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Note: This short story is an AI-generated retelling of the parable known as “The old man lost his horse,” from the ancient Chinese text the Huainanzi. I first came across the story when it was read to me in a Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) program. The story helps to cultivate skills in mindfulness and critical thinking.
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In a wind-swept hamlet among the rolling green hills of Han‐era China lived an old woodcutter named Sāi Wēng. His tunic was threadbare, his hands knobby and scarred, and his crooked hut leaned into every breeze. Yet despite his poverty, the villagers’ eyes burned with envy—Sāi Wēng owned a snow‐white stallion whose coat shone like frost at dawn. Muscles rippled beneath its ivory flanks, its proud neck arched with noble grace, and its dark eyes held a calm, knowing light. Even the king, draped in velvet and jewels, coveted so rare a creature. Rich merchants and titled nobles pressed gold and gifts into the woodcutter’s hands, begging to purchase the steed, but he always refused. “He is no mere beast,” he said, voice soft as moss, “but a friend of my spirit. How can one sell a friend?”
One mist‐cloaked morning, the stable stood empty: the white horse had vanished. By midday the whole village had gathered in Sāi Wēng’s yard, voices crackling with accusation.
“Fool!” they jeered. “We told you someone would steal your treasure. You could have sold him for more gold than you’ll ever see. Look now—robbed and ruined!”
The old man stood beneath a gnarled oak, sunlight flickering across his weathered face. “All I know,” he said quietly, “is that my horse is gone. Whether this is misfortune or blessing, who can say? I do not judge.”
The villagers snorted derision. “It’s misfortune, of course,” they declared.
Sāi Wēng lowered his eyes. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But we see only an empty stall. Time alone will reveal the whole story.”
Fifteen days later, at dusk, thunderous hoofbeats shook the lane. The white stallion returned, sleek and unshorn, at his side a dozen wild fillies and colts, their coats as dark as midnight.
The villagers poured into the yard, eyes wide with wonder—and regret. “Old man, forgive us,” they cried. “Your loss has returned a hundredfold!”
Sāi Wēng stroked the gray muzzle of his friend and said simply, “My horse is back, with twelve beside him. But blessing or curse—who can know? This remains but one fragment of the tale.”
Their laughter turned to eager planning as the old man’s only son, a hopeful youth, set to breaking in the new herd. On the third dawn, a fiery colt reared and sent him crashing onto the stones. Bones snapped beneath him.
Villagers rushed to the hut, wailing, “See now! Your great herd was a curse—they have robbed your son of his legs!”
Sāi Wēng knelt beside the youth, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “All I know,” he whispered to the crowd, “is that my son’s legs are broken. Whether this is tragedy or boon—only time will tell.”
Weeks passed, and the kingdom’s drums rolled through the valley: war had erupted beyond the border, and every able‐bodied youth was conscripted. Mothers wept as iron‐clad officers read names from their lists—every boy in the village marched off to possible death, except Sāi Wēng’s son, still bound by splintered bones. Once more the villagers flocked to the hut, grief and envy mingling in their voices. “Your curse has turned to blessing!” they cried.
The old man gazed past them toward the silent hills. “Your sons have gone to war, mine remain at home,” he said softly. “But whether this spares them or condemns them—who can know? Only the gods hold the whole truth.”
And with that, the villagers fell silent, remembering at last that life unfolds in fragments too many for any mortal mind to judge.
END
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