Bridge of Birds

I believe that every reader, no matter how old they are or where they are from, has a soft spot in their heart for fairy tales. I do not necessarily mean the traditional Western ones, of course, and certainly not the watered-down Disney renditions. I refer to fairy tales in a broad sense as the stories one hears from one's parents or grandparents (or great-grandparents, for those who have had the great good fortune to know them) when one is a child. Globalization has, of course, made the Western fairy tales (particularly those collected by the Brothers Grimm) widely known and popular, but every culture has their own fairy tales and folktales that are still (hopefully) told to children.

The East (China, Japan, India, and the Middle East) is, naturally, a hotbed for beautiful fairy tales. In fact, some fairy tales which are considered as “Western” might actually have their origins in Eastern stories. Take Cinderella, for instance: the oldest rendering of the tale containing all the familiar elements - maltreated serving girl, lost shoe, and a prince - is a Chinese story, except the glass slipper was actually made of fur in that version; how it became glass is not really quite clear. Nevertheless, the narrative is more or less the same, and experts in folklore studies generally agree that Cinderella was first a Chinese story that somehow made its way westwards via trading routes such as the Silk Road, where it was transformed into the version known today.

Some stories, however, don't quite make that transition. A good example is the tale of the Weaver Girl and the Cowherd. The Weaver Girl is a goddess who falls in love with a lowly cowherd, but is forced to return to Heaven, despite having married the Cowherd. Taking pity upon the two lovers, the supreme deity of heaven (the name varies depending on which country's variation of this tale one might be reading or hearing) allows the two lovers to meet once every year, on the night of the seventh day of the seventh month (of the lunar calendar). On that night, birds (usually magpies and/or crows) come together to create a bridge over the Milky Way (which separates the two lovers for most of the year), and the Weaver Girl and the Cowherd meet on it. This story has become the basis for a group of notable festivals, usually associated with lovers: the Qixi Festival in China, the Tanabata Festival in Japan, and the Chilseok Festival in Korea.

Hughart's Bridge of Birds also makes use of this tale - in fact, the title of the novel is a reference to the bridge of birds the two lovers use to cross the Milky Way. However, Hughart does more than just that: there are other, seemingly innumerable other stories woven into the fabric of the novel: some familiar (fairy godmothers) and some not-so-familiar (miraculous ginseng). Also woven into the story are references to various personages and moments in China's history, ranging from Qin Huang Di, China's first Emperor, all the way down to Dowager Empress Cixi. Fortunately, Hughart's novel is a pleasant read without having an extensive background in Chinese history and literature, due in large part to the fact that the main characters are pretty fun on their own.

The narrator of the story (and the one whose actions set the whole thing in motion in the first place) is Lu Yu, though he goes by his nickname, Number Ten Ox (so-named because he is the tenth son of his family, and is as strong as an ox). A mysterious plague hits the children of his village, and he is sent to Peking to find a sage who can find a cure for the malady. In Peking, he stumbles across Li Kao, who claims to have “a slight flaw in [his] character.” After accepting Number Ten Ox's request for help, the two of them journey back to the village, where Li Kao figures out that the plague is not a plague, but poison. And in their pursuit for a cure, Li Kao and Number Ten Ox encounter a whole host of strange characters, and find themselves caught up in even stranger events involving the ghosts of soldiers and dancing-girls; a scary and all-powerful Duke; ancient labyrinths the size of cities; ginseng roots; and a lost princess.

The closest thing I can compare this novel to, as a whole, is the movie Spirited Away by Hayao Miyazaki. There is a sense of wonder in this novel that is not Disney-esque in the least, but can only be compared to the great animated works coming out of Miyazaki's mind - in fact, it might be said that it is almost possible to see this entire novel animated in his style. I suppose this is also due to the fact that, even though the story is supposedly set in a China of long, long ago in a kingdom far, far away, the characters (and the narrator) tend to speak (and narrate) in a very modern manner. The tone can get rather ironic in certain spots, and in Number Ten Ox's case, somewhat self-effacing, but truly earnest, in a rather endearing manner.

Li Kao, especially, is a very fun and enjoyable character. A trickster with a heart of gold, his schemes might occasionally be dubious and seem rather incredulous (even to the people in the story itself), but he usually finds a way to make things work out - even if it means escaping from a labyrinth housing a gigantic man-eating invisible spider by making a helicopter and powering said helicopter with firecrackers. He is also, interestingly enough, quite honest: note that whenever he introduces himself, he is quick to point out the flaw in his character - a flaw which, in fact, proves to be quite useful once Li Kao finally names what it is, and which, I think, isn't really that much of a flaw at all.

Aside from Number Ten Ox and Li Kao, there is a whole bunch of other characters that they run into: gods and ghosts and maidens and evil dukes and wise men who might not be so very wise after all - all of them make an appearance in the story, and oftentimes more than once. If these meetings and reunions seem a little too coincidental, well, that is explained too, towards the end of the book. The reader might get the urge to face-palm when he or she finds out why Li Kao and Number Ten Ox keep on running into these people and these situations all the time, but rest assured that even Li Kao wanted to do some face-palming himself when he realized the truth.

The best thing about Bridge of Birds is that, like all the best stories, it is both funny in its wisdom and wise in its humor, and very often bittersweet in its sadness and its joy. The reader will find himself or herself laughing out loud at some statement or situation, only to begin sighing in sadness or sympathy the moment immediately after. There is a sense of the slapstick in some of the funnier moments, but it is counterbalanced by a great deal of gentle, humorous wisdom - sometimes delivered by Li Kao, but more often than not, it is Number Ten Ox who proves to be a great font of wisdom himself. It might be because he is narrating this tale as an older man, but I do think that Number Ten Ox is quite intelligent in his own way. Of course, it's not easy to think of him as that, given his nickname, but Li Kao does say that Number Ten Ox is “afflicted with a pure heart” - and a pure heart has a wisdom all its own.

Overall, Bridge of Birds is a wonderful read: as I said earlier, it is funny in its wisdom, wise in its humor, and bittersweet in its joy and sadness. There is much made nowadays of contemporary adaptations of fairy tales, as well as of modern-day attempts at creating them, but Bridge of Birds must be, hands-down, one of the best, because, like the very best fairy tales, it contains a sense of hope and optimism - and, as Li Kao states towards the end of the novel, an ending that is “a whopper.”