at his pack unconsciously, reluctant to part with his meager supplies and suddenly angered at this youngster’s disrespect for someone of his age & wisdom. “I have nothing of value, I tell you…just a child’s toy that wouldn’t interest you at all. I am taking it into the village just now with some hope of…” He caught himself before he could finish the words “…selling it.”

This omission was not lost on the young man, however, and he reached out to forcefully tear the pack off the old man’s back, who had also struck out instinctively to defend himself against this obvious thief.

What followed then occurred too fast to make any sense out of it, but the thin blade in the youth’s hand slashed out at the pack straps, missing them before cutting viciously into the old man’s neck.

The wound was a deep and deadly one, too deep and too deadly to do much more than allow the old man to clutch at it feebly before falling in a heap on the dusty trail with a gasp. The old man, a look of surprise still etched on his face, collapsed heavily.

Before the thief could cut the straps away, the small bundle of bamboo strapped to the pack was splashed all over with blood that spurted from the old man’s artery in rhythmic gouts. It was clearly a mortal wound.

“Old fool!” cried the infuriated young man. “You have ruined the pack with your useless blood and probably everything in it as well.”

Then, as the old man shivered, sending his last few conscious thoughts up into the growing, strangely brilliant white void, the young thief grabbed the blood-soaked pack and stalked away. But not before pushing the old man’s now near-lifeless body behind some nearby rocks, where it remained hidden from view of those passing along the trail.

Sometime later, coming to a stream, the young man dipped the pack into the water and tried to wash off the blood, which by now had turned dark reddish brown. After some effort, he was able to get most of it off so that it did not any longer have the appearance of blood, but perhaps merely an accumulation of grime, greasy dirt and dust. The small packet of bamboo remained strapped to the pack as he poked through its tattered interior to see if there was anything of value to be had within.

Frowning more and more as his fruitless search revealed nothing but a few old rags, some stale cooked rice and the attached small bamboo bundle, he took the packet of bamboo sticks with him and threw the old pack into the stream, where it quickly disappeared.

IV.

Not long after this, after the thief had entered the village, he encountered a small stall on the rough side street where a local villager kept a rude shop with miscellaneous things he offered for sale.

“How much am I offered for this lovely child’s toy?” the thief demanded. Unwrapping the packet, he produced what was obviously a wind-chime made of short lengths of hollow bamboo tubes corded together.

Scowling at the ‘toy’, the shopkeeper indicated he was not interested in such a thing…that he only sold serious items that had utility and certainly not playthings for children! With that, he grabbed a thick staff and turned away, leaving the thief to fend for himself. Clearly, now that he was in town, the thief had to be careful about how he managed his affairs. The use of incautious violence might result in unanticipated harm, so he took up the chime and walked quickly away.

As he rounded the corner, however, he almost stumbled against a rather well-dressed woman, clearly a well-to-do person who was accompanied by both several serving maids and a formidable looking man…strongly armed as well!

“Watch where you are walking, you uncouth lout!” the woman admonished him with a sharp tone. The thief caught the armed man with the woman eyeing him up rather threateningly, as he quickly offered up his apologies for having been so careless as to not take notice of her, but then in the same moment had an inspiration.

“Please excuse me for being so careless, gracious madam! I am a stranger here and unfamiliar with the streets and paths. Please forgive my inexcusable clumsiness! I have little to eat and only have this unusual children’s toy with me that I am trying to sell for a few small coins. Would you or your maids possibly be interested in it? It was hand-crafted by a venerable Taoist sage, high up in the local hills. I hear he is a holy man of enormous wisdom. Surely it is blessed by him, as well.”

With that, he half glanced sideways at the lady to see if there was any possibility of her believing his spontaneously fabricated story.

The lady, for her part had already abruptly dismissed both him and his prattle and was leaving, when one of the maids approached him quietly, saying “Here are a few coins. I will take the toy.”

With that, she placed the copper coins in his hand and he, immensely glad to have gotten anything at all for this piece of trash, went away, leaving the maid to rejoin the others as they walked up the narrow street.

V.

The wind-chime, having been taken by the maid, ended up in a prosperous and well-to-do household, where it hung in the maid’s servant’s quarters for many years, despite the fact that it was singularly unmelodious. The maid had been quite surprised to find that unlike most wind-chimes, all this particular one could do was emit unenthusiastic, heavily muted ‘thunking’ noises. It wasn’t an especially pleasing sound, either, since every time the wind descended to play among its hollow cylinders the result was that it merely managed to croak rather unpleasantly in anything but a stiff breeze.

The maid, well aware of this unbargained-for effect but apparently not bothered excessively by it, left it up despite its ugly sounds and so it endured a fair number of years, until the weathering and drying effects of the sun had literally split all its tubes, producing even uglier ‘thunks’ and unnerving rattles than it had originally emitted. Eventually, it became an unsightly eyesore that was barely still held together by its disintegrating cords; before long it was given to a junk man, along with old tattered wicker baskets, broken bowls and other rejected effluvia that were no longer either aesthetically pleasing or functional.

Unfortunately, even the canny trashman himself could not think of a possible use for the old, worn-out wind-chime and one day he simply tossed it out onto a nearby heap of debris awaiting disposal.

It was there and then that karma finally came full circle, one rain-sodden and thundery afternoon.

VI.

As the monsoon rains poured forth on an exceptionally stormy day, raining as if the heavens were trying to rid themselves all at once of the celestrial tears of countless centuries of departed souls who had formerly lived upon this sad but beautiful earth, a little girl wandered up the path that meandered past the trash heap. She was quite small, miserably soaked through and dressed in cheaply made clothes. But she was a delightful child of about 12 with her hair done up in bangs, nonetheless, and despite the common apparel that appeared to mark her out as just another urchin, she had a curiously serious look about her face as she stopped and stared intensely towards the trash heap.

Measuring her steps carefully through the muddy ground, the little girl walked over to the trash heap for a closer look and saw some old bamboo tubes sticking haphazardly out of the debris. Then, reaching over to pull them out, she withdrew a sodden tangle of old bamboo, cords and a wooden clapper.

What she might have seen in such a mess is unknown but she took the old chime home with her and for the next day took child-like pains, in her serious way, to clean the tubes of their muck, restringing them until she had restored the old wind-chime to as good a relic of its former self as could be hoped. After thoroughly drying out the bamboo, she coated the tubes with some of her uncle’s varnish and looked at the creation with a serious gaze before hanging it under the eaves near her small room. Taking a thin sheet of her uncle’s precious copper metal foil, she then carved into its surface the characters for ‘rain’ and ‘wind’, using it to serve as a wind catcher that would move the clapper when the winds blew.

By the time she was finished, the wind had calmed, the rain had ceased to pour and the heavens were once again most miraculously the deepest shade of robin’s egg blue. The pevious strong gusts had died entirely away and all was completely still.

The wind-chime hung there, under the eave, absolutely motionless. There was not even a faint breath of air to be felt moving.

And then…quite suddenly…the faintest, uncertain motion stirred the old wind-chime. Still, no sound came forth. A bit more breeze played among the tubes, yet there was still no sound produced. Nature had seemingly held its breath.

Then, in the next few moments, something miraculous occurred…some mysterious spark of cosmic energy must have leaped forth from the deepest depths of the cosmos to fill the air with the purest redemptive power of the Universe…for the old wind-chime suddenly peeled forth with the purest, sweetest, most melodic, most rapsodic sounds ever heard by the human ear. A small symphony of musical sighs and woodland notes that would have honored the Emperor himself

In a greater sense, it was as if a wronged soul, long dead and forlorn, had suddenly been brought back to joyous life. As if a wilted rose of former great beauty had blossomed forth once again, beyond all hope & reasonable expectations. Indeed, the plaintive beauty of its song seemed to vibrate in unison with the very wind itself.

As the old wind-chime sang in a manner it had never before voiced, the serious little girl looked upon it all with her serene confidence and faith that only the pure-hearted who never age may ever hope to possess…and from that day forth the old wind-chime regularly pirouetted in joyful dances with each passing gust that embraced it…loudly proclaiming its hope and renewed faith…and all for the joy of a little girl who had restored its utter soul.

VII.

This is a true story and that little girl, I am proud to say, is my God-daughter, Oi-Ling.

— — — — — — — —

[Note: Winds chimes, as we know them in the west, are a very ancient Chinese expression of fēng hé rì nuǎn, or a physical manifestation of the spirit of harmony and peaceful well-being that comes from gentle breezes and warm sunshine. The custom of making wind-chimes evolved in conjunction with the Taoist philosophy of being at one with nature, hence the gentle and soothing sounds created by natural bamboo wood, stirred by the wind, evoke a serene sense of the wind blowing through and rustling the branches of growing trees. From China, the custom spread to Japan, favored by both Ch’an and Zen Buddism, whence it eventually came to the west sometime later.]