The Monster Called Nian

At the end of every year, a monster came down out of the mountains.

His name was Nian, and he came on the last night, always, and he took whatever he wanted from the village — the grain, the animals, sometimes worse. And every year, when the nights got short and cold, the whole village would pack up what they could carry and go and hide in the hills until it was over.

That was simply how it was. It had been how it was for as long as anybody could remember.

Then one year, an old man came walking into the village on the very day everybody was leaving.

They told him to hurry up, the monster was coming, there was no time. And the old man said he would stay, thank you, and could he have a room for the night.

They thought he was mad. One old woman gave him her house anyway, and then she ran for the hills with everybody else.

And the old man got to work.

He hung red paper on the door. He put red cloth in every window. He lit lamps until the house was blazing with light, every room. And then he waited.

At midnight Nian came down off the mountain.

He came through the empty village the way he always did — and then he reached that one house, and he stopped.

Red everywhere. Light pouring out of every window.

And then, from inside, an enormous CRACK — and another — and another. Bang, bang, BANG. The old man was burning bamboo in the fire, and green bamboo does not burn quietly; it splits and it goes off like a gun.

And the monster, who had frightened an entire village every year for a hundred years, turned round and ran.

When the villagers came back in the morning, the house was still standing, the old man was fine, and the red paper was still on the door.

They have been doing it ever since.

That is the red envelopes, and the red banners on the doorframes, and the firecrackers, and the lion that comes down the street with a drum and a gong and stops at every single door to clatter its jaw. All of it.

And here is the part worth telling a child twice. The village did not get rescued. Nobody came and killed the monster for them. Somebody simply worked out what the monster could not stand, and then the whole village did it together, as loudly as they possibly could, once a year, for ever.

It is why the noise matters. The noise is the story.