One bright spring morning, Mr. Wu set out along the dusty path to visit one of the many families who owed him money. This family – a farmer who worked harder than anyone in the village – hadn’t been able to pay back their loan despite trying their very best. 
The poor farmer worked from sunrise to sunset in his fields, but still barely had enough rice to feed his wife and young son. Mr. Wu had decided that today, if he couldn’t get his money, he would take their most precious belongings instead.
When he reached the small farmhouse with its weathered wooden walls and tired-looking roof, Mr. Wu found only a young boy playing in the yard. The child looked about eight or nine, completely lost in his game of drawing pictures in the dirt with sticks and arranging stones in mysterious patterns.
“Little one, where are your parents?” Mr. Wu asked, trying to sound friendly despite his impatience.
“Not home,” the boy replied simply, not even looking up from his game, as if Mr. Wu were no more interesting than a passing butterfly.
“Well then, where have they gone?” Mr. Wu asked again, his voice getting sharper, but the boy kept playing as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
Finally, after Mr. Wu asked a third time, the boy looked up with twinkling eyes and said, as slow as honey dripping from a spoon, “My father has gone to cut living trees and plant dead ones, and my mother is at the marketplace selling the wind and buying the moon.”
“What nonsense are you speaking?” Mr. Wu demanded, lifting his walking stick. “Tell me where they really are, or you’ll see what this bamboo can do!” The stick cast a long shadow across the dusty ground, making it look even more threatening.
But no matter how many times Mr. Wu asked, the boy gave the same mysterious answer. Finally, Mr. Wu’s patience snapped like a dry twig. “Listen here, you clever little troublemaker! I came to collect the money your parents owe me!”
The boy’s eyes sparkled with sudden interest. “Oh? Are you making jokes with me, sir? Why would an important man like you tell stories to a simple boy like me?”
“I swear by heaven and earth,” Mr. Wu declared grandly, pointing first to the sky and then to the ground beneath his feet.
The boy just laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. “But sir, heaven and earth can’t talk! They can’t be witnesses. We need something alive to watch you make this promise.”
Mr. Wu spotted a fly landing on a nearby bamboo pole and, hiding his smile because he thought he was outsmarting the boy, said, “Look there! That fly can be our witness. Now tell me what you meant about your parents.”
The boy nodded solemnly at the fly. “That will do nicely. Well, sir, it’s simple really. My father is cutting down bamboo trees – which are living – to make fence posts – which are dead – for someone who lives by the river. And my mother…” His eyes grew wide. “You’ll keep your promise, won’t you? About forgetting our debt?”
“Yes, yes, I promise before this fly!” Mr. Wu said impatiently.
“Well then, my mother is at the market selling fans – which move the wind – to buy lamp oil – which gives us light like the moon. Isn’t that exactly what I told you?”
Mr. Wu had to admit to himself that the boy was clever, but he thought smugly that the child was still foolish enough to believe a fly could be a real witness. He said goodbye, promising to return soon to keep his word.
A few evenings later, Mr. Wu came back. This time he found the boy’s parents at home, and soon the peaceful night was filled with angry voices. Mr. Wu demanded his money, while the poor farmer begged for more time. Their shouting woke the boy, who came running out.
“Father! You don’t need to pay anything!” the boy cried. “This gentleman promised me he would forget all about the money!”
“Ridiculous!” Mr. Wu roared, shaking his stick at them both. “Are you going to believe a child’s silly stories? I never said any such thing! Now, will you pay what you owe or not?”
The argument grew so loud that it reached the ears of the village magistrate, a wise old man who settled all local disputes. The poor family had no choice but to go to his court, taking their son with them. Their only hope rested on the boy’s story about Mr. Wu’s promise.
The magistrate listened carefully as the boy told his tale about the riddles and the promise. When he finished, the old man stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Young man, this is a serious matter. You say this promise was made, but we have only your word. In court, we need a witness. Do you have one?”
The boy stood straight and proud. “Yes, Your Honor. A fly was our witness.”
“A fly?” The magistrate’s kind face turned stern. “Boy, this is no place for make-believe!”
“Yes, Your Honor, a fly,” the boy said, bouncing on his toes with excitement. “The one that was sitting right on this gentleman’s nose!”
“That’s a lie!” Mr. Wu shouted, his face turning as red as a festival lantern. “The fly wasn’t on my nose – it was on the bamboo pole…” Suddenly he stopped, realizing what he’d just admitted.
The magistrate burst out laughing, his whole body shaking with joy. Soon everyone in the courtroom was laughing too – even the boy’s parents, who had been too scared to smile just moments before. Even the boy joined in, and finally, Mr. Wu himself couldn’t help but chuckle.
Still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, the magistrate waved his hand at Mr. Wu. “Well, that settles it! Whether the fly was on your nose or on a pole, you clearly made that promise. The court orders you to keep your word!” And with that, he sent everyone home, their hearts lighter than they had been in many months.
And that’s how a clever boy used a tiny fly to save his family!
