Lunar New Year

And a wok Robin Hood

The Runaway Wok by Ying Chang Compestine and illustrated by Sebastià Serra

It’s a pity I didn’t encounter this story a while ago at Lunar New Year. It would have been appropriate. This is the story of a wok Robin Hood. The story of a wok stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.

But first, let’s have a little social history lesson. Lunar New Year, as you would know if you watch the BBC or read its website, is mostly about celebrating with food and with people you know and presumably like. There are parties; there is gift-giving, including gifts of cash; and the whole thing is redolent of good cheer and good omens. You want children to eat up and eat well, and if they do, they’ll have good fortune. It’s fun and good luck to feast your neighbours and to give toys and presents to all the children you can find.

In the world of this story, there are toys, yes, and there is a lot of rich food. But it is not being shared out and distributed as it ought to be. No, as Lunar New Year approaches, all the wealth and the good food is being hoarded by a single family. The father has all the money; he has many gold coins. The mother has all the good food; her servants prepare it and she does not share. And the son, a fat boy who gets out of breath when he runs, has all the toys in the city; he keeps them to himself.

All around, of course, are the poor. Because the rich have all the good stuff, the poor have none. And as New Year arrives, they have nothing with which to feast their neighbours, and few gifts with which to amuse the children.

This could be a crisis, of course, but fate will intervene. The child of one of the poor families is sent out on an errand. You’ve got to get rice, the cheap stuff, in preparation for our feast. What little feast we may have.

Take these eggs and trade them for rice. Don’t let anything distract you from your task. The child goes off and starts to do the same. But then an old man appears. Old men often appear bearing strange gifts and offering omens in books like this, and the story we’re talking about here is no different.

I have a wok, the old man says. But it’s rusted and decrepit and not exactly a specimen of perfection. Will you trade your eggs, he says to the child, for my wok?

The child looks at him askance. And you would, wouldn’t you, readers? You would look at him askance for a time. But as this looking is going on, looking askance, the wok itself pipes up and begins to sing.

Swap for me and good things will happen, the wok sings (I paraphrase), possibly in a voice that sounds a little like a gong that’s just been struck. I don’t know what singing voice a magic wok would have.

And the child still looks askance and still ponders, but eventually does as the wok requests.

Singing woks are rare. Singing woks probably have magical powers. After all, why would they be able to sing if it were otherwise?

The child’s mother and father are suspicious. Why trade our perfectly good eggs not for rice but for a rusted up wok? And the wok answers this question with a song.

Make me clean and sparkle, the wok sings to the lady of the house, and good things will happen (although I’m paraphrasing).

Once again looking askance (this family cares much for looking at a slight angle), the child’s mother does as requested. And renewed and buffed and polished, the wok gleams and seems smug.

And then, for want of a word, it commences a spate of daylight robbery. Audacious burglary, carried out without turning a hair. Woks don’t have hairs, unless they are very badly maintained; so perhaps that’s why.

What does the wok first do? It bounces off to the home of the rich family and sits there invitingly, begging to have some food put into it for storage or display or whatever. The rich woman insists her servants load the wok up, perhaps in preparation for a feast that the family will have later without inviting their neighbours and friends. And then the wok sings a little song and runs off (insofar as woks can run) to the house of the poor family, letting them take all the food to have and to hold and to eat. Now they can have a celebration. Now they can feast their neighbours, as is tradition.

The wok repeats the feat twice more. It runs up to the rich man, who decides to load it up with his gold for easy storage. And then, after singing another song, it heists the gold, sprinting off (if woks can sprint) to the poor family, and giving them all the cash. The next version involves the wok attacking the son of the rich family, who decides to put all his toys into the wok, toys that are then nicked and taken to the home of the poor family, who will (as is auspicious) give them to all the children of their neighbourhood. Before running off with the toys (if woks can run while full of toys), the wok also sang a little song mocking the fat rich boy.

Now we can have a wonderful Lunar New Year, the poor family says, contemplating feasting and gift-giving and riches.

The rich family, meanwhile, are upset. They cower together lamenting their poor luck. And then the wok appears again. It had slipped out of the party and has come to do one last job, like an assassin newly out of retirement. The wok tricks the rich family into falling into its depths one by one, and then absconds with them trapped inside, removing them from the city forever. A metal thief, a saviour, a cooking vessel. It can only be Lunar New Year.