Little Mei's Fishing Village: Shanghai Before the Ships Came

Every morning, before the sun stretched its golden fingers over the eastern hills, Little Mei woke to the sound of water lapping against wooden boats. The gentle rhythm was like a lullaby her mother had sung to her since she was a baby—the soft *slush-slish* of the Huangpu River greeting another brand-new day.

Mei lived in a small fishing village called Hudu, which nestled along the banks of this great river. In the year 1700, Hudu was not yet part of the great city that would one day be called Shanghai. It was simply a collection of humble homes, where the air smelled of river water and cooking fires, where chickens scratched in the dusty paths between houses, and where everyone knew everyone else's name.

Mei's house was made of mud bricks and thatched with golden rice straw. The roof sagged a little in the middle, just enough to make it look like a tired old老人—an old person—bowing to greet the morning. But Mei loved her home more than she could say. On cold winter nights, her grandmother would pile extra quilts on her bed, and the smell of the quilts was the smell of safety itself: warm bodies, wood smoke, and the faint sweetness of dried osmanthus flowers that her grandmother tucked inside to keep the moths away.

From her small window, Mei could see the Huangpu River flowing past their village like a great silver dragon. The river was so wide that on most days, Mei could not see the far bank at all. It stretched away toward the horizon, mysterious and endless, glittering in the early morning light like a path paved with moonbeams.

"What are you looking at, Little Cat?" her mother's voice called from the kitchen. Mei's mother had given her the nickname "Little Cat" because she was always sneaking around, curious about everything, her eyes wide and bright like a cat's eyes in the darkness.

"The river, Mama," Mei answered, her chin resting on the windowsill. "I saw a boat already."

"That's your father," her mother said, coming to stand beside her. Together, they watched a small wooden fishing boat glide across the glassy surface of the water. Even from this distance, Mei could make out her father's familiar silhouette—the way he stood at the stern of the boat, one hand on the long wooden pole that guided it through the water. He was already heading toward his favorite fishing spot, a calm eddy where the river curved around an old willow tree that grew right out of the water's edge.

Mei's father was a fisherman, as his father had been before him, and his father's father before that. Fishing was in their blood, as natural as breathing. The Huangpu River had fed their family for generations uncounted, and Mei's grandmother often said that their ancestors' spirits lived in the river, swimming alongside the fish, watching over the village from below the rippling surface.

After breakfast—a simple meal of rice porridge with pickled vegetables—Mei's mother tucked a small bundle into her hands. Inside was a sweet rice ball wrapped in bamboo leaves, the kind her grandmother made with honey and chopped peanuts.

"For your lunch," her mother said, pressing a kiss to Mei's forehead. "Now run along and play, Little Cat. But stay where I can see you from the kitchen window."

Mei nodded obediently and bounded out the door, her bare feet warm against the packed earth path. The morning air was fresh and sweet, carrying the scent of water hyacinths that grew in profusion along the riverbank. Dragonflies skimmed across the surface of the water, their iridescent wings catching the light like fragments of stained glass.

The village of Hudu was a maze of narrow paths and humble dwellings, connected by waterways as much as by land. In some places, the paths were so narrow that two people walking in opposite directions had to turn sideways to pass each other. Houses crowded close together, their walls touching like old friends sharing secrets. But in other places, small canals branched off from the main river, and boats could travel right up to people's doorsteps, delivering fresh vegetables from the gardens on the far bank, or picking up baskets of fish bound for the market.

Mei's best friend was a boy named Wei, who lived three houses down from her. Wei had a face as round as the moon and a laugh that echoed through the village like the ringing of temple bells. He was waiting for her at the corner where the path split—one way leading to the riverbank, the other winding up toward the old temple on the hill.

"Mei! Mei!" he called out when he saw her, waving his arm so enthusiastically that he nearly knocked over the water jar that old Mrs. Chen had set outside her door to cool in the morning breeze. "I have something to show you!"

Wei was always finding exciting things—a dead cicada shell, a particularly beautiful stone, a bird's nest tucked in the eaves of a barn. And so Mei followed him eagerly as he led her down the winding path toward the water, both of them kicking up little clouds of dust with their feet.

The Huangpu River at Hudu was a magical place. It was not just a body of water; it was the village's lifeline, its highway, its pantry, and its playground all rolled into one. The river gave the villagers everything they needed: fish to eat and to sell at the market, water to irrigate their vegetable gardens, transportation to visit relatives in other villages, and endless hours of joy as the children splashed in its shallows and watched the boats go by.

Mei loved to sit at the water's edge and watch her reflection wiggling back at her in the ripples. The water was clear enough that she could see all the way to the bottom in the shallower spots—smooth stones worn round and shiny by centuries of flowing, water weeds swaying like dancers in an underwater ballet, and tiny fish darting about like silver bullets.

"Over here! Come look!" Wei was gesturing excitedly from a spot where a great twisted root of an old banyan tree hung out over the water. Mei scrambled over to join him, and together they peered down at a large flat rock that was just visible above the water's surface.

On the rock sat a frog.

Not just any frog, but the most magnificent frog Mei had ever seen. It was as big as both her fists put together, and its skin was a brilliant emerald green, mottled with patches of gold, like a precious jewel come to life. The frog sat perfectly still, its great round eyes fixed on the water, waiting with infinite patience for some unsuspecting insect to drift within striking distance.

"Wow," Mei breathed, her eyes as wide as saucers. "Do you think it's a magic frog? Maybe it knows the river's secret."

Wei snorted. "There are no magic frogs, Mei. My grandfather says frogs are just frogs. They eat bugs and they get eaten by snakes. That's all."

But Mei wasn't so sure. She had heard the old grandmother's stories, the ones told in the winter evenings when the family gathered around the fire. The grandmother claimed that once, long ago, the river had been home to a dragon—a great silver dragon that lived in the deepest part of the Huangpu where no one could see. The dragon controlled the rains, making sure there was enough water for the crops but not so much that the village would flood. And sometimes, the grandmother said, the dragon took the form of other creatures to walk among the people unobserved. What if this magnificent green frog was actually the dragon in disguise, keeping watch over Hudu?

Mei decided to treat the frog with great respect. She bowed slightly, the way she had seen her father bow to the river god at the temple during festivals. The frog did not move, but somehow Mei felt as though it was pleased.

"Look, look!" Wei tugged at her sleeve, pointing upriver. "Here comes Old Zhou's boat!"

They watched as an elderly fisherman poled his boat around the bend, the vessel loaded down with fresh water hyacinths that he had gathered from further up the river. Old Zhou was a familiar sight in Hudu—he spent his days collecting the floating plan