The River Beyond the Stream

Once, there was a village that sat atop of a small mountain, or a big hill, depending on which villager you asked. The village was little but lush, and the villagers, though not rich in jade or gold, were immensely proud of their rice paddies, which shimmered green in summer and gold in autumn.

The villagers had many heated arguments over what to call their home. “Pearl Mountain!” cried the west. “Phoenix-Rising-from-the-Ashes Hill!” the east roared back. Finally, they settled on the humble name of Celestial River, after the small stream that watered the paddies and ran down the middle of the village, splitting east and west before rushing down the mountain/hill. 

On the eastmost corner of the village, facing the rising sun, lived a boy named Zhiwei. Much like the village he belonged to, he was short but tough. He could plant seedlings as neatly as any grown man and was clever enough to recite dozens of poems by heart. His father, the first runner up of the village chief elections, never tired of boasting: “Zhiwei is my greatest treasure.”

But being second-best cast a long shadow. For across the stream lived Haoran’s family, whose father was taller, wealthier, and the village chief himself. Whenever the children gathered to boast, it always ended the same way:

“My father passed the imperial exam,” Zhiwei declared.

“Well, my father is the village chief,” Haoran promptly responded.

“My father is tall,” Zhiwei retorted.

“My father is tall and strong,” Haoran said with a smirk.

“My father has a six-pack.”

“My father has a ten-pack.”

“My father is handsome.”

“My father is super handsome.”

Zhiwei puffed out his chest, ready to reply, but the words caught in his throat. His father was clever, hard-working, and kind—but always second, and admittedly a little uglier than Haoran’s father. And so Zhiwei clenched his fists and made a vow: he would seek his fortune, prove the eastside’s greatness, and make their family name first at last.

He left the next morning, following the Celestial River downstream. At first, he walked proudly beside it, marveling at the leaping current and the sun glints that winked like dragon scales. But after several days, the stream poured into a much larger river, so wide that Zhiwei could not see the opposite bank. Its waters surged with power, carrying boats larger than any house in his village.

There, Zhiwei met fishermen who hauled nets glittering with fish, so many they shone like silver coins under the sun. Their baskets overflowed until the fish spilled back into the river, while in Celestial River, a single carp was cause for celebration. The fishermen laughed at the “Celestial River” Zhiwei had followed, which in their eyes was barely a pond.

Zhiwei’s cheeks burned. To him, the stream had always seemed vast, the life-blood of his village. But now he saw how small it truly was, a rivulet compared to the mighty currents of the wider world.

As Zhiwei made his journey back home, he saw that there were many larger rivers, richer villages and prouder people. To measure worth in “first” or “second” was like trying to measure the endless flow of water. It could never be done.

When Zhiwei finally returned to Celestial River, he carried no silks or jewels, but a treasure far more valuable: perspective. He laughed when Haoran boasted, “My father is the chief!” and simply said, “And yet the river keeps flowing.”

The villagers, curious of the wonders Zhiwei had seen, gathered to hear him speak. He told stories not of treasures or palaces, but of rivers—some so wide they swallowed the horizon, others so swift they carried whole forests downstream. The villagers listened in silence, glancing at the little stream that wound between their paddies.

Slowly, the arguments quieted. The east and west still worked their fields, still tended their families, but they no longer quarreled over greatness. Now, when the sun struck the water, they watched its glimmer for a moment longer. Some saw the stream as grand, some as ordinary, yet none dared to measure it.

As for Zhiwei, he often sat where the water split the east and west, watching it tumble downstream. He knew now that its waters were only a drop compared to the world beyond, but he also knew that every great river must begin as a trickle. And so he smiled, letting the sound of the current carry him, as if the whole world was flowing into his village, and his village into the world.