The Tree with the Tiny Door

Chunyu Fen was having a nap under the biggest tree you ever saw.

It was an ash tree — a 槐树, huáishù — old and wide and quiet, with roots like long brown arms resting on the ground. The bark was deep and cracked and warm from the afternoon sun. A bee went by. A beetle climbed up a root and over a root and kept going. A leaf drifted down and landed on Chunyu Fen's nose. He swatted it and kept sleeping.

Then he heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Someone was knocking on the tree.

He opened one eye.

Standing on a root, right next to his head, were two small men in purple robes. They were exactly as tall as his thumb. Their hats were tall and black. Their belts were gold. Their little shoes had little curled-up toes. They bowed very seriously, both at the same time.

"The King of Peaceful Ash would like to see you," said the first one. "Please come with us."

Chunyu Fen blinked. "I'm napping," he said.

"Yes," said the second one. "Please come anyway."

Chunyu Fen looked at them. They were very small. He was very big. "I'm too big," he said.

The first small man smiled, just a little. He snapped his fingers.

And Chunyu Fen went —

fwoop —

smaller. And smaller. And smaller.

The grass came up around him like a forest. His shoes filled with it. The tree above him stretched up and up until its leaves were a whole sky of green. The root he was sitting on was as wide as a road.

The two small men bowed again.

"This way, please," they said.

And they walked toward a little door in the tree.

The door had a curtain of green moss hanging across it. A tiny lantern glowed beside it, even in the afternoon, even in the sunlight — a small warm yellow light, steady and waiting.

Chunyu Fen stood up. He dusted the grass off his clothes. He looked back, once, at the world he had just been napping in — the great trunk, the sleeping bee, the enormous sky.

And then he followed the small men in.

Tree — 树, shù.

Through the door was a tunnel, and the tunnel was cool and smelled like old wood and new rain.

At the end of the tunnel was a sky.

A different sky. With different clouds, soft and slow. And a warm small sun.

Chunyu Fen stopped and stared.

Below him, spread out across a whole country, was a kingdom.

There were green hills. There was a river shining like a ribbon. There were walls, and towers, and gates. Thin silver streams came down from the hills. Roads wound between them like long tan threads. And right in the middle of everything was a city — lanterns strung between rooftops, banners lifting in the breeze, little winding streets full of motion. The houses were made of curled bark. The windows glowed, even in daytime, with the soft green light of fireflies.

A golden carriage was waiting for him on the road.

It was pulled by four shining beetles. Their shells caught the light like polished stones.

"This way, please," said the envoys.

The beetles trotted. The carriage rolled. Chunyu Fen held on to the sides and looked everywhere at once.

They passed through the city gates. High overhead, carved into the stone arch in gold, were four characters:

槐安国 — Huái'ān Guó, the Kingdom of Peaceful Ash.

Inside the city, small people were everywhere. Bakers carried trays of tiny steamed buns, still puffing steam. Weavers worked at tiny looms, their hands flying. Children ran down the streets with kites no bigger than coins trailing behind them on threads of silk. Grandmothers sat on doorsteps, shelling tiny peas into tiny bowls. Every single one of them stopped what they were doing and bowed as Chunyu Fen rolled past.

The carriage stopped at a palace.

Its pillars were red as autumn apples. Dragons were carved up their sides, climbing from floor to ceiling, their eyes painted gold. Inside, on a throne made of amber, sat a king. Beside him stood a princess with a crown of little white flowers woven into her hair.

The princess looked at Chunyu Fen. She tilted her head, considering. "He'll do," she said.

"I'll do what?" said Chunyu Fen.

The king's voice boomed out — big and warm and kind, a voice like a drum wrapped in velvet.

"Welcome to the Kingdom of Peaceful Ash! I am the king! This is my daughter! And you —" he pointed at Chunyu Fen — "are our new Governor of the Southern Branch!"

Everybody in the throne room cheered.

Chunyu Fen looked around. "The southern what?" he said.

A map unrolled in front of him — long and painted and beautiful, with mountains and rivers and tiny cities no bigger than fingernails. And slowly, staring at it, Chunyu Fen began to understand.

The map was the tree.

There was the trunk — a great road. There were the branches — the provinces. And there, stretching off to the south, one long branch marked in gold letters:

南柯 — Nán kē — the Southern Branch.

"That one," said the king. "That's yours now. Take good care of it."

They put a hat on Chunyu Fen's head. It was too big and slid down over his eyes. They took it off and brought a smaller one. It fit perfectly. The princess smiled and reached up to pin a single little white flower to the brim.

"Off you go," she said.

Kingdom — 国, guó.

The Southern Branch was reached by beetle.

In the Kingdom of Peaceful Ash, everyone rode beetles. Big shiny beetles with little red saddles on their backs and little bridles made of braided silk. Chunyu Fen climbed up onto his beetle — it took three tries, and the beetle waited patiently — and held on tight.

And off they went.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, along the root-roads. Up the side of the great trunk, where the bark made cliffs and valleys Chunyu Fen had to ride carefully around. Past the Village of Weavers, where old women waved from their doorways and lifted long ribbons of cloth like flags. Past the Orchard of Tiny Peaches, where the air was so sweet Chunyu Fen's beetle slowed down just to breathe it in. Past a little pond tucked into the crook of a branch, where children were swimming and splashing and laughing.

And then, at last, out onto a long, long branch, stretching away to the south.

And what a branch it was.

Houses nestled in the curls of the bark, each one with its own round little door. Gardens grew in the soft green patches of moss — gardens of yellow flowers, blue flowers, flowers Chunyu Fen had never seen before. Lanterns hung from every leaf, glowing warm and steady even in the daytime, so that the whole long branch looked like a road of soft yellow stars fading off into the distance.

When Chunyu Fen arrived, all the small people of the Southern Branch came out to meet him. They lined the road. They cheered. Children waved both hands. Grandmothers bowed.

Someone handed him a cup of tea the size of a thimble. He drank it in one sip. It was hot and green and tasted like flowers.

Someone handed him another. He drank that one too.

Someone handed him a peach the size of a pea, red and gold and perfect. He ate it in one bite and his eyes went wide.

"That," he said, "is the best peach I have ever had in my life."

All the small people laughed.

Chunyu Fen was starting to love the Southern Branch very, very much.

And then —

BOOM.

The whole branch shook.

Lanterns swayed on their strings. Tea spilled out of thimble-cups. A shutter banged. Somewhere, a small child began to cry.

A small man came running up the road, his hat bouncing, his face white.

"Governor! Governor! There's a dragon!"

Chunyu Fen stood up straight. "A dragon?"

"A dragon!"

He ran to the end of the branch to look.

At the far tip of the Southern Branch, coiled around the last green leaves, was an enormous green shape. Bigger than any house on the branch. A long segmented body, shining dully in the sun. A row of stubby black feet, gripping the branch like hooks. A mouth like the mouth of a cave, opening and closing, opening and closing, as whole leaves disappeared into it one after another.

To the small people of the Southern Branch, it was a dragon. Terrible. Enormous. Unstoppable.

To you and me, it was a caterpillar.

But it was eating their homes.

South — 南, nán.   Small — 小, xiǎo.

Chunyu Fen looked at the dragon.

The dragon looked at Chunyu Fen.

The dragon went — munch.

A whole leaf disappeared, slowly, into the cave of its mouth.

All the small people of the Southern Branch were watching. The princess was watching too — she had come along because she wanted to see. A hundred tiny faces, held still, waiting. The lanterns swayed on their strings. Somewhere a grandmother held a baby very tight.

Chunyu Fen looked around. He found a twig. It was the biggest twig he could find.

At thumb-height, a twig is not a very big twig.

He held it up.

"Shoo," he said.

The dragon did not shoo.

"Shooo," said Chunyu Fen, louder.

The dragon kept munching.

Chunyu Fen took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for just a moment.

He remembered he was the Governor of the Southern Branch.

He remembered the thimble of hot green tea.

He remembered the peach, small and perfect, the best peach he had ever eaten in his life.

He remembered the children who had waved with both hands, and the grandmothers who had bowed, and the small child who was crying somewhere back there in a shaking house.

He remembered: this is my branch now. These are my people.

And then he opened his eyes, lifted the twig, and ran at the dragon.

"AAAAAAAAAAH!" he yelled.

He ran right up to the great green head, and reached as high as he could reach, and poked the dragon — right on the nose — with his tiny twig.

The dragon stopped munching.

It lifted its huge green head, slowly, looking down.

It blinked its big wet eyes — once, twice — at Chunyu Fen, thumb-tall, twig raised, shouting mouth still open.

And then the dragon said:

"Hmph."

And it turned, and it humped, and it bumped its long green body all the way down the length of the Southern Branch, and down the side of the great trunk, and off into the grass below, and it was gone.

The small people of the Southern Branch erupted.

They cheered and cheered and cheered. They lifted Chunyu Fen up on their shoulders and carried him down the road. They threw flower petals into the air. "HERO! HERO! HERO!"

That night there was a feast.

Tiny dumplings arrived on tiny plates. Lanterns glowed gold in the leaves overhead. A band played on tiny drums and tiny flutes, and the music was so good Chunyu Fen tapped his foot and some of the small people danced. The princess came and sat beside him and pinned a second little white flower to his hat, beside the first.

Chunyu Fen was so happy he thought his heart might burst right out of his chest.

And then a messenger came running up the road, out of breath, with a letter in his hand.

"Governor," said the messenger. "It's time. You have to go home."

Chunyu Fen blinked. "Home?" he said. "But I am home."

The messenger shook his head, very kindly.

"No," he said. "Your other home. The big one."

Dream — 梦, mèng.

The small people of the Southern Branch lined the road to say goodbye.

The princess waved from the steps of the palace. The king came down from his throne and bowed — a real, full, serious bow — and said, "Thank you, Governor. Come back and see us someday."

The beetle carried Chunyu Fen back along the branch. Past the pond where the children had been swimming, quiet now in the evening light. Past the Orchard of Tiny Peaches. Past the Village of Weavers. Down the great trunk. Through the winding streets of Peaceful Ash, where lanterns were just starting to glow against the gathering dusk. Past the gates where 槐安国 was carved in gold.

All the way back to the little door in the tree.

The two small men in purple robes were waiting.

They bowed.

"This way, please," they said.

Fwoop.

Chunyu Fen woke up.

He was under the big ash tree. His friends were sitting nearby, laughing about something that had happened to one of them. The afternoon light was exactly the same as when he'd closed his eyes. The same bee — or a bee very like it — went by.

"You were only asleep for a minute!" his friends said.

Chunyu Fen sat up slowly. Very slowly.

He looked at the tree. He looked at the root he'd been sleeping against. He looked at the bark, deep and cracked and warm, and the patch of moss by his knee, and the small grass growing between the roots.

He looked very, very closely.

And there, in the side of the root, half hidden by the moss —

a tiny hole.

And out of the hole came —

ants.

A whole long line of ants, marching in perfect order, carrying crumbs and seeds and little bits of leaf. Chunyu Fen watched them. His eyes got very wide.

He followed the line of ants with his finger.

Up the root.

Up the great trunk.

Out along a branch — a branch that ran south.

The Southern Branch.

And at the far end of the Southern Branch — Chunyu Fen squinted, leaned closer — there was a chewed-up place. Leaves eaten raggedly, right down to the stem.

And the something that had been eating them was gone.

Chunyu Fen got down on his hands and knees in the grass. He put his face very close to the root. He watched the ants for a long, long time.

He watched one ant struggle along with a crumb that was bigger than she was.

He watched another ant stop, turn around, come back, and help her.

He watched them go about their whole tiny day — a whole kingdom's worth of lives, all of them real, all of them busy, all of them happening right there in the roots of the tree he had been sleeping against.

Slowly, he reached up and touched the brim of his hat.

Two little white flowers were tucked there, side by side.

It had been real. They had been there the whole time.

After that day, Chunyu Fen walked through the world a little differently.

He watched where he stepped. He listened for small voices. Whenever he passed a big old tree — any big old tree, anywhere — he bowed, just a little, just in case.

Because you never know.

And sometimes, even now, a very long time later, when grown-ups in China have a dream that feels like a whole big life, they say:

And now you know why.

Ants — 蚂蚁, mǎyǐ.