Back to Issue Fifty-Eight

神话 OR MYTHOLOGIQUE

by SIANG LU

He wanted no story of simple ascension, wanted nothing of the truth of how He won that slippery throne. For the youth knew himself to be Exceptional, and Exceptional Men (such as He) had Exceptional Stories. They came to be Emperors through cunning, ruthless strategy and force of will. They certainly did not do it by gawping as their purple-faced fathers clawed and sputtered on what was later determined to have been an awkwardly lodged chicken bone. Exceptional Men did not watch, frozen, unable or unwilling to help. Exceptional Men did not wait, in lackluster fealty, for that final breathless minute to expire.

Word traveled fast. By the time of His coronation, rumour was already circulating the courts that young Lu Huang Du had conspired to usurp His father’s throne. Well, He certainly had not planned it this way, but He was nothing if not an opportunist. When whispers of patricide and regicide spread through the Imperial Court, He uttered no denials. Let them think Him ruthless. Why not?

His first act as Emperor was to order the executions of all who repeated the rumours. His second act was to order the deaths of the chickens – all of them, every last one throughout the land – for it was clear to Him that their traitorous bones conspired against His Imperial bloodline.

Even as the axes swung upon their necks, the rumor-mongerers and slanderers issued tearful defenses, or else blamed political enemies or brothers and sisters and fathers, cursed the Emperor’s tyranny and oppression, and cried out with their dying breaths.

The chickens – faced with their own impending slaughter – inscrutable to the very end, made much less of a fuss.

During the week-long celebration of His coronation, the Emperor bid the minstrels to come sing His praises. So they presented themselves before Him with zither and flute and wooden clapper, and sang the song of Emperors.

But He had heard this song before. They had sung it for His father and his father before him.

C’mon. The Emperor wanted an ode to Himself, unique. Were there not stories, after all, of Great Emperors who had emerged, newborn, from the skies, with pieces of luminous jade in their mouths? Men of prophecy, who communed with the heavens as though they were gods themselves? He wanted something like that. Something to make the man into the myth.

Thereupon He ordered Scholar Zhao – the most skillful of the Imperial Scholars – to be brought to craft a tale that would precede Him, and strike fear and awe into the hearts of all.

Scholar Zhao listened to the Emperor’s demand, closed his eyes, stroked his beard, and began to tell the tale.

*

In those earliest of days, when man discovered fire and proclaimed himself the rightful heir to the world, Mountain, who was nearby and who had witnessed the commotion, was not terribly impressed. Mountain had seen fire before, after all. It was nothing special.

Well this was merely Mountain’s dubious account of long-ago events, which, in any case, have a tendency to erode with the passing of time so that now, in the haze of recollection, one might necessarily fabricate those forgotten fragments – was it one man or many, for example, who had discovered that fire? – and slowly, in the course of its telling, an exaggerated detail here, an artful flourish there, one might remember only the story, which had replaced the memory, so vivid was it now.

Mountain’s alleged disdain, his utter indifference, could not have been true, therefore, because in the beginning Mountain knew nothing. There was no knowing, in those days. Mountain did not know he was Mountain, nor did Mountain know that he knew nothing. Mountain knew not. Mountain merely was.

Lush vegetation grew upon him. One reclusive shrub at first, and later a small family of saplings and then a wild and joyful proliferation of greenery that came to cover his entirety. This lent Mountain a certain air of grace and mystery, which in turn attracted the elk, the bird and the bear and they too made their home on Mountain, nestling within his craggy folds.

And man heard the commotion upon Mountain – the symphonies of growls and bleats and birdsong – and so came he, to the foot of Mountain, for man could not stand to be alone. And he built huts and farms with terraced fields and a school at the furthest ends of the village where the children sang folk songs. Mountain did not know the words, for he knew no words, but the melodies were pleasant with long and high notes that carried through the air, and Mountain learned to hum along, in a low and faint echo that amused the children, prompting them to shout into his valleys at the tops of their lungs.

Mountain would always shout back, to the children’s delight.

One day, a folk song came wafting along the breeze. Mountain had heard it many times before but this time something about it was different. Mountain recognized his name! The song was about him! And he came to know the chorus, the refrain, and all the other songs in a lushness of words that equaled the lushness of his vegetation in the spring.

When the Mongols came, in a galloping rage, and burnt the village to the ground, Mountain, who was nearby and had witnessed the commotion, was not terribly impressed. He had seen fire before.

Eventually another village was built, though its inhabitants had forgotten the songs of their ancestors. Their minds were busier, filled with agrarian pursuits and petty politics and so Mountain, who could not stand to be alone, began to sing his ancient song in the dark of the night.

The villagers awakened with this song in their heads, and they sang it, and Mountain was pleased.

At the base of Mountain there was a deep and narrow crevice, which the villagers knew as Mountain’s Ear, and it was here they gathered for Mountain’s counsel, whispering their innermost thoughts, seeking answers to their questions – How shall we fortify our defenses against those despicable Mongols? Why do Ugly Lao Zhong’s crops sell better than mine? Why does Xiao Pan ignore my advances?– and Mountain despaired, for he knew only the song and the echo, and it was only much later that Mountain began to truly ‘know’, to think with his own thoughts, to laugh with his own voice, and when Ugly Lao Zhong and Liu Wei’s wife would frolic within Mountain’s hidden nooks for hours of hot passion, so too did guilt-ridden Mountain learn to yelp and moan, and to experience his own illicit joys.

Not content to merely provide an echo to man’s words, Mountain began to give voice to thoughts entirely his own. Mountain composed poems. In vain he sought the attentions of some distant and slender hillock. To no one in particular he described that low rumble of delight he felt as Hummingbird would approach, in that sublime instant before alighting – wings aflutter – upon Mountain’s peak. And always Mountain dreamed the dream that had burdened him of late, in which he had found his entire self being plucked from the ground, like a tree, unmoored, and carried into the heavens by a tremendous wind.

When Ugly Lao Zhong was cast out of the village on account of his brazen midnight jaunts with Liu Wei’s wife, he returned to Mountain’s hidden nooks. As Lao Zhong approached Mountain’s Ear, instead of uttering to Mountain some secret thought or confession, he ran his hands along that crevice – securing his grip – and, with a strength unknown to him, began to climb.

Mountain said to Man, Why do you climb me? Nothing awaits you at the summit. There is no settlement. There are no others.

Man replied, I know.

Then why? asked Mountain.

I tire of this life and seek another.

Will you not miss the life you left behind?

No.

You will miss nothing?

A wistful smile broke out on Man’s face. Women, maybe.

Tell me about them, said Mountain, and Man spoke everything he knew about women. He spoke of the softness of their skin, their pleasant smells and alluring shape.

What will you do when you reach my summit? asked Mountain.

To this, Man did not reply.

The days were long with climbing, and not much was said between them during that arduous ascent. The nights, however, were filled with conversation, and they grew to know each other well. Man told Mountain of the dream that had burdened him of late, in which he had found his entire self becoming fused into the inescapable earth…

When Man was hungry, Mountain would cause the trees upon himself to shake loose their succulent fruit. When Man was thirsty, Mountain would split open a rock and water would flow. One pensive evening Mountain asked again, What will you do when you reach my summit? But Man still did not reply.

In the final days, when Mountain’s peak was in sight, Man’s demeanor began to change. He was no longer quick to laughter, and he grew sullen in the nights. To Mountain’s dismay, Man spoke very little and, in the hours of light, he climbed as though he were possessed.

Mountain did not have to ask a third time. He knew – it had come to him in a dream – that when Man reached the summit he would throw himself from it, there was no persuading him otherwise, and so Mountain, who could not bear to be alone, altered his terrain in the night, creating impossible sheer cliffs that caused Man to backtrack and lose entire days of effort. No longer did Mountain shake the fruits from the trees. No longer did Mountain split open the rocks. And yet Man persisted…

Then Mountain had a thought.

An offering.

A bargain for Man.

It was said, not long after, that the villagers never heard the mountain speak again.

Man descended from there, the same but changed, and ventured into the vast and open world. When Man spoke it was with his own voice. When Man laughed it was with his own laugh. And in the nights, as Man slept – was it one dream or many? – he saw Hummingbird, its wings forever aflutter, in his brief but everlasting sleep.

*

The Emperor did not understand, and demanded an explanation.

Don’t you see, my Lord? implored Scholar Zhao, YOU are Mountain!

For this treason, Scholar Zhao was thrown into the Six Levels of Hell.

Thereupon, Scholars Yu, Shih and Deng were summoned to compose an etiology befitting the Emperor.

*

SCHOLAR YU

… And in all that time lush vegetation grew upon the mountain, which in turn attracted Snake, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, Pig, Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit and Dragon, and they too made their home on the mountain, nestled within its craggy folds and filling the air with hisses and bleats, beating gongs and jingling bells. And lowly man heard the commotion and so came he, to the foot of the mountain, for he could not stand to be alone…

SCHOLAR SHIH

… And when the Mongols came, in a galloping rage, and burnt the village to the ground, only Liu Wei’s wife survived. The woman, heavy with child, had feigned death and so had been the only one spared its touch. Amongst the aftermath of the ruins and the wreckage, Woman fled to the mountain in her melancholy…

SCHOLAR DENG

… And at the base of the mountain there was a deep and narrow crevice, which the villagers knew as the mountain’s ear, and unbeknownst to all there hid a trickster spirit, and it was only Trickster who knew the truth, that the mountain was only ever a mountain. It did not speak, it did not sing – it knew not – and so the mountain’s voice and echo had, as always and forever, belonged to Trickster. When the villagers came to the mountain’s ear, Trickster amused himself by answering their many questions – To protect yourselves from the dirty Mongols you must bring me gold, lots of gold; Ugly Lao Zhong’s crops outsell yours because he has good feng shui and because you are stupid, but I shall treble your income if you bring me virgins, lots of virgins; Xiao Pan ignores your advances because you are her brother but with enough gold, and enough virgins, perhaps…

SCHOLAR YU

… and lowly Man was obsequious, and curried favor with the animals so that he might one day steal their secrets. Charmed by Man, Snake taught him how to lie. Horse gave Man his speed. Sheep, his wool to brave the winter nights. Monkey, his laughter. From Rooster, Man learned to separate the days from the nights. Dog gave Man friendship. Pig, his sustenance. Rat gave Man the gift of fear. From Ox, Man learned to till the soil. From Tiger, Man learned war. And Rabbit taught Man to multiply and soon he spread throughout the world, claiming dominion over the lands. Finally, Man asked Dragon for that which he most desired – flight – but to this, Dragon did not reply…

SCHOLAR SHIH

… and within one of the mountain’s hidden nooks was born a nameless child. Woman had survived the Mongols and the mountain had taken her in. That child wanted for nothing, for he had been born of the mountain; when Child was thirsty, the mountain would split open the rock and water would flow; when Child hungered for meat, the mountain would shake the trees loose, causing the elk, the bird, the bear to become trapped beneath the falling debris…

SCHOLAR DENG

… and learning that the solutions to all their problems could be solved through offerings of gold, the villagers scrimped and schemed and saved to supply Trickster with all that he desired. But the villagers’ wishes were never fulfilled and, in their bitter servitude, they worked themselves to the bone so that they might appease Trickster’s insatiable appetite. They increased the scale of their farms tenfold, calling upon able-bodied men from nearby villages to work the land. Homes for the laborers were built, and soon enough came taverns, temples, schools. Beyond the distant and slender hillock came the new roads and the merchants, who marveled at the village – its bustle and industry – the giant fields and the laughing mountain that glinted and glittered on the horizon…

SCHOLAR YU

… and, having been denied the gift of flight by Dragon, Man looked upon Rooster’s wings and he pleaded with Rooster to teach him how to fly. But Rooster did not know the secrets of flight and, in order to save face – for Rooster was a proud creature – he turned away from Man. For this, Man swore to destroy Dragon, for he saw that Dragon must have whispered poison into the ear of Rooster, to keep from Man that which was rightfully his.

Man descended the mountain. There he established a settlement and one by one, year by year, by force or trickery, did he persuade the animals to make their own descent to join him and submit to his rule. But Dragon cared not for Man’s deceitful pursuits, his petty politics, and so chose to remain upon the mountain in his perfect and unending solitude.

Years passed, but Man never forgot his vow of vengeance, and in his cunning he declared to all that Dragon had died. But the animals were not stupid and they required proof, so man took them to the field in which the bones of Dragon lay.

They knew not of man’s deception, that he had manufactured these bones from clay – and those remains sprawled in an inelegant fashion so that the animals, reconciling the fearsome

SCHOLAR SHIH

… and while Child was fed by the mountain, Woman nourished him with words and stories, to while away the days. At first they were stories of the village that once was, of things Woman had heard or remembered but, as Child grew older, and as those recollections from her life below began to fade, Woman made new stories to explain the world and the way of all things.

In this manner, Child learned why the pig’s snout was flat, why rain fell down instead of up, knew the tale in which the mountain had learned to sing, memorized the names of the stars in the sky and was taught to speak in all the tongues of Man. In time, Woman grew old and feeble for whilst Child had been born of the mountain, she had been born of Man. Child grieved deeply his mother’s passing.

One day, as Child ascended to the summit – the climb had seemed unbearably and infinitesimally shorter – he understood that even the mountain would erode, slowly but completely, and someday cease to be.

And, knowing this in heartbreaking clarity, Child descended from mountain-father’s shoulders, for Woman had taught him the old

SCHOLAR DENG

… and Trickster reaped the fruits of Man’s prosperity and left him with nothing in return.

The years of bountiful harvests and good fortune gave way to drought and famine, and still Trickster demanded his tithe.

With no good soil to till, man lay down his spade and shovel and climbed the mountain and opened it to the world, so that others would come from near and far to bask – for a fee, of course – in the mountain’s splendor.

Man sold trinkets and guidebooks, he built a temple as part of a deep and complex stratagem to part visitors from their money.

And in this manner Man appeased Trickster’s demands, but in time the village no longer attracted the same numbers – it was said a village to the south had found a dragon’s corpse and was charging a fair and reasonable price to view the bones – so the flow of money to the poor village began to dwindle, and still Trickster demanded his tithe.

And in the hungry village, Man melted down his precious trinkets and his farm tools for meager scraps of money – he sold his oxen, his children, his furniture, the very land on which he stood, and still Trickster demanded his tithe.

The village withered and scattered into the winds, but it

creature from their memories and the pitiful corpse that lay before them, would forget the magnificence of Dragon. And Dragon, high in the mountain, who knew all and saw all, was so angered by man’s insolence, that he descended to the earth. To this day the animals recall that fearsome rumble as Dragon approached – the beating of his brutal wings – and that deafening instant before he crushed those clay bones into the ground. There, before all, he took the world away from Man and punished him to suffer in eternal servitude under Dragon’s rule.

story that there, in the lands below, was hidden the song of immortality. He had heard its melody in his dreams, and longed to know the words.

mattered not, for the Trickster had finally had his fill.

*

The Emperor did not understand, and demanded an explanation.

SCHOLAR YU

… Don’t you see, my Lord? YOU are Dragon!

SCHOLAR SHIH

… Don’t you see, my Lord, YOU are Child!

SCHOLAR DENG

… Don’t you see, my Lord? YOU are Trickster!

For their treasons, Scholars Yu, Shih and Deng were thrown into the Six Levels of Hell.

author pic here

Siang Lu is the Miles Franklin-winning author of Ghost Cities and ABIA-winning author of The Whitewash. He is the co-creator of The Beige Index and the creator of #sillybookstagram.

Ghost Cities was shortlisted for eight additional awards, including the ALS Gold Medal, The Voss Literary Prize and The Age Book of the Year. In 2026, Ghost Cities will be published with Simon & Schuster’s Summit UK and US imprints, and in 25 territories in translation thereafter.

Siang is based in Brisbane, Australia, and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

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