Chapter 14

Volume Eleven Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, Volume Twelve Author: Pu Songling Er Ban Yin Yuanli, a man of Yunnan, was skilled in the art of acupuncture and moxibustion. When bandits rebelled, he fled into the deep mountains. As dusk fell, the village dwellings were still far off, and he feared encountering tigers and wolves. From afar he saw two men ahead on the road and hurried to catch up with them. When he reached them, the two men asked whence the traveler had come, and Yin told them his surname and native place. The two men made a bow and said, "So you are the good physician Mr. Yin! We have long looked up to you as one looks to a mountain or the North Star!" Yin in turn asked who they were. The two men said their surname was Ban—one was Ban Zhua, and the other Ban Ya. They then said, "Sir, we too are taking refuge in a stone chamber; fortunately it can serve as shelter. We dare beg you to honor us with your steps, and we also have a request." Yin gladly followed them. Presently they arrived at a place where the chamber adjoined a cliff and valley. They burned firewood in place of candles, and Yin then saw that the two Bans were formidable in build and fierce in appearance, hardly seeming like good and honest folk. But having nowhere else to go, he resigned himself to the situation. He also heard groaning from a couch; looking closely, he saw an old woman lying stiffly, apparently in some distress. He asked, "What is the ailment?" Ban Ya said, "For this reason we respectfully beg your services." He then bound a torch to illuminate the couch and asked the guest to examine it closely. Yin saw that at the sides of her nose and mouth there were two polypous growths, each as large as a bowl, and they said, "They hurt so much they cannot be touched, and they hinder eating and drinking." Yin said, "That is easy." He took out mugwort and formed it into cones, and applied moxibustion with several tens of cones, saying, "By tomorrow night it will be healed." The two Bans were overjoyed, and roasted venison to entertain him; there was no wine or grain, only that one dish of meat. Ban Zhua said, "In this haste we did not know a guest was coming; we hope you will not take offense at such meager and crude fare." Yin ate his fill and slept, using a stone for a pillow. Although the two Bans were honest and simple, they were rough and formidable in a frightening way, so Yin tossed and turned and dared not sleep soundly. Before dawn, he called out to the old woman and asked about her ailment. She had just awakened and felt herself, only to find the growths had broken into sores. Yin urged the two Bans to rise, brought a torch near to examine them, applied powdered medicine, and said, "They are healed." He made a bow and took his leave. The Bans also presented him with a roasted venison haunch as a gift. Three years later there was no news of them. Yin happened to enter the mountains on some business, and encountered two wolves blocking the road, so he could not proceed. As the sun moved westward, more wolves gathered in a pack, and he was beset front and back. The wolves sprang at him and knocked him down; several wolves bit at him, tearing his clothes to shreds. He thought he must surely die. Suddenly two tigers arrived in a rush, and the wolves scattered in all directions. The tigers, enraged, roared loudly, and the wolves, terrified, all prostrated themselves. The tigers pounced and killed them all, then departed. Yin limped onward, fearing he had no place to shelter. He met an old woman coming toward him, and when she saw his condition, she said, "Mr. Yin, how you have suffered!" Yin sorrowfully told her what had happened, and asked how she knew him. The old woman said, "I am the sick old woman whose growths you treated with moxibustion in the stone chamber." Yin suddenly understood, and begged for lodging. The old woman led him away, and they entered a courtyard where lamps were already lit. She said, "This old woman has been waiting for you a long time." She then brought out robes and trousers to replace his torn and tattered clothes. She set out wine and food, and urged him to drink with earnest solicitude. The old woman also poured her own wine in an earthen bowl; in conversation and drinking she was both hearty and bold, not at all like a woman. Yin asked, "Those two men the other day—what relation are they to you, old mother? Why have they not appeared?" The old woman said, "I sent my two sons to meet you, and they have not yet returned—they must have lost their way." Yin was moved by her righteousness, and drinking freely, he unconsciously grew drunk and fell asleep soundly among the seats. When he awoke, it was already dawn; looking around, there was no dwelling at all—he was sitting alone on a cliff. From below the cliff he heard breathing like an ox; drawing near to look, he saw a tiger lying asleep, not yet awake. At the corners of its mouth there were two scars, each as large as a fist. Terrified beyond measure, and fearing it would wake, he crept away and fled. Only then did he realize that the two tigers were the two Bans. The Cart Driver A cart driver was hauling a heavy load up a slope, and while he was exerting all his strength, a wolf came and bit him on the buttocks. He wanted to let go of the cart, but then the goods would fall and crush him, so he endured the pain and kept pushing. Once he reached the top, the wolf had already torn off a piece of flesh and gone. Taking advantage of the moment when he was powerless to resist, the wolf stole a morsel—crafty and yet ridiculous. The Planchette Immortal Mi Buyun of Zhangqiu was skilled at divining with the planchette. Whenever he gathered with friends for a refined social gathering, he would summon the immortal to join them in composing matching verses. One day, a friend saw light clouds in the sky and composed a line, asking for a matching couplet: "Sheep-fat white jade sky." The planchette wrote in reply: "Ask the old man Dong of the south of the city." The company suspected this was nonsense. Later, by chance, he happened to go to the south of the city, and arrived at a place where the earth was like cinnabar, which struck him as strange. He saw an old man herding pigs nearby and asked him about it. The old man said, "This is pig-blood red mud land." He suddenly recalled the planchette's words and was greatly startled. He asked the old man's surname, and the reply was, "I am Old Dong." The matching couplet was not remarkable in itself, but that it foreknew he would meet Old Dong south of the city—that indeed was divine! Miao Sheng Gong Sheng, from Minzhou, went to Xi'an for the examinations. He rested at an inn, bought wine, and drank alone. A tall man entered, sat down, and spoke with him. Sheng raised a cup and urged him to drink, and the guest did not decline. He said his surname was Miao, and his talk and laughter were rough and uninhibited. Sheng, considering him unlettered, treated him with arrogant indifference. When the wine was finished, he did not buy more. Miao said, "A poor scholar drinking—it makes one depressed!" He rose and went to the tavern to buy wine, bringing in a huge jug. Sheng declined to drink, but Miao seized his arm and urged him to drain it; his arm hurt as if it would break. Sheng had no choice but to finish several cups. Miao drank from a soup bowl himself, laughing, "I am not good at urging guests; you may do as you please." Sheng then packed his things and left. After about three li, his horse fell ill and lay down on the road, so he sat waiting by the roadside. The baggage was heavy and he was at a loss. Miao caught up and, learning the reason, took the baggage and gave it to the servant, then shouldered the horse’s belly and carried it, running more than twenty li until they reached the inn, where he released the horse to its stall. After a while, Sheng and his servant arrived. Sheng was astonished, regarding him as a divine being; he treated him with great courtesy, buying wine and food to share with him. Miao said, "I eat a great deal; you cannot satisfy me, but I can drink." He drained a whole jug, then rose to leave, saying, "Your horse will take some time to heal; I cannot wait. I am going." Then he left. Later, after Sheng had finished his examinations, three or four friends invited him to climb Mount Hua, spreading a feast on the ground. Just as they were all feasting and laughing, Miao suddenly arrived, carrying a large jug in his left hand and a pig’s leg in his right, which he threw to the ground, saying, "I heard you gentlemen were climbing, so I respectfully tag along." They all rose and exchanged courtesies, and they sat together in a mixed arrangement, drinking heartily and happily. The company wanted to compose linked verses. Miao objected, "It is a pleasure to drink freely; why bother with vexing thoughts?" They would not listen, and instituted the "Golden Valley penalty." Miao said, "If the verses are poor, they shall be dealt with by military law!" They laughed, "The crime is not that serious." Miao said, "If you won't execute me, even a military man like me can do it." The first-seated Jin Sheng said, "On the lofty peak I gaze, horizons empty." Miao replied offhand, "The spittoon is struck and broken, the sword’s gleam red." The next seat pondered for a long time, and Miao then lifted the jug and poured himself a drink. After a while, they took turns composing lines, gradually becoming vulgar and rustic. Miao called out, "This is enough; if you would pardon me, stop!" They would not listen. Miao could not endure it any longer, and suddenly let out a dragon’s roar, which echoed through the valley; he then rose and bowed and bent, performing a lion dance. Since the poetic inspiration was disrupted, they stopped composing, and then passed cups and drank again. By this time they were half-drunk, and the guests began reciting their examination essays to each other, vying to praise one another. Miao did not want to hear it, and pulled Sheng into a finger-guessing game. Victories and defeats were exchanged several times, but the guests’ recitations and praises still did not cease. Miao said sternly, "I have heard enough. Such essays are fit only to be read to one’s wife by the bedside; chattering on in public is tiresome!" The guests showed shame, and moreover resented his rudeness, so they recited even louder. Miao was furious, threw himself to the ground with a great roar, immediately turned into a tiger, killed all the guests with a pounce, and went off roaring. The only ones left were Sheng and Jin. Jin passed the examination that year. Three years later, passing by Huayin again, he suddenly saw Ji Sheng, who had also been devoured on the mountain. Greatly frightened, he wanted to gallop away, but Ji seized the bridle and prevented him from moving. Jin then dismounted and asked what he was doing. Ji replied, "I am now Miao’s chang, and my service is very hard. I must kill another scholar before I can be replaced. In three days, there should be a scholar in Confucian dress who will be devoured by the tiger, but it must be at the foot of Canglong Ridge; that will be the one to replace me. On that day, you should invite many scholars to this place, and that will be a plan for your old friend." Jin did not dare to argue, and respectfully agreed before parting. At the inn, he pondered all night, but could think of no plan; he resigned himself to breaking the promise and accepting the ghost’s reproach. Just then his cousin Jiang Sheng came to visit, and Jin recounted the strange affair. Jiang was a scholar of repute, but in the same district You Sheng ranked above him, and Jiang secretly harbored jealousy. Hearing Jin’s words, he plotted to trap You. He sent a letter inviting You to join him in climbing the mountain, and himself put on plain white clothes and went; You also did not understand his intention. When they reached halfway up the ridge, they laid out food and wine and treated You with utmost respect. At that time the prefect came up the ridge, and being an old family friend of Jiang, hearing that Jiang was below, sent someone to summon him. Jiang did not dare to go in white clothes, so he exchanged clothes with You. They had not finished exchanging when the tiger suddenly arrived and carried Jiang off. The Different Historian says: "Those who are smug and talk endlessly, grabbing sleeves and collars, forcing others to listen—the listeners yawn repeatedly, wanting to sleep or flee, but the reciter stamps and gestures, utterly unaware. Even close friends should nudge or step on them from the side, fearing that there might be an impatient Miao Sheng in the company. However, the jealous one changed clothes and perished, showing that Miao was also without deliberate intent. So the one who aroused disgust and anger was Miao—but it was not Miao." Scorpion Guest A southern merchant who dealt in scorpions came every year to Linqu and bought many. The locals would take wooden tongs into the mountains, search holes and turn over stones to catch them. One year, the merchant came again and stayed at an inn. Suddenly he felt his heart stir and his hair stand on end; he urgently told the innkeeper, "I have killed too many living creatures, and now I have incurred the anger of the scorpion ghosts; they will kill me! Quickly save me!" The innkeeper looked around and saw a large vat in the room, so he told him to crouch down and covered him with the vat. After a while, a person with yellow hair and a hideous face rushed in and asked the innkeeper, "Where is the southern merchant?" The innkeeper answered, "He went out." The person entered the room and looked all around, sniffing three times, then went out the door. The innkeeper said, "Fortunately, you are safe." But when he opened the vat to look at the merchant, he had already turned into blood. Du Xiaolei Du Xiaolei was a man from the western mountains of Yidu. His mother was blind in both eyes. Du served her with filial piety; though the family was poor, he never let her lack delicacies. One day, when he was about to go out, he bought meat and gave it to his wife, instructing her to make boiled dumplings. His wife was most disobedient; while cutting the meat, she mixed in dung beetles. The mother found the smell foul and inedible, so she hid it to wait for her son. Du returned and asked, "Were the dumplings good?" His mother shook her head and showed them to him. Du tore them open and saw the dung beetles; he was furious. He went into the room and wanted to beat his wife, but feared his mother would hear. He lay on the bed, thinking; his wife asked him what was wrong, but he did not answer. His wife felt uneasy and paced beneath the bed. After a long while, there was the sound of heavy breathing. Du scolded, "Not asleep yet? Are you waiting for a beating?" Then it became silent. He rose and lit a candle, and saw only a pig. Looking closely, its two feet were still human; he realized that his wife had transformed. The county magistrate, hearing of it, had her arrested and paraded through the four city gates to warn the people. Tan Weichen once saw it with his own eyes. Mao Dafu Mao Dafu of Taihang was a surgeon. One day, returning from his practice, on the road he met a wolf that spat out something wrapped in cloth and squatted at the left of the path. Mao picked it up and looked: inside were several gold-adorned items wrapped in cloth. Just as he was feeling perplexed, the wolf stepped forward, leaped joyfully, slightly tugged at his robe and gown, and then left. As Mao walked, it tugged at him again. Observing that its intent was not malicious, he accordingly followed it away. Not long after, they reached a cave and saw a sick wolf lying down. Looking upon the top of its head, there was a giant sore, festering and rotting with maggots. Mao understood its intent, plucked and scraped the wound completely clean, applied medicine according to the proper method, and then set off. The day being already late, the wolf escorted him from afar. Walking three or four li, he again encountered several wolves, howling and menacing him, and he was extremely frightened. The former wolf hurried into their midst as if whispering to them, and the crowd of wolves all scattered away. Mao thereupon returned. Previously, a merchant in the town named Ning Tai had been murdered by robbers on the road, and it was impossible to track down and interrogate the culprit. As it happened, when Mao sold the gold ornaments, they were recognized by Ning's family, who hauled him off to the official court. Mao pleaded where they had come from, but the magistrate did not believe him and put him in cangue and fetters. Mao's grievance was extreme and he could not clear his name himself; he only begged for leniency and release, and to question the wolves. The magistrate dispatched two runners to escort him into the mountains, going straight to the wolves' cave. It chanced that the wolf had not returned, and by dusk it still had not arrived, so the three men turned back. Halfway along the path, they met two wolves, the scar of one still present. Mao recognized them, made a bow to them, and prayed aloud, saying: "Previously I received your gift, and now I have been wronged on this account. If you do not clear my name for me, when I go back I shall be beaten to death with whips and cudgels!" Seeing that Mao was bound, the wolves angrily rushed at the runners. The runners drew their swords and faced them. A wolf propped its snout against the ground and howled loudly; after howling two or three times, a hundred wolves in the mountain gathered in a swarm, circling round and round the runners. The runners were in great distress. The wolves rushed forward and bit through the binding ropes. The runners understood their intent and untied Mao's bonds, and the wolves then all departed. Returning to report the situation, the magistrate found it strange, but did not immediately release Mao. A few days later, the magistrate went out on an excursion, and a wolf holding a worn-out shoe in its mouth left it on the road. As the magistrate passed by, the wolf again held a shoe in its mouth, ran forward, and placed it on the road. The magistrate ordered the shoe to be collected, and the wolf then left. When the magistrate returned, he secretly sent men to investigate the owner of the shoe. Someone reported that in a certain village there was a firewood gatherer who had been pursued by two wolves, which had snatched his shoe and left. The gatherer was arrested and brought in to identify it, and it was indeed his shoe. Thereupon the magistrate suspected that the one who murdered Ning must be the firewood gatherer, and upon interrogating him, it was indeed so. It turned out the firewood gatherer had killed Ning, taken his huge amount of gold, and hidden the ornaments at the bottom of his clothing without having time to search through them completely, and they had been snatched away in the mouths of the wolves. Formerly, a midwife returning from an outing met a wolf blocking the path, which tugged at her garments as if wanting to summon her. She accordingly followed it and saw a female wolf in labor that could not give birth. The old woman pressed and massaged with force for her, and after the birth was delivered, she was let go to return home. The next day, the wolf held deer meat in its mouth and placed it at her home to repay her. One can know that this sort of matter has frequently occurred from past times until now. The Hail Deity Grand Historian Tang Jiwu once went to attend a funeral for the An clan in Rizhao. Passing by the shrine of the Hail Deity Li Zuoche on the road, he went inside to wander and view the sights. In front of the shrine was a pond; the pond water was crystal clear, and several red fish were swimming back and forth within it. Among them, a fish with a slanted tail was sipping at the water's surface, showing no fear upon seeing people. The Historian picked up a small stone, intending to playfully strike it. A Daoist priest hurriedly stopped him, telling him not to strike it. When asked the reason, he said: "The scaled creatures in the pond are all of the dragon lineage; to touch them will certainly bring about wind and hail." The Historian laughed at this far-fetched and deceitful notion and flung the stone anyway. Soon after, he mounted his carriage and traveled eastward, whereupon there were black clouds like a canopy that followed along with his journey. With a rustling sound, hail fell, as large as pieces of cotton. After traveling another li or so, it finally cleared up. The Historian's younger brother, Liangwu, was behind; when he caught up and spoke with him, he actually knew nothing at all of any hail. Those coming from the front whom he asked said the same thing. The Historian laughed, saying: "Could this be Lord Guangwu playing up tricks?" Still, he did not find it deeply strange. Outside the An clan's village was a shrine to Lord Guan. Just then, a traveling peddler had set down his carrying poles outside the gate, suddenly abandoned his double bamboo hampers, hurried into the shrine, pulled a large broadsword from the rack, and twirled it around dancingly, saying: "I am Li Zuoche. Tomorrow I shall accompany Zichuan Grand Historian Tang to lend a hand in holding the funeral ropes, and I respectfully give prior notice to the master of the house." After a few words he awoke, not knowing himself what he had spoken, nor recognizing who Tang was. Hearing of this, the An clan was greatly terrified. The village was more than forty lis away from the shrine; they respectfully prepared paper offerings and sacrificial implements, went to the shrine to mourn and pray, only asking for mercy and pity, and not daring to cause him to condescend to come. The Historian thought it strange that their reverence and belief were so deep, and asked the master of the house about it. The master said: "The miraculous traces of the Hail Deity are most manifest; he frequently entrusts living persons to speak through them, and his omens and verifications contain no false words. If we do not make sincere prayers to halt his journey, then tomorrow wind and hail will arrive instantly." The Historian of the Strange says: "Lord Guangwu in his day was also one of those of old strategy and heroic deeds. Even if he governs the hail in the east, perhaps this is likewise his unyielding spirit receiving an appointment from Heaven. Yet since he has already become a divinity, why must he loftily set himself apart! The grand morality and literary writings of Grand Historian Tang have been gazed upon with reverence by Heaven and humans for a long time; this is why ghosts and spirits must certainly seek to be believed by a superior man." Li the Eight-Vats Imperial Academy Student Li Yuesheng was the second son of Elder Shengwang. The elder was extremely wealthy, storing gold in large vats, and the people of the village called him "the Eight Vats." When the elder fell gravely ill, he called his sons to divide the gold: the elder brother was to have eight parts, and the younger brother two. Yuesheng was deeply dissatisfied. The elder said: "I do not partialize out of love or hatred; I have hidden a hoarded cache, and I must wait until there are not many people around before I bestow it upon you. Do not be anxious." After a few days, the elder grew even more dangerously ill. Yuesheng worried that once an unexpected event occurred, while no one was watching he secretly questioned him by the bedside. The elder said: "Human sorrow and joy both have fixed numbers. You currently enjoy the blessing of a virtuous wife, and therefore it is not appropriate to further assist you with much gold, lest it increase your transgressions." This was because Yuesheng's wife, of the Che clan, was extremely virtuous and possessed the virtues of Huan and Meng, hence he spoke thus. Yuesheng earnestly pleaded with him. The elder said angrily: "You still have more than twenty years of hardships and setbacks yet to experience; even if I gave you a thousand pieces of gold, it would be instantly exhausted. If it does not reach the point of utter destitution, do not hope to be given it!" Yuesheng was filial, fraternal, sincere, and steadfast, and accordingly dared not speak of it again. Not long after, the elder took a turn for the worse and soon passed away. Fortunately, his elder brother was virtuous, and plans for the encoffining and burial were made without arguing over the calculations. Yuesheng was also innocent, artless, and untrammeled, never haggling over the smallest fractions. Moreover, he loved guests and was good at drinking; cooking millet and preparing feasts, he would urge his wife three or four times a day, not paying much heed to the family's production. The ruffians in the village, spying his weakness, constantly took advantage of him like fish and meat. After several years, the family gradually declined. When reduced to dire straits, he relied on his elder brother for small provisions so as not to fall into utter destitution. Before long, his brother died of old age and illness, causing him to lose his support even more, to the point of running out of food. Borrowing in the spring and repaying in the autumn, whatever his fields yielded was completely gone as soon as it reached the threshing floor. Thus he partitioned his fields to survive, and his property withered away more and more. After a few more years, his wife and eldest son passed away one after another, and his desolation became even more extreme. Soon he bought Xu, the wife of a sheep-dealer, hoping to gain a small plot of land; but Xu had a stern and fierce nature, daily bullying and humiliating him to the point that he did not dare to communicate with close relatives and friends regarding condolences and celebrations. Suddenly one night he dreamed of his father saying: "What you are now experiencing can indeed be called utter destitution. I previously promised you stored gold, and now is the time." He asked: "Where is it?" The father said: "Tomorrow it shall be given to you." He woke up and found it strange, still thinking it was merely the accumulated thoughts of poverty. The next day, while turning over the earth to repair a wall, he dug up a vast amount of gold, and only then did he understand that the former words "not many people around" meant that half of them would have died. The Historian of the Strange says: "Yuesheng was my mortar-and-pestle friend, a person of simple honesty without falsehood. My brothers and I associated with him, and whenever sorrow or joy occurred, we invariably shared it. For several years, our villages have been separated by more than ten lis, and in our old age we died without even hearing news of one another. When I occasionally passed by his neighborhood, I accordingly did not dare to inquire too closely. Thus Yuesheng's bitter circumstances were indeed such that they could not be spoken of plainly. Suddenly hearing that he had abruptly gained a thousand pieces of gold, I could not help but dance for joy on his behalf. Alas! The dying injunction of the elder—I had often heard of it in the past, yet I did not expect that all his words were prophecies. How truly miraculous they were!" The Old Dragon's Boatman Governor Zhu Huiyin, when he was stationed in eastern Guangdong, saw many merchants and travelers bringing lawsuits over unresolved murders. Travelers journeying a thousand li would disappear without a trace of their bodies; several companions traveling together would vanish without news. Accumulated cases piled up, none could be investigated. At first, the local officials would issue warrants for pursuit; but as more complaints were filed, they simply ignored them. When the Duke took office, he reviewed the old cases: the complaints listed no fewer than a hundred dead, and those who had perished far from home with no one to claim them were beyond counting. The Duke was shocked and grieved, spending sleepless nights devising plans. He consulted all his subordinates, but found little strategy. So he purified himself with fasting and bathing, and sent a formal petition to the City God. Later, while resting in his斋室, he dimly saw an official enter, holding a ceremonial tablet. He asked, "What official are you?" The reply came: "I am Liu, the City God." "What have you to say?" The answer: "Snow hangs at the temples, clouds rise at the horizon, wood floats on the water, a door is set in the wall." With that, he withdrew. When the Duke awoke, he could not decipher the riddle. He tossed and turned all night, then suddenly understood: "Snow at the temples means 'old'; clouds rising mean 'dragon'; wood on water makes a 'boat'; a door in the wall is a 'household'—is this not 'Old Dragon Boat Households'!" For to the northeast of the province lay Xiaoling and Languan, whose waters originated from Old Dragon Ford, reaching the Southern Sea; great merchants from beyond the passes often entered Guangdong by this route. The Duke dispatched military officers with secret instructions to seize the boatmen of Dragon Ford, and one by one they arrested over fifty men, all of whom confessed without torture. These bandits, under the guise of ferrying passengers, would lure travelers aboard, then either administer knockout drugs or burn stupefying incense, rendering the victims unconscious; then they would cut open their bellies, stuff them with stones, and sink them to the riverbed. Such grievous injustice! After the truth was brought to light, joy spread far and wide, and collections of ballads and praises were compiled. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "To cut open bellies and sink with stones is extreme cruelty and injustice—and yet those wooden puppets in office felt not the slightest concern! Was it only eastern Guangdong that was shrouded in darkness? When the Duke arrived, even the gods and spirits lent their aid, and every overturned basin was illumined—how remarkable! Yet the Duke had no four eyes or two mouths; it was merely that his compassion for the people's suffering, accumulated within him, reached its utmost. As for those who sit loftily on high, with swords and halberds lining their paths when they go out, and musk and orchids intoxicating their hearts when they enter—though honor and favor be heaped upon them, in the end, how are they any different from the Old Dragon boatmen?" The Woman of Qingcheng Gao Mengshuo of Fei County served as prefect of Chengdu, and there was a peculiar case. Earlier, a merchant from the west had come to Chengdu and married a widow from Mount Qingcheng. Later, for some reason, he returned west, and after more than a year came back. No sooner had the couple reunited than the merchant suddenly died. His fellow merchants suspected foul play and reported it to the authorities; the officials also suspected the widow of having a lover, and interrogated her harshly. Despite cruel torture, she had no confession to give. The case was sent up to the superior prefecture, but still lacked substantial evidence, and she languished in prison for a long time. Later, when a patient fell ill at Gao's yamen, an old physician was summoned, and by chance the matter came up in conversation. Hearing of it, the physician said abruptly, "Is the woman sharp-mouthed?" Asked why he said so, he at first refused to speak; only after repeated questioning did he explain: "Around Mount Qingcheng there are several villages, where many women have mated with snakes. Those who bear daughters have sharp-pointed mouths, and within their yin there is something like a snake's tongue. When they are in heat, the tongue protrudes; once it enters the male organ, the man suffers depletion of yang and dies instantly." Gao was alarmed and not entirely convinced. The physician said, "There is a shamaness here who can administer medicine to make the woman aroused, and the tongue will emerge of itself—this can be used to verify it." Gao followed this advice and had the shamaness treat her; the tongue indeed came out, and the doubt was resolved. The report was sent to the prefecture. The higher officials all tested it accordingly, and the woman was released from blame. The Owl Magistrate Yang of Changshan was exceptionally greedy. In the year Kangxi Yimao (1695), when military operations were underway in the western frontier, the people's mules and horses were requisitioned for grain transport. Yang used this as a pretext to extort, stripping the entire region of its livestock. Zhoucun was a gathering place for merchants, and on market days the carts and horses thronged together. Yang led his sturdy underlings and seized them all by force, no fewer than several hundred head. Merchants from all quarters had no one to appeal to. At that time, all the magistrates were in the provincial capital on official business. It happened that Magistrate Dong of Yidu, Magistrate Fan of Laiwu, and Magistrate Sun of Xincheng met at an inn. Two merchants from Shanxi came to the gate, weeping and lodging a complaint: four sturdy mules of theirs had all been seized, and being far from home and deprived of their livelihood, they could not return, and begged the gentlemen to intercede for them. The three magistrates took pity and agreed. They went together to see Yang. Yang prepared a feast and received them cordially. When the wine had gone round, they stated their purpose. Yang would not listen. They pressed him more earnestly. Yang raised his cup and urged them to drink, trying to divert them, saying: "I propose a drinking game—anyone who cannot do it must pay a forfeit. Each must name one thing in the sky, one on earth, and one ancient person. The one on the left shall ask what object is held, and the one on the right shall ask what words are spoken—answer accordingly." He began with: "In the sky there is the moon's wheel, on earth there is Kunlun, and there is the ancient Liu Bolun. The left asks what is held—reply, 'A wine cup in hand.' The right asks what words are spoken—reply, 'I say, aside from the cup, nothing need be mentioned.'" Magistrate Fan said: "In the sky there is the Palace of Broad Cold, on earth there is the Palace of Qianqing, and there is the ancient Jiang Taigong. He holds a fishing rod, and says, 'The willing take the bait.'" Magistrate Sun said: "In the sky there is the Milky Way, on earth there is the Yellow River, and there is the ancient Xiao He. He holds a copy of the Great Qing Code, and says, 'Corrupt officials and embezzlers.'" Yang looked abashed and pondered for a long while, then said: "I have another. In the sky there is Mount Ling, on earth there is Mount Tai, and there is the ancient Han Shan. He holds a broom, and says, 'Let each sweep the snow from his own door.'" The three exchanged awkward glances. Suddenly a young man entered with arrogant bearing, clad in splendid robes, and made a bow. They drew him to sit and offered him a large goblet. The young man laughed and said, "Hold the wine a moment. I hear you gentlemen are making elegant verses—may I offer my humble efforts?" They urged him on. The young man said: "In the sky there is the Jade Emperor, on earth there is the Son of Heaven, and there is the ancient Emperor Hongwu Zhu. He holds a three-foot sword, and says, 'Corrupt officials shall be flayed.'" All burst out laughing. Yang angrily cursed: "Where does this insolent brat come from, to dare speak so!" He ordered his attendants to seize him. The young man leaped onto the table, turned into an owl, burst through the curtain and flew out, perching among the courtyard trees. He looked back into the room and gave a laughing cry. The host struck at him, but he flew off laughing, and went his way. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "During the horse requisition, the sturdy livestock filling the courtyards of the various magistrates came seven or eight out of ten from such seizures, and the hundreds and thousands that formed herds for the mule-and-horse traders were rarely seen outside Changshan. The Sage Emperor cherished the people's strength and paid fair value for everything taken—how could he know that those who carried out his orders spread such poison! Wherever the owl goes, people detest its laugh most; children and women alike spit at it, deeming it inauspicious. But this laugh of his—how was it any different from the cry of the phoenix?" The Ancient Vases In a village north of Ziyi County, a well ran dry. Two villagers, Jia and Yi, let themselves down with ropes to dredge it. After digging a foot or so, they found a skull. They accidentally broke it, and inside the mouth was gold, which they happily tucked into their waist pouches. Digging further, they found six or seven more skulls. They broke them all open, but found no gold. Beside them were two porcelain vases and one bronze vessel. The bronze vessel was as large as a man could embrace, weighing several tens of jin, with twin rings on its sides—its purpose unknown, its surface mottled with green and rust. The vases were ancient, not of recent make. After they came out of the well, both Jia and Yi died. After a while, Yi revived and said: "I am a man of Han. During the rebellion of Wang Mang, my entire family threw themselves into this well. At the time, I had a little gold, so I put it in my mouth—it was not actually a burial object; every one of us had some. Why did you have to smash all our skulls? How hateful!" The people burned incense and paper money, made offerings, and promised to give them proper burial; Yi then recovered, but Jia could not be brought back to life. Scholar Sun of Yanzhen, hearing of the strangeness, bought the bronze vessel and took it away. Filial Exemplar Yuan Xuan-si obtained one vase, which could predict the weather: when a moist spot appeared, first like a grain of millet, then gradually spreading and filling, rain would soon come; when the moisture receded, the clouds would part and the sky clear. Another vase came into the Zhang family's possession, and could mark the phases of the moon: at the new moon, a black spot would appear like a bean and grow larger day by day; at the full moon, the whole vase would be covered; after the full moon, it would recede in turn, and by the dark of the moon it would return to its original state. Having been buried long in the earth, the mouth of the vase had a small stone stuck to it that could not be scraped or pried off. When they knocked it away, the stone came off but the rim chipped slightly—a pity. When flowers were placed in it, the fallen blossoms would bear fruit, just as they would on the living tree. Mr. Yuanshao When Mr. Han Yuanshao was still a candidate for the imperial examinations, a clerk suddenly arrived and announced that his master wished to engage him as a tutor, yet there was no name card at all. When asked about his family's standing, he answered vaguely. The bundled silk and sealed gifts of introduction, and the ceremonial etiquette, were all generous. Mr. Han accepted, fixed a date, and departed. On the appointed day, a sedan chair indeed came. They wound their way along, taking roads he had never traveled before. Suddenly he glimpsed halls and pavilions; he descended from the carriage and entered. The atmosphere resembled that of a vassal prince's mansion. Once he had taken up his lodgings, wine and roasted meats were arrayed in profusion, and they urged the guest to help himself, yet there was no host. When the feast was cleared away, then the young master came out and bowed; he was fifteen or sixteen, with a handsome and extraordinary bearing. After the formalities were completed, he hurried to another apartment and came to the teacher's place to ask about his studies. The young master was very intelligent; upon hearing the meaning, he always understood it thoroughly. Because Mr. Han did not know the family background, he was rather doubtful and troubled. In the lodgings there were two young servants in attendance; he privately questioned them, but they would not answer. He asked, "Where is the master?" They replied that he was busy with affairs. Mr. Han asked to be led to peek at him; the servants refused. He repeatedly asked them, and they then led him to a place where he heard sounds of torture and beating. Through the crack in the door he fixed his eyes upon it, and saw a king seated in the hall; below the steps were sword trees and knife mountains—all matters of the underworld. He was greatly terrified. Just as he was about to retreat, the one inside already knew of it, and thereupon stopped the business of judgment, scolded and sent away the various ghosts, and urgently called for the servant. The servant changed countenance and said, "For your sake, Sir, disaster has reached me!" Trembling with fear, he ran in. The king angrily said, "How dare you lead someone to secretly peek!" He thereupon took a huge whip and severely flogged him, finishing the punishment. Then he summoned Mr. Han to enter and said, "The reason I did not see you is that the ways of the dark and the bright are different. Now that you already know, the situation makes it impossible for us to remain together." Thereupon he gave him travel money and made him leave. He said, "You are the foremost man in the realm, but your misfortunes are not yet over." He had a green-clad attendant take a horse and escort him back. Mr. Han suspected that he was already dead; the green-clad said, "How could that be so! Sir, your food and everything you use are supplied from the mundane world; they are not things of the underworld." After he returned, he met with setbacks for several years, then passed the hui and zhuang examinations; his words were all fulfilled. Xue Weiniang Feng Yugui was a Confucian scholar from Liaocheng. He was poor and had no means of livelihood. During the Wanli reign, in a year of great famine, he fled south alone. When he returned, he fell ill at Yi. Struggling with illness, he walked several li and reached the mass burial ground south of the city, where he grew even more exhausted, so he lay down beside a grave. Suddenly, as if in a dream, he arrived at a village. An old man came out from a gate and invited him in. The house had two rooms, quite roughly made. Inside was a young woman of sixteen or seventeen, with a clever and refined appearance. The old man had her brew cypress-branch tea and serve it to the guest in earthenware vessels. After asking the scholar's native place and age, he then said: "My surname is Li, my given name Hongdu, of the Pingyang clan. I have sojourned here now for thirty-two years. If you remember this door, and my descendants come seeking, I beg you to direct them. This old man will not forget your kindness. My adopted daughter Weiniang is not uncomely and may be matched with you, sir. When my third son arrives, I will have him preside over the betrothal." The scholar was pleased and bowed, saying: "I am twenty-two years of age, still lacking a good match. Your favor in this union is certainly fine; but how am I to find your family to inform them?" The old man said: "You need only stay in the northern village and wait a month or more; someone will come of his own accord. I only ask that you not shrink from the trouble." The scholar feared his words might not be trustworthy and pressed him: "To tell you frankly, sir: my family has only bare walls. I fear that in the end things may not turn out as you expect, and that I might be cast off midway—something hard to bear. Even if there be no marriage, I would not dare break the pledge of Zilu; so why not speak plainly?" The old man laughed and said: "Do you wish this old man to swear by the dawn? I know well that you are poor. This betrothal is not solely for your sake; Weiniang is orphaned and without support, and I have long entrusted her to my care. I cannot bear to see her cast adrift, so I offer her to you, sir. Why do you doubt me?" He then took the scholar by the arm and led him out, made a bow with clasped hands, and closed the gate. The scholar woke and found himself lying by the grave, the sun already past noon. He slowly rose and made his way hesitantly into the village. The villagers were startled at the sight of him, saying he had been dead by the roadside for a whole day. He suddenly realized that the old man was the occupant of the grave. He kept this hidden and only asked for lodgings. The villagers, fearing he would die again, dared not take him in. In the village there was a scholar with the same surname, who, hearing of this, came to inquire about his family background. It turned out he was a distant uncle of the second mourning degree. Delighted, he led him home, fed and treated him, and in a few days he recovered. He then recounted what he had encountered. His uncle was also astonished, so they sat and waited to see what would happen. Before long, an official did come to the village, inquiring after his father's grave site, and introduced himself as Li Shuxiang, a presented scholar of Pingyang. Earlier, his father Li Hongdu had been travelling as a merchant with a certain fellow townsman A when he died at Yi, and A had buried him in the mass burial ground. After A returned, he too died. At that time the old man's three sons were all young. The eldest, Boren, became a presented scholar and magistrate of Huainan. He sent men several times to seek his father's grave, but none knew where it was. The second, Zhongdao, became a filial and incorrupt candidate. Shuxiang, the youngest, also passed the metropolitan examination. So he came in person to seek his father's bones, searching everywhere at Yi. When he arrived that day, none of the villagers recognized him. The scholar then led him to the grave site and pointed it out. Shuxiang did not yet dare believe him; the scholar told him in full what he had encountered, and Shuxiang found it strange. On closer inspection, the two graves stood side by side. Someone said that three years before, an official had buried a young concubine there. Shuxiang feared opening the wrong grave, so the scholar showed him where he himself had lain. Shuxiang ordered a coffin brought beside it and then opened the grave. When the grave was opened, they saw a female corpse, her clothing and ornaments faded and decayed, yet her powdered face was as if alive. Shuxiang realized it was a mistake and was terrified, not knowing what to do. But the woman suddenly sat up, looked around, and said: "Is Third Brother here?" Shuxiang, startled, approached and asked, and it was Weiniang. He then took off his coat to cover her and had her carried back to the inn. He quickly opened the neighboring grave, hoping his father might revive. When it was opened, the skin and flesh were still there, but when he touched them they were stiff and dry. He grieved uncontrollably. He had the body encoffined and brought into the village, where he held a purification ritual for seven days. The woman also wore mourning garments like a daughter. Suddenly she said to Shuxiang: "Formerly, Father had two gold ingots, and he gave one to me as my dowry. Being orphaned and helpless, with nowhere to keep it, I merely tied it around my waist with silk thread and did not take it with me. Has Brother found it?" Shuxiang did not know, so he had the scholar go back and search the burial pit, where it was indeed found, just as the woman had said. Shuxiang then gave the portion marked with the thread to Weiniang. At leisure, he asked about her family background. Earlier, Weiniang's father, Xue Yinhou, had no sons, only Weiniang, whom he loved dearly. One day, as the girl was returning from her maternal uncle's house in Jinling with an old woman attendant, they sought a boat to cross the river. The boatman was a go-between from Jinling. At that time, an official who had completed his term and was going to the capital had sent him to find a beautiful concubine. He had visited several families but none pleased him, and he was about to take a small boat to Guangling when he suddenly encountered the girl. He conceived a wicked scheme, urgently invited them aboard. The old woman knew him, so they crossed together. Midway, he put poison in their food, and both the girl and the old woman fell unconscious. He pushed the old woman into the river, took the girl back, and sold her to the official for a large sum. Upon entering the household, the official's first wife learned of it and was furious. The girl, still dazed, did not know how to conduct herself in courtesy, so she was beaten and imprisoned. After crossing north for three days, the girl awoke. A maid told her the whole story, and she wept bitterly. One night, staying at Yi, she hanged herself and was buried among the disorderly graves. While in the grave, the girl was bullied by the mass of ghosts, but Old Man Li constantly protected her, so she served him as a father. The old man said: "Your fate is not to die; I will choose a fine husband for you." After the scholar had come and gone, he turned and said to her: "This young man's character and integrity can be trusted. Wait until your Third Brother arrives, and he will preside over your marriage." One day he said: "You may go and await him; your Third Brother will soon come." That was the very day the grave was opened. At the mourning rites, the girl recounted all this to Shuxiang in detail. Shuxiang sighed for a long time, then took Weiniang as his younger sister and had her take the Li surname. He bought some clothes and ornaments and sent her back to the scholar, saying: "My means are limited, and I cannot provide a proper trousseau for my sister. I intend to take you all back with me to comfort my mother's heart—what do you think?" The girl was delighted. So the couple, together with Shuxiang, transported the coffins and set out. When they returned home, the mother, having learned the whole story, loved her more than her own children and housed her in a separate courtyard. During the mourning rites, the girl's grief exceeded that of the sons and grandchildren. The mother felt even more pity for her and would not let her return east, instructing her sons to buy a house for her. It happened that a certain Mr. Feng was selling a house for six hundred taels of silver. They could not raise the full amount at once, so they took the deed provisionally and set a date for the transaction. On the appointed day, Feng arrived early; just then the girl also came from the separate courtyard to pay respects to her mother. She suddenly caught sight of him, and he looked exactly like the boatman of that year. Feng also started at seeing her. The girl hurried past him. Her two elder brothers, having also come to their mother's quarters because of a minor ailment, were all gathered there. The girl asked: "Who is that pacing back and forth before the hall?" Zhongdao said: "I nearly forgot—that must be the man selling the house." He rose to go out. The girl stopped him, told him of her suspicions, and had him question Feng. Zhongdao agreed and went out, but Feng had already left, and in his place was Mr. Xue, the village schoolmaster from the south lane, seated there. He asked: "Why have you come?" The schoolmaster said: "Last evening, Feng asked me to come early to your hall to sign as guarantor on the deed. On the way I met him, and he said he had forgotten something and would return shortly, asking me to sit and wait for him." After a little while, the scholar and Shuxiang both arrived and fell into conversation. Because of Feng, Weiniang secretly came behind the screen to observe the guests. Looking closely, she recognized her father. She rushed out, embraced him, and wept loudly. The old man, startled and in tears, said: "My child, how did you come here?" Only then did everyone realize that Xue was none other than Yinhou. Zhongdao, though he had often met him in the street, had never known his name. All were now overjoyed, and they recounted the prior events, setting out wine to celebrate. They kept him for a few days, and he told them of his wanderings. After losing his daughter, his wife had died of grief, and he, a widower without support, had wandered as a teacher until he came here. The scholar agreed that after buying the house, he would have him come live with them. The next day, the old man went to inquire, but Feng's entire household had fled. Only then did they realize that the man who had killed the old woman and sold the girl was none other than Feng. Feng had first come to Pingyang, built up a fortune in trade, but in recent years had taken to gambling and daily grown poorer, so he sold his residence. The proceeds from selling the girl were almost exhausted as well. Weiniang, having found her place, did not bear him great enmity; she merely chose a day to move in and did not pursue where he had gone. Mother Li sent gifts without cease, supplying all daily necessities. The scholar thus made his home in Pingyang, but it was hard for him to return for the examinations. Fortunately, in that year he passed the provincial examination and became a filial and incorrupt candidate. Weiniang, now wealthy and honored, often thought of the old woman who had died for her sake and wished to repay her son. The old woman's husband was surnamed Yin, and she had one son named Fu, who loved gambling and was so poor he had not a foothold to stand on. One day, at a gambling table, a dispute over stakes led him to kill a man. He fled and came far to Pingyang, seeking refuge with Weiniang. The scholar took him in as a retainer. Upon inquiry into the name of the man he had killed, it turned out to be the boatman Feng. They were astonished and sighed for a long while, then told him the truth. Only then did Fu realize that Feng was the very man who had murdered his mother. He rejoiced all the more and served in the scholar's household. Xue Yinhou lived with his son-in-law, who provided him with a wife, and he had one son and one daughter. Tian Zicheng Jiangning Tian Zicheng crossed Lake Dongting, but his boat capsized and he drowned. His son Liangsi, a jinshi of the late Ming dynasty, was then still in his arms. His wife, née Du, upon hearing the news, took poison and died. Liangsi was raised by his step-grandmother and grew up; he took up office in Hubei by divination. After more than a year, he was ordered by his superiors to manage affairs in Hunan. When he reached Lake Dongting, he wept bitterly and turned back. He reported that his abilities were insufficient, and was demoted to assistant magistrate, attached to Hanyang, but he declined to take the post. The provincial and prefectural authorities pressed him, and only then did he assume it. He then roamed freely about the rivers and lakes, never confining himself to his official duties. One evening, he moored his boat by the riverbank and heard the sound of a xiao flute, now rising, now falling, pleasing to the ear. He walked by moonlight, and after about half a li, he saw in the open fields a few thatched cottages with flickering lamplight. Approaching the window and peering in, he saw three men drinking facing one another inside. The one in the seat of honour was a scholar of about thirty; the one in the lower seat was an old man; the one at the side seat, playing the xiao, was the youngest. When the playing ended, the old man beat time and praised its excellence. The scholar, facing the wall, was reciting and pondering, as if he had not heard. The old man said, "Brother Lu Ten must have a fine composition; please chant it aloud so that we may all appreciate it together." The scholar then chanted: "The wind and moonlight over the river are cold and desolate; Withered grass and scattered flowers have turned to mud. A thousand li of clouds and mountains cannot be flown over; My dreaming soul every night goes west of Bamboo Bridge." His chanting voice was mournful and sorrowful. The old man laughed and said, "Brother Lu Ten has resumed his old habit!" He then poured a large goblet and said, "This old man cannot compose a matching verse; allow me to sing to accompany the wine." He then sang the piece "Lanling Fine Wine". When the song ended, all present laughed. The young man rose and said, "I shall see how far the moon has tilted." He suddenly came out and saw the guest, clapped his hands and said, "There is someone outside the window—we have fully revealed our wild behaviour!" He then drew the guest in, and they exchanged greetings. The old man seated Liangsi opposite the young man. Liangsi tested his cup and found the wine cold, so he declined to drink. The young man rose, used a reed torch to heat the pot, and offered it. Liangsi also ordered his attendant to take money and go buy wine, but the old man firmly stopped him. He then asked about his native place and family, and Liangsi told his whole life story. The old man paid his respects and said, "You are the father-and-mother official of our village. This young gentleman's surname is Jiang; he is a native of this place." Pointing to the young man, he said, "This is Du Yehou of Jiangxi." Pointing to the scholar, he said, "This is Brother Lu Ten, who is from the same native place as you." Lu, since meeting Liangsi, had been very haughty and not very polite. Liangsi therefore asked, "Where do you dwell? With such refined talent, why have I never heard of you before?" He replied, "I have been living as a sojourner for a long time; my relatives and clansmen always do not recognize me—alas, pitiful man!" His words were sad and bitter. The old man waved his hand to interrupt him and said, "When good guests meet, one should not neglect the drinking game; chattering like this is tiresome to hear!" He then took his cup and drank himself, saying, "Let us all play a game together; whoever cannot do it is fined. Each throws three dice, taking 'meeting' as the theme, and it must match a classical allusion." He then threw one, two, and three, and chanted: "Three plus one and two points are alike; The chicken-and-millet feast for three years with Lord Fan: Friends joyfully meet." Next came the young man, who threw double two and a single four, and said, "I am not a man of letters; I only know vulgar allusions, but do not laugh at me. "Four plus double-two points are alike; Four men gathered in righteousness in the ancient city: Brothers joyfully meet." Lu threw double one and a single two, and said: "Two plus double-one points are alike; Lü Xiang held the old man with both hands: Father and son joyfully meet." Liangsi threw, and again it matched Lu's, so he said: "Two plus double-one points are alike; Mao Rong offered two dishes to Lin Zong: Host and guest joyfully meet." When the game ended, Liangsi rose to take leave. Lu then stood up and said, "The bond of our native place has not yet been fully expressed; why part so hastily? I have something to ask; I hope you will stay a little longer." Liangsi sat down again and asked, "What have you to say?" Lu said, "I had an old friend, a certain man, who died in Lake Dongting—is he of your clan?" Liangsi said, "That is my late father; how did you know him?" Lu said, "We were close in our youth. On the day he died, I alone saw him, and therefore gathered his bones and buried them by the river." Liangsi wept and bowed, begging to be shown the grave. Lu said, "Come here tomorrow, and I will point it out to you. It is also easy to identify: a few paces from here, wherever you see a grave with a clump of ten reeds on it—that is it." Liangsi shed tears, bowed farewell to all, and left. When he reached his boat, he could not sleep all night, thinking that Lu's words and sentiments all seemed to have some reason. At dawn he went back, but the houses were completely gone; he was even more alarmed. He then followed the indicated place to search for the grave, and indeed found it. There was a clump of reeds on it; counting them, the number exactly matched. He suddenly understood that the appellation "Brother Lu Ten" was all allegorical, and that the one he had met was the ghost of his father. He questioned the locals carefully, and they told him that twenty years before, there had been an old man Gao, rich and fond of good deeds, who retrieved and buried all who had drowned, hence there were several graves there. He then opened the grave, carried the bones, abandoned his office, and returned home. When he came back and told his grandmother, comparing the appearance, everything matched exactly. Du Yehou of Jiangxi was his elder cousin, nineteen years old, who had drowned in the river; later his father had sojourned in Jiangxi. He also realized that after Lady Du died, she was buried west of Bamboo Bridge, hence the poem recalled it. Only he did not know who the old man was. Wang Gui'an Wang Xi, styled Gui'an, was the son of a notable family in Daming. He happened to be traveling south. His boat was moored at the riverbank. In a neighboring boat was a ferryman's daughter, embroidering shoes, her bearing exquisitely beautiful. Wang gazed at her for a long while, and the girl seemed not to notice. Wang recited in a clear voice, "The Luoyang girl lives across from my door," deliberately letting her hear. The girl seemed to understand it was meant for her; she lifted her head slightly for a fleeting glance, then lowered it and continued embroidering as before. Wang's spirit grew even more unmoored. He tossed a gold ingot to her, which fell onto her lapel; the girl picked it up and threw it away, and the gold fell to the riverbank. Wang retrieved it, even more astonished, and then tossed a gold bracelet to her; it fell at her feet, but the girl kept working without a glance. Presently, the ferryman returned from elsewhere. Wang feared he would see the bracelet and question her, and his heart grew extremely anxious; the girl calmly covered it with both feet. The ferryman cast off the mooring lines and departed straight away. Wang's spirits sank in dejection, and he sat in a daze, deep in thought. At the time Wang had recently lost his wife, and he regretted not having sent a matchmaker to settle the matter at once. He inquired among the boatmen, but none knew her surname. He turned his boat around and gave chase, but there was no trace of where she had gone. With no other choice, he turned his boat back and continued south. After his business was finished, he sailed north again, and made a careful search along the river, but there was no news. He returned home, but in sleeping and eating he was consumed with longing for her. The next year, he went south again, renting a boat on the river as if he were living there. Every day he carefully counted the passing boats; he grew familiar with all the sails and masts that came and went, but that particular boat was nowhere to be seen. After half a year, his funds were exhausted and he returned home. Walking or sitting, he could not set his mind at rest for a moment. One night, he dreamed that he arrived at a riverside village. Passing several gates, he saw a house with a south-facing wicker gate; inside, sparse bamboo formed a fence, and he took it for a garden pavilion and walked straight in. There was a night-blooming coral tree, its branches covered with red filaments. He thought to himself: "The poem says, 'Before the gate a single tree of mǎyīng blossoms'—this must be it." After a few more steps, the reed fence was clean and bright. He entered further and saw three northern rooms with both doors closed. To the south was a small lodge, with red banana leaves shading the window. He leaned in for a look; a clothes rack stood before the door, with a painted skirt draped upon it. He knew it was a maiden's chamber, and recoiled in alarm; but those inside had also sensed him, and someone came running out to see the visitor, her powdered face slightly shown—it was the girl from the boat. Overjoyed beyond expectation, he said, "So there is a time for us to meet again!" Just as he was about to draw near in intimacy, the girl's father happened to return home—and suddenly Wang awoke with a start, realizing it was a dream. The scene was vivid, as if right before his eyes. He kept it secret, fearing that telling others might ruin this fine dream. After another year or more, he went again to Zhenjiang. To the south of the prefecture lived a certain Vice Censor Xu, an old family connection, who invited him to a feast. Riding at random, he took a wrong turn into a small village. The road and scenery seemed exactly as he had once experienced. Inside a gate stood a single coral tree, just as in the dream. Startled beyond measure, he dropped his whip and entered. Every detail matched the dream without difference. Entering further, the rooms were exactly as in the dream. Since the dream had come true, he no longer hesitated and went straight to the southern lodge—and the girl from the boat was indeed there. Seeing Wang from afar, she rose in alarm, hid behind the door, and scolded, "What man is that?" Wang hesitated, still wondering if it was a dream. When the girl saw him approaching very near, she slammed the door shut. Wang said, "Do you not remember the one who threw the bracelet?" He recounted in full his pining and suffering, and also told of the dream's omen. The girl asked through the window about his family background, and Wang told her everything. The girl said, "Since you are of an official lineage, surely there is a worthy lady in your household—why should you need me?" Wang said, "If not for you, I would have long been married!" The girl said, "If that is truly so, it shows your heart. I find it hard to tell my parents of this feeling, yet I have also gone against their wishes and turned down several families. The gold bracelet is still there; I expected that one so devoted would surely send word. My parents have gone out to visit relatives and will return shortly. You had better withdraw for now; send a matchmaker with a formal proposal, and there will be no reason for failure. If you hope to form a union through impropriety, then your thinking is misguided." Wang hurriedly rose to leave. The girl called out from afar, "Wang Lang! My name is Yunniang, and my family name is Meng. My father's style is Jiangli." Wang memorized it and left. He ended the feast early and returned to call on Jiangli. Jiangli welcomed him in and seated him below the fence. Wang related his family lineage, then stated his purpose and presented a hundred taels of gold as betrothal gift. The old man said, "My daughter is already betrothed." Wang said, "I have inquired most carefully—she is still awaiting a proposal. Why do you reject me so firmly?" The old man said, "What I have just said is no lie." Wang's expression and spirit utterly collapsed, and he bowed and departed. That night he tossed and turned, with no one to serve as matchmaker. Earlier he had thought of telling the matter to Vice Censor Xu, but feared he would be laughed at for seeking a ferryman's daughter; now, in his urgency, with no matchmaker available, at dawn he called upon Vice Censor Xu and told him everything. Vice Censor Xu said, "That old man is a connection of mine—he is a direct grandson of my grandmother's line. Why did you not say so earlier?" Wang then confessed his earlier concealment. Vice Censor Xu wondered, "Jiangli has always been poor and has never made a living by ferrying—could there be a mistake?" He sent his son Dalang to visit the Mengs. Meng said, "Though I am impoverished, I am not one to sell a marriage. Previously, when the young gentleman presented gold as his own matchmaker, he must have assumed I would be moved by profit, and so I dared not agree to the match. Now that you have come on Mr. Xu's orders, there can be no error. However, my willful daughter is rather spoiled; she has often refused good matches, so I must consult with her, to avoid future complaints about the marriage." He rose, went inside briefly, and returned, bowing in full compliance with the command. They agreed on a date and parted. Dalang reported back, and Wang prepared lavish betrothal gifts, presented them to the Mengs, lodged at Vice Censor Xu's house, and conducted the wedding in person. After three days, he took leave of his father-in-law and returned north. That night, resting in the boat, he asked Yunniang, "When I met you here before, I always suspected you were not a ferryman's daughter. Where were you sailing that day?" She answered, "My uncle's family lives north of the river, and I happened to borrow a small boat to visit them. My own family barely supports itself, but as for unearned wealth, I do not value it highly. I laugh that your eyes are like beans—you kept trying to move people with gold. At first, when I heard your recitation, I knew you were a cultivated scholar, yet I also suspected you were a frivolous rogue trying to seduce a woman. If my father had seen that gold bracelet, you would have had no place to die. Was I not keen enough in cherishing talent?" Wang laughed and said, "You are indeed very clever, but you have also fallen into my trap!" She asked, "What matter?" Wang stopped and said nothing. When she pressed him further, he said, "As we draw nearer home, this cannot be hidden forever. I tell you truly: I already have a wife at home—the daughter of Minister Wu." Yunniang did not believe him, so Wang deliberately exaggerated his tone to make it seem true. Yunniang's expression changed. She was silent for a moment, then suddenly rose and ran out; Wang, in his slippers, chased after her—but she had already thrown herself into the river. Wang cried out loudly, and all the boats stirred in alarm, but the night was dark and hazy, with only scattered star-points all over the river. Wang mourned in pain all night, and followed the river downstream, offering a high price to recover her body, but none was found. Dejected, he returned home, his grief and anxiety intertwined. He also feared that his father-in-law would come to visit his daughter and he would have no words with which to face him. His elder sister's husband was an official in Henan, so he ordered his carriage and went to stay with him. Only after a year did he return. On the way, caught in rain, he stopped to rest at a commoner's house. He saw that the veranda and rooms were clean and bright, and an old woman was tending a child in the main hall. When the child saw Wang enter, he immediately threw himself forward, asking to be held. Wang found this strange. Looking again, the child was delicate and lovable, so he took him onto his knee. The old woman called him, but the child would not go. After a while, the rain cleared, and Wang lifted the child to hand back to the old woman and went down to prepare his luggage. The child cried out, "My father is leaving!" The old woman was embarrassed and scolded him, but he would not stop, so she forcibly carried him away. Wang sat waiting for his bags to be packed, when suddenly a beauty came out from behind the screen carrying the child—it was Yunniang. As he stood in astonishment, Yunniang scolded, "Faithless man! You left this piece of your flesh—what was I to do with it?" Wang then realized it was his own son. A pang of sorrow pierced his heart; without pausing to ask how she had come to be there, he first swore by the sun that his earlier words had been a jest. Yunniang then turned her anger to grief. They wept facing each other. Now, it happened that the master of that house, Old Man Mo, was sixty and childless. He had taken his wife on a pilgrimage to Nanhai. On their return, they moored by the river, and Yunniang, swept along by the current, happened to bump against Old Man Mo's boat. Old Man Mo ordered his men to pull her out; they revived her through the night, and she gradually regained consciousness. Old Man Mo and his wife saw that she was a fine young woman and were delighted, taking her as their own daughter and bringing her home. After several months, they wanted to choose a husband for her, but she would not consent. After ten months, she gave birth to a son, named Jisheng. Wang, sheltering from the rain at their house, found that Jisheng was just one year old. Wang then unpacked, went in, and paid his respects to Old Man Mo and his wife, becoming their son-in-law. After several days, he brought the whole family home. When they arrived, Old Man Meng was already there waiting, and had been for two months. When Old Man Meng first arrived, he saw that the servants' expressions and words were evasive, and he felt somewhat suspicious; but once they met, all were happy and comforted. When Wang recounted all that had happened, Old Man Meng understood why he had been prevaricating. Jisheng Ji Sheng, styled Wangsun, was a famous scholar in the prefecture. His parents, because he had recognized his father while still in swaddling clothes, considered him endowed with exceptional intelligence from infancy, and doted on him. As he grew, he became more handsome; at eight or nine he could write essays, and at fourteen he entered the prefectural school. He always chose his own match. His father Gui'an had a younger sister, Second Lady, who had married the xiucai Zheng Ziqiao, and bore a daughter Guixiu, who was clever and surpassingly beautiful. When Wangsun saw her, his heart was filled with ardent love. As time passed, he lost all interest in eating and sleeping. His parents were greatly worried and pressed him with bitter questions, whereupon he told them the truth. His father sent a matchmaker to the Zhengs; but Zheng, being upright and cautious, rejected the proposal on the grounds of their being cousins. Wangsun's illness worsened. His mother, at her wits' end, secretly and tactfully invited Second Lady, merely asking that Guixiu come to visit him once. When Zheng heard of this, he grew even angrier and spoke harshly. His parents, now despairing, simply let matters be. In the prefecture there was a prominent Zhang family with five daughters, all beautiful; the youngest was named Wuke, and she surpassed her elder sisters in looks. She was of marriageable age but not yet betrothed. One day, while going to visit ancestral graves, she encountered Wangsun on the road. Peeping at him from her carriage, she returned home and told her mother. Mother Shen understood her meaning and hinted at it to the old matchmaker Yu. The matchmaker then went to Wangsun's place. At that time Wangsun was ill; when he learned of her arrival, he laughed and said, "This illness I can cure." Yuniang (his mother) asked why. The matchmaker recounted the Zhangs' intention and extravagantly praised Wuke's beauty. Yuniang was pleased and sent the matchmaker to wait on Wangsun. The matchmaker entered, patted Wangsun, and told him. Wangsun shook his head and said, "The medicine does not fit the disease—what can be done?" The matchmaker laughed and said, "Only ask whether the physician is good: if he is good, then summon He and Huan comes late—that is acceptable. But to insist on that particular person and wait unto death for her—is that not foolish?" Wangsun sighed and said, "But among all the physicians under heaven, none can surpass He." The matchmaker said, "Why is your vision so narrow?" She then described Wuke's countenance, hair, skin, bearing, and manner, both in words and gestures. Wangsun again shook his head and said, "Matchmaker, enough! That is beyond my wishes." He turned his face to the wall and would listen no more. Seeing that his resolve would not change, the matchmaker left. One day, while Wangsun lay deep in his illness, suddenly a maidservant entered and said, "The person you long for has come!" Overjoyed, he sprang up. Rushing out of the room, he saw a beautiful woman already in the courtyard. Looking closely, she was not Guixiu; she wore a fine pleated skirt of pine-flower colour, with her tiny feet slightly showing—she was no less than a goddess. He bowed and asked her name and family; she replied, "I am Wuke. You are a man of deep feeling, yet you focus your heart solely on Guixiu—that makes one indignant." Wangsun apologized, saying, "In all my life I have never seen beauty, so my eyes have known only Guixiu. Now I realize my offence!" Thereupon they exchanged solemn vows. As they were holding hands with great affection, his mother came to feel his brow—and suddenly he awoke; it was all a dream. Looking back, her voice, expression, and smile were still vividly before his eyes. He thought to himself: If Wuke really is as in the dream, why must I seek what is hard to meet? So he told his mother about the dream. His mother was pleased that his obsession had somewhat waned, and urgently wished to engage a matchmaker. But Wangsun, fearing that the dream might not be reliable, entrusted a neighbour woman who was acquainted with the Zhangs to go there on some other pretext, and asked her to observe Wuke secretly. The woman went to their house; Wuke was then ill, leaning on her pillow and propping her chin—her graceful manner was supremely charming. Approaching, she asked, "What ails you?" The girl silently toyed with her sash and said nothing. Her mother answered for her: "It is not illness. These past days she has been sulking with her father and mother!" The woman asked why. She said, "All the families that have proposed have been refused—she says she will only marry that Ji Sheng of our prefecture. Because I, her mother, urged her too urgently, she deliberately stopped eating for several days." The woman laughed and said, "If the young lady were to match with Master Wangsun, truly it would be a pair of jade figures. If he were to see Fifth Miss, he would likely waste away again with longing! When I return, I shall immediately have a matchmaker sent—what do you think?" Wuke stopped her, saying, "Granny, do not do so! I fear it may not succeed, and that would only add to the mockery." The woman confidently took it upon herself to ensure success, whereupon Wuke smiled faintly. The woman returned and reported, exactly as the matchmaker had said. Wangsun asked in detail about her clothes and shoes, and they matched the dream—he was overjoyed. Although his spirits were somewhat relieved, he still could not take others' words as proof. After several days, he gradually recovered, and secretly summoned Matchmaker Yu to plan how he might see Wuke in person. The matchmaker found it difficult, but agreed for the time being and left. A long time passed, and she did not come. He was about to send for her when the matchmaker suddenly arrived cheerfully and said, "By good fortune, an opportunity presents itself. Fifth Miss has been somewhat unwell, and every day her maids support her as she moves to the opposite courtyard. If you go and hide there to watch, she walks slowly and hesitantly, so you may get a full view." Wangsun was delighted. The next day, he ordered his carriage and went early; the matchmaker was already there. She had him tie his horse to a tree in the village, led him into a room by the roadside, set out a seat, closed the door, and left. After a short while, Wuke indeed came out supported by her maid. Wangsun fixed his gaze on her through the crack in the door. As the girl passed outside, the matchmaker deliberately pointed out clouds and trees to slow her delicate steps, so Wangsun could observe every detail; his heart trembled and he could barely contain himself. Soon the matchmaker came and said, "Can she replace Guixiu?" Wangsun thanked her and returned home, where he told his parents and sent a matchmaker to pledge the engagement. But when the go-between arrived, Wuke had already been betrothed to another. Wangsun, disappointed, regretted bitterly and was on the verge of death—immediately he fell ill again. His parents were deeply worried and blamed him for his own folly. Wangsun had no words; he only drank a small measure of rice gruel each day. After several days, he was so emaciated that he could barely support himself on the bed, even worse than before. The matchmaker suddenly arrived, startled, and said, "How can you be so exhausted?" Wangsun wept and told her the situation. The matchmaker laughed and said, "Foolish young master! The other day she came to you, and you deliberately refused; today you seek her—can you be sure to succeed? Nevertheless, something can still be done. If you had consulted me earlier, even if she had been promised to the imperial prince, I could have taken her back." Wangsun was overjoyed and asked for a plan. The matchmaker told him to prepare a letter and send a messenger, agreeing to wait the next day at the Zhangs' residence. Gui'an feared that such a brusque move would be refused. The matchmaker said, "I had already spoken with Old Zhang and secured his word; after a few days he suddenly goes back on it? Moreover, she is promised to another family, but there is no formal letter yet. As the saying goes, 'The first to cook is the first to eat.' Why hesitate?" Gui'an agreed. The next day, two servants went; there was no objection, and they returned with handsome gifts. Wangsun's illness immediately lifted. From this time, his thoughts of Guixiu were completely cut off. At first, when Zheng Ziqiao had rejected the proposal, Guixiu had been quite displeased; and when she heard that the Zhangs' marriage had been concluded, she became even more depressed, fell ill, and gradually wasted away. Her parents questioned her, but she would not speak. Her maid, perceiving her feelings, secretly told her mother. When Zheng heard of it, he was angry and would not call a physician, letting her die. Second Lady reproached him, saying, "My nephew is by no means bad—why cling to the pedant's rule and kill our lovely daughter?" Zheng angrily retorted, "If such a daughter is born to you, better she had died early, to save us from being a laughingstock!" Thus husband and wife became estranged. Second Lady therefore told her daughter that she would send her back to Wangsun, even as a concubine. The girl bowed her head in silence, appearing quite willing. Second Lady discussed it with Zheng; he grew angrier and left the matter entirely to her, disregarding their daughter and no longer involving himself. Second Lady, deeply loving her daughter, wished to make good her words. The girl then became happy, and her illness gradually improved. She secretly learned that Wangsun's wedding day was fixed. When the day came, under the pretext of her nephew's marriage, she pretended she wished to return to her natal home; at dawn, she sent someone to her elder brother asking for servants and a carriage. Her brother was most affectionate and, since their village was near, first sent the bridal carriage and horses prepared for the wedding to fetch Second Lady. When she arrived, she dressed her daughter and placed her in the carriage, with two servants and two old women to escort her. Arriving at the gate, they spread felt carpets on the ground for her to walk upon. At that time the musicians had already assembled; the attendant servants shouted at them to strike up, and in an instant the clamour of voices swelled. Wangsun rushed out to see—it was a girl with a red veil over her head. Extremely startled, he tried to flee; but Zheng's servants seized him by the arms and made him perform the bows. Wangsun, not knowing why, went ahead and bowed. The two old women then supported the girl and led her straight into the bridal chamber—only then did he realize it was Guixiu. The whole household was thrown into consternation, not knowing what to do. As dusk approached, Wangsun dared not go through with the wedding ceremony for the other bride. Gui'an sent a servant to inform the Zhangs of the situation; Zhang was furious and wanted to break off the match. But Wuke refused, saying, "Although she arrived first, she had not received the wild goose as a betrothal gift; better still to let him perform the proper greeting for me." Her father accepted her words and relayed them to the messenger. The messenger returned; Gui'an still dared not comply. They sat deliberating, with neither anger nor joy leading anywhere. The Zhangs waited a long while, and seeing that it would not be carried out, they also sent Wuke in a carriage, and set up a separate bridal tent in another room. Wangsun, moving between the two, paced about at a loss. His mother then mediated between them, ordering them by age; both women agreed. When Wuke learned that Guixiu was somewhat older, she showed reluctance at calling her "elder sister." The mother was quite worried. But at the third-day family gathering, when Wuke saw Guixiu's charming and agreeable manner, she involuntarily yielded precedence to her; from then on the matter was settled. But their parents feared that over time they might not get along, yet the two girls had no words of discord between them; they exchanged clothes and shoes with ease and loved each other like sisters. Wangsun then asked Wuke why she had dismissed the matchmaker. She laughed and said, “No other reason—just a small repayment for your having dismissed old Yu. You had not yet seen me, and in your heart there was only that other lady; even after you saw me, I held back a little to see how you regarded me compared with that lady. If you had fallen ill for her sake and not for mine, then I would not have forced you to accept my looks.” Wangsun laughed and said, “That repayment was harsh indeed! But without old Yu, how could I have ever beheld your fair countenance?” Wuke said, “It was I myself who wished to see you; what could old Yu have done? When you passed by my gate, did you not know that someone was gazing at you from inside? We had already met in a dream—why have you not yet believed it?” Wangsun asked in surprise, “How did you know?” She said, “When I was ill, I dreamed I went to your home and thought it was unreal; later I heard that you too had dreamed, and then I knew my soul had truly come here.” Wangsun found it strange and recounted his dream; the times and dates matched exactly. The good fates of father and son were both accomplished through dreams—truly an unusual sentiment. Hence both are recorded. The Historian of the Strange remarks: “The father was infatuated with love, and the son nearly died for love. What is called the ‘seed of love’—does it not apply to Wangsun? Without a father who was good at dreaming, how could a son with a separated soul have been born?” Zhou Sheng Zhou, the master, was a clerk in Ziyi. The magistrate being away on official business, his wife Xu had a vow to worship the Blue-Goddess of the Dawn, but because the road was far, she intended to send a servant with offerings on her behalf. She had Zhou compose the prayer text. Zhou wrote a parallel prose piece, recounting all her life, and it contained quite a bit of frivolous and lascivious language. Among the lines were: “Having planted all the flowers of Banyang county, he especially pities those who cut off sleeves; having set the grass of Jiagu and Mishan, he only loves the leftover peaches.” This was what enraged the lady, and there were many such passages. After finishing the draft, he showed it to his colleague Ling. Ling thought it was indecent and advised him not to use it. Zhou did not listen and gave it to the servant to take away. Before long, Zhou died in his office; soon after, the servant also died; and Lady Xu, after giving birth, also fell ill and died. People had not yet found it unusual. Zhou’s son came from the capital to escort his father’s coffin back and stayed overnight with Ling. He dreamed that his father warned him, saying, “One cannot be careless with written words! I did not listen to Ling’s words, and because of those indecent phrases, I provoked the anger of the gods, abruptly cutting short my allotted years; moreover, I implicated Lady Xu and even brought disaster to the servant who burned the text—I fear that punishment in the underworld is still unavoidable!” When he woke up, he told Ling, and Ling had also dreamed the same; thus he recounted the text. Zhou’s son was deeply alarmed. The Historian of the Strange remarks: “To let one’s feelings run wild and wield the brush, always pouring forth with self-satisfaction—this is common among literary men. But how dare one use obscene and wanton words to address the divine! The reckless ignoramus deserves the judgment of the underworld. Yet that the worthy lady and the servant who traveled a thousand li should both die without knowing their offense—is that not vastly different from the legal principle of distinguishing principal from accessory, and rather muddled? What an injustice!” Chu Suiliang A certain Zhao of Changshan rented a house from a wealthy clan. He suffered from a blockage illness, and being alone and poor, he lay near death. One day, forcing himself up to seek coolness, he moved his bed to lie under the eaves. When he woke, he saw a peerlessly beautiful woman sitting beside him. He questioned her. The woman said, “I have come especially to be your wife.” Zhao was startled and said, “Not to mention that a poor man dare not have such fancies; moreover, I am at my last gasp—what use would a wife be?” The woman said, “I can cure you.” Zhao said, “My illness is not something that can be removed in a hurry; even if you have a good prescription, what can I do without money to buy medicine?” The woman said, “I heal illnesses without medicine.” Thereupon she pressed her hand on Zhao’s belly and massaged it forcefully. He felt the palm as hot as fire. After a while, the lump in his abdomen faintly emitted sounds of splitting and breaking. After another short while, he felt the urge to go to the latrine. He rose quickly, walked a few steps, undressed, and had a great discharge; gelatinous fluid flowed out, and all the clumps came out, making him feel thoroughly refreshed throughout his body. He returned to his original place and said to the woman, “Who are you, lady? Please tell me your name, so that I may offer sacrifices in your honor.” She replied, “I am a fox immortal. You are Chu Suiliang of the Tang dynasty, and you once showed kindness to my family; I have always kept it in my heart and wished to repay you. I have been searching for you all this time, and only now have I found you—so my long-cherished wish can be fulfilled.” Zhao felt ashamed of his own wretched appearance and also worried that his thatched hut and sooty stove would stain her elegant clothes. But the woman simply urged him to go. Zhao then led her inside; the earth floor was covered with chaff, there was no mat, the stove was cold and smokeless. He said, “Not to mention that such a setting is unworthy of you; even if you could bear it, pray look at the bottom of the jar—it is empty—how could I support a wife and children?” The woman only said, “Do not worry.” As she spoke, he turned his head and saw that a felt mat, blanket, and bedding had already been laid on the bed; just as he was about to ask, in another blink, he saw the whole room papered with silvery paper as bright as a mirror, and everything had been transformed—the tables and cases were clean and refined, and delicacies and wine were all set out. So they drank together happily. At dusk, they slept together as husband and wife. When the landlord heard of these wonders, he asked to see her, and the woman came out to meet him without any reluctance. From then on, word spread in all directions, and many people came to the door. The woman did not refuse them. Sometimes they were invited to feasts, and the woman always went with her husband. One day, among the guests was a candidate for the provincial degree who secretly harbored lustful thoughts. The woman already knew this and suddenly rebuked him. She pushed his head with her hand; his head went out through the window lattice, but his body remained in the room, and he could neither go in nor out nor turn around. Everyone pleaded for mercy on his behalf, and only then did she pull him out. After more than a year, the number of visitors and invitations grew increasingly troublesome, and the woman grew quite weary of it. Those who were refused would curse Zhao. On the Dragon Boat Festival, as they were holding a grand drinking party, suddenly a white rabbit leaped in. The woman rose and said, “The old elixir-master has come to summon me!” She said to the rabbit, “Please go ahead.” The rabbit trotted out and went straight off. The woman told Zhao to fetch a ladder. Zhao brought a long ladder from behind the house, several zhang high. In the courtyard stood a large tree, and he leaned the ladder against it; the ladder was even higher than the treetop. The woman climbed up first, and Zhao followed. The woman turned her head and said, “If any relatives or guests wish to follow, they should step forward now.” They all looked at each other and dared not climb. Only the landlord’s young servant eagerly followed behind them. They climbed higher and higher until the ladder ended and merged with the clouds, and they could no longer be seen. They all looked at the ladder—it turned out to be an old broken door with the white panels removed. The crowd entered the room; the grey walls and broken stove were as before, and there was nothing else. They still thought that when the servant returned they could ask him, but in the end he never came back. Liu Quan Zouping Ox Doctor Hou A certain ox doctor Hou of Zouping was carrying food to the field for the plowmen. When he reached the countryside, a whirlwind swirled before him, so Hou ladled up some gruel with his dipper and made an offering to it. Only after he had offered several dippers did the wind depart. One day he happened to go to the City God Temple and was strolling under the corridor when he saw the statue inside of Liu Quan presenting a melon; bird droppings had plastered over its eyes. Hou said, "Elder Brother Liu, how could you allow yourself to be defiled like this!" With his fingernails he then cleaned it off. Several years later, he fell ill in bed and was seized by two underworld runners and taken away. When they reached the office of the yamen, they pressed him harshly for bribes. Hou was at a loss as to what to do, when suddenly a man in green robes came out from within. Seeing Hou, he exclaimed in surprise, "Old Sir Hou, why have you come?" Hou told him everything. The green-robed man scolded the two runners: "This is your Elder Master Hou—how dare you treat him with such disrespect!" The two runners assented meekly, apologizing that they had not known. Soon a sound like thunderclaps of drums was heard. The green-robed man said, "The morning court session has begun." He then led Hou inside with him and had him stand below the steps, saying, "Stand here for the moment; I will ask on your behalf." He then went up to the hall, beckoned to a clerk to come down, and exchanged a few words with him. The clerk, seeing Hou, cupped his hands and said, "So Elder Brother Hou has come! You have no great matter—there is a horse bringing a suit against you; once the examination is done, you may return at once." Then he took his leave. After a short while, the court called out Hou's name. Hou went up and knelt, and a horse also knelt. The official asked Hou, "The horse says you poisoned it to death—is that so?" Hou replied, "It contracted a plague, and I treated it with a plague prescription. Since the medicine did not cure it, it died the next day—what has that to do with me?" The horse made human speech, and the two wrangled bitterly. The official ordered the registers examined. The registers recorded that the horse's allotted lifespan was so many years, and it should have died on such a year, month, and day—the numbers matched exactly. He then scolded, "This is simply that your appointed days were exhausted—how dare you lodge a false complaint!" He drove it away with a shout. Then he said to Hou, "You have always acted with compassion; you need not die." He ordered the two runners to escort him back. The two men from before also came out with them and were again instructed to treat him well along the way. Hou said, "Today, although I have received your protection and shelter, in my life I have never had the honor of making your acquaintance. May I beg your surnames and given names, that I may plan how to repay you?" The green-robed man said, "Three years ago, I was traveling from Mount Tai and was parched with thirst nearly to death. I passed by your village, and you were kind enough to give me a dipper of gruel to drink—I have not forgotten it to this day." The clerk said, "I am Liu Quan. Formerly I was defiled by bird droppings and could not bear the stifling filth; with your own hands you washed it clean for me, so I have always kept it in mind. But in the underworld, wine and food cannot be offered to guests, so let us part here." Hou then understood, and returned home. When he arrived at his house, he tried to entertain the two runners, but they would not even drink a cup of water. When Hou revived, it turned out he had been dead for over two days. From then on he cultivated goodness all the more. At every festival, he would surely offer gruel and wine to Liu Quan. At the age of eighty, he was still hale and strong, able to vault onto a horse and gallop. One day on the road he saw Liu Quan coming on horseback, as if about to travel far. After they had cupped their hands and exchanged pleasantries, Liu said, "Your allotted years are exhausted, and your summons warrant has already been issued. The summoning runners wanted to call you, but I forbade them to do so. You may return and make preparations for your aftermath. In three days, I will come and travel with you. In the underworld I have purchased a minor post on your behalf, so there will be no hardship either." Then he departed. Hou returned and told his wife and children, bid farewell to his relatives and friends, and had his coffin and shrouds all prepared. At dusk on the fourth day, he said to all present, "Elder Brother Liu has come." He entered the coffin and died. Earth Transforms into Rabbit When Marquis Jingni Zhang Yong was garrisoning Lanzhou, he went hunting and caught many rabbits. Among them, some had half their bodies or both hind legs still of earthen substance. For a time, all of Qinzhong was abuzz with the tale that earth could transform into rabbits. This too is a principle of natural phenomena that cannot be explained. Bird Messenger When Shi Wucheng of Yuancheng was living at home, suddenly a bird alighted on his roof. Its scent and color were like those of a crow. When Shi saw it, he told his family, "The lady has sent a bird messenger to summon me. Quickly prepare for the funeral; I shall die on such a day." On that day he indeed died. On the day of the funeral, the crow returned again, following the hearse in slow flight from Yuan to Xin. Only after the burial did the crow disappear. Wu Muxin of Changshan witnessed this with his own eyes. Ji Sheng The E family of Nanyang was plagued by a fox. Money and household goods were constantly stolen. When they crossed it, the haunting grew worse. The E family had a nephew, Ji Sheng, an unconventional scholar of some repute. He burned incense and prayed on their behalf for deliverance, but to no avail. He also prayed that the fox would leave his grandfather and come to his own home instead, but still there was no response. Everyone mocked him. Sheng said, "It can transform and change, so surely it must have a human heart. I intend to guide it and bring it to the right path." Every few days he would go and make a prayer. Although no visible result appeared, wherever Sheng went the fox ceased its mischief; for this reason, E often had Sheng stay the night. At night Sheng would face the sky and beg for an audience, pressing his invitation ever more earnestly. One day, Sheng returned home and was sitting alone in his study, when the door slowly opened by itself. Sheng rose and saluted, saying, "Elder Brother Fox, have you come?" Yet there was utter silence. One night, the door opened by itself again. Sheng said, "If it is Elder Brother Fox deigning to descend, you are precisely what I have been praying and begging for—why not show yourself openly?" But again there was silence. On his desk were two hundred cash, which went missing by morning. That night, Sheng added several hundred more. In the middle of the night, he heard a clinking sound from the cloth curtain. Sheng said, "Have you come? I have respectfully prepared a few hundred current coins for your use. Though I am not well-off, I am no miser. If you are in urgent need, you may as well speak plainly—why resort to theft?" After a short while, he saw that two hundred cash had been taken. Sheng put the same amount back in place, and for several nights nothing more was lost. A cooked chicken that had been set aside for a guest went missing. That evening, Sheng added wine as well, but from then on the fox left no trace. The haunting of the E household continued as before. Sheng went again to pray, saying, "I set out money and you did not take it; I set out wine and you did not drink it. My grandfather is aged and failing—do not haunt him for so long. I have prepared some modest offerings, and tonight you may take them yourself as you please." He then laid out ten thousand cash, a jug of wine, and two chickens all minced, on the table. Sheng lay beside them all night without a sound, and the money and goods remained as they were. From then on the fox's mischief ceased entirely. One day, Sheng returned home late. When he opened the study door, he saw on the table a pot of wine, a platter piled high with stewed chicken, and four hundred cash strung on a red cord—exactly the items that had been lost before. He knew this was the fox's repayment. The wine smelled fragrant; when poured, its color was a jade green, and it was very mellow to drink. After finishing the pot, half-drunk, he felt a sudden surge of greed rising in his heart, and abruptly wanted to become a thief. He opened the door and went out. Thinking of a wealthy household in the village, he went and scaled its wall. Though the wall was high, he leaped up and down as if he had wings. Entering the study, he stole a marten-fur robe and a golden tripod and came out. He placed them by his bedside and then lay down to sleep. At dawn, he carried them into the inner chamber. His wife, startled, asked him about it. Sheng stammered out the story, a pleased look on his face. His wife said in alarm, "You have always been upright and honest—how could you suddenly become a thief!" Sheng was unconcerned and thought nothing strange of it, recounting instead the fox's gratitude. His wife suddenly understood and said, "This must be the fox's poison in the wine." Remembering that cinnabar could ward off evil, she ground some into the wine and gave it to Sheng to drink. In a short while, Sheng suddenly cried out, "How could I have done such a thing as stealing!" His wife explained the reason to him, and he was overcome with dismay. Meanwhile, word spread through the village that the wealthy household had been robbed. Sheng could not eat all day and did not know what to do. His wife devised a plan, telling him to throw the goods back over the wall under cover of night. Sheng followed her advice. The wealthy household recovered its lost items, and the matter was dropped. Sheng came first in the annual prefectural examination, and was also recommended for the honor of "merit," so he was due double the reward. On the day of the final proclamation, a note was pasted on a beam in the official yamen, reading: "Ji Sheng committed theft and stole fur robe and tripod from such-and-such a household—why should he be cited for merit?" The beam was very high and could not be reached even by tiptoe. The examining official, suspicious, took the note and questioned Sheng. Sheng was stunned, thinking that apart from his wife, no one knew of this matter; moreover, the yamen was closely guarded—how could it have arrived there? Then he realized, saying, "This must be the fox's doing." He then gave a full account without concealment, and the official treated him with great respect and courtesy thereafter. Sheng often reflected to himself: he had done nothing to offend the fox, yet it repeatedly ensnared him—this too was simply the petty man's shame at being the only petty man. The Historian of the Strange comments: "Sheng wished to lead the deviant into the right path, yet instead he was deluded by the deviant. The fox's intent may not have been wholly evil; perhaps Sheng led it on with jests, and the fox in turn played tricks on him. But had he not possessed innate good roots and had a worthy helpmate in his chamber, how close would he have come to what Yuan She said—that once a family widow is defiled by a thief, she then gives herself over to lewdness! Alas—how fearsome!" Wu Muxin said: "In the thirty-third year of the Kangxi reign [1694], a district magistrate in Zhejiang was inspecting prisoners. There was a thief who had already been branded according to regulation and was due for release. The magistrate, however, took exception to the fact that the character for 'thief' had been written in a vulgar abbreviated form rather than the official standard, and ordered it scraped off; after the wound healed, he would have it re-branded according to the strokes of the character as given in the standard dictionary. The thief extemporized a quatrain: 'Taking up a bronze mirror and looking carefully, Vivid blood and old scars mingle. Had I known the branding would cause such pain again, I would have first avoided literate officials when stealing.' A guard laughed and said, 'A poet, yet you do not seek fame and office—instead you become a thief?' The thief replied with another impromptu verse: 'In youth I studied the Way with ambition for fame and office, Only to have my life ruined by poverty. I hoped to gain some capital to turn a profit, And wander the Yan markets seeking favor and glory.'" From this it can be seen that even a scholar who becomes a thief still harbors ambitions for official advancement. The fox bestowed upon the young master Ji the means for advancement, yet he ended up regretting being misled by it—how foolish! One cannot help but laugh. RETRIBUTION A certain scholar of Anqiu was versed in the arts of divination. He was dissolute and unrestrained in conduct, and would consult the oracle whenever he planned any illicit undertaking. One day, he suddenly fell ill. Medicine did not help. He said, "I truly see something now. The underworld is angry at me for profaning the ways of Heaven, and I am to be severely punished—what can medicine do?" Before long, his eyes went suddenly blind, and both his arms broke of their own accord without cause. A certain man named A had an uncle without issue. A, coveting his property, offered to become his heir. After the uncle died, A took possession of all the lands and properties, and then reneged on his promise. He also had another uncle, quite well-off and likewise without sons. A again made himself his heir. When this uncle died, he again broke his word. Thus, he combined the estates of three families and became the wealthiest man in the region. One day, he suddenly fell violently ill and raved as if mad, saying, "You wish to enjoy wealth and honor while still alive, do you?" Then he took a sharp knife and cut off pieces of his own flesh, flinging them to the ground one by one. Again he said, "You have cut off others' lines of succession—do you still think you deserve heirs?" He then slashed open his belly and his bowels spilled out, and he died. Not long after, his son also died, and the property passed to others. Such is retribution—how fearsome it is! GONGSUN XIA In Baoding there was a student of the Imperial Academy who was preparing to go to the capital to purchase a district magistracy with his funds. He was just packing when he fell ill and did not recover for over a month. Suddenly a servant entered and announced, "A guest has come." Forgetting his illness, he hurried out to receive the visitor. The guest was dressed in fine clothes and resembled a nobleman. After exchanging bows, they entered the room, and he asked whence the guest had come. The guest said, "I am Gongsun Xia, a guest of the Eleventh Prince. I heard you were preparing to go and seek a district magistracy. Since you have such ambition, would not a prefectural post be even better?" He demurred modestly, saying only, "My funds are meager; I dare not entertain such extravagant hopes." The guest offered to assist him, proposing that he pay half the sum now and make up the remainder at his post. Delighted, he asked for a plan. The guest said, "The governor and the viceroy are both my closest friends. If you can come up with five thousand strings of cash temporarily, the matter is as good as done. At present, there is a vacancy in Zhengding—you should move quickly on it." He was surprised it was in his own province. The guest laughed and said, "You are too rigid! As long as you have money, what does it matter if it's Wu, Yue, or your native place?" He still hesitated, doubting the matter's legitimacy. The guest said, "Do not doubt. I will tell you truthfully: this is a vacancy for the City God in the underworld. Your allotted lifespan is exhausted, and you are already recorded in the book of death. If you seize this opportunity to arrange matters, you may still obtain a noble station in the underworld." He then rose to take his leave, saying, "Consider it yourself; I will return in three days." He went out, mounted his horse, and departed. He suddenly opened his eyes and took his final leave of his wife and children. He ordered them to bring out his stored silver and buy ten thousand ingots of spirit money, emptying the entire prefecture of such goods. They piled it in the courtyard, along with paper figures and horses, and burned it day and night until the ashes formed a mound as high as a hill. After three days, the guest indeed arrived. He handed over the money for exchange, and the guest led him to the administrative office, where he saw a high official seated in the hall. He prostrated himself. The high official briefly asked his name, then exhorted him with words such as "be upright and prudent." He then took out the letter of appointment, summoned him to the desk, and gave it to him. He kowtowed and left the office. Reflecting that as a mere Academy student he was lowly, and that without a grand carriage and splendid attire he could not awe his subordinates, he went on to purchase more carriages and horses; he also dispatched ghostly attendants to bring his beautiful concubine in a decorated palanquin. He had barely finished his arrangements when the full retinue proper to a Zhengged prefect arrived. For over a hundred li along the road, the procession stretched in a line, and he was greatly pleased. Suddenly, the gongs of the outriders fell silent and their banners drooped. Startled and puzzled, he saw all the riders dismount and prostrate themselves by the roadside; the men shrank to a foot in height, and the horses became as small as weasels. The men before his carriage cried out in alarm, "Lord Guan is coming!" Terrified, he got down from his carriage and prostrated himself as well. From afar he saw Lord Guan approaching at a slow pace, accompanied by four or five riders. His beard was thick and covered his cheeks, unlike the image commonly depicted in the world; his bearing was awesomely fierce, and his eyes were so long they nearly reached his temples. From horseback he asked, "What official is this?" His attendants answered, "The prefect of Zhengding." Lord Guan said, "A mere prefecture—how does it warrant such grand ostentation?" Upon hearing this, his hair stood on end and he was seized with terror; his body suddenly shrank, and he saw himself as a child of six or seven. Lord Guan ordered him to rise and follow behind his horse. By the roadside there was a hall; Lord Guan entered and sat facing south, and ordered that brush and paper be given to him, so that he might write down his native place and name. He wrote it out and presented it. Lord Guan looked at it and angrily said, "The characters are so erroneously written they are barely recognizable! This is a mere market peddler—how can he be fit to govern the people?" He then ordered an examination of his record of virtue. One man kneeling beside him reported something, though what he said is unknown. Lord Guan said in a stern voice, "The offense of seeking advancement is minor; the offense of selling offices is grave!" Immediately, a golden-armored deity bound him with a chain and led him away. Then two men seized him, stripped off his cap and robes, and gave him fifty strokes of the bamboo, nearly flaying the flesh from his buttocks, before throwing him out the gate. Looking in all directions, he saw that all his carriages and horses had vanished. In great pain he could not walk, and lay resting in the grass. Looking closely at his location, he found it was not very far from home. Fortunately, his body was as light as a leaf, and only after a full day and night did he reach home. Suddenly he woke as if from a dream, groaning on his bed. His family gathered around and asked after him, but he only spoke of the pain in his thighs. He had lain insensible as if dead for seven days, and only now regained consciousness. He then asked, "Why has A'lian not come?"—A'lian was his concubine's pet name. Previously, A'lian had been sitting and chatting when she suddenly said, "He has become Prefect of Zhengding and has sent attendants to fetch me." She then went into her room and dressed in her finest, and after finishing her toilette, she died—only the night before. His family told him of this strange occurrence. He beat his breast in remorse and regret, and ordered that her body not be buried, hoping she might return. After several days with no sign, she was buried. His illness gradually improved, but the wounds on his buttocks were severe and took half a year to heal. He often said to himself, "My official funds are all spent, and I have suffered cruel punishment in the underworld—this I can still bear; but my beloved concubine—I do not know where she was carried off—that is what makes the long nights unbearable." The Historian remarks: "Alas! Market peddlers are indeed unfit to rule! Since the underworld has its own threads of justice, I fear that even where Lord Guan's horse does not tread, those who wield power arbitrarily are beyond counting. There is a story about Mr. Guo Huaye of my native place that is quite similar, and he too was a god among men. Mr. Guo, for his incorruptible integrity, won the sovereign's trust and was twice appointed Governor-General of Jing-Chu. His luggage was sparse, with only four or five attendants, and their clothes and shoes were shabby. People along the road did not know he was a high official. It happened that a newly appointed magistrate was on his way to take up office and met him on the road. He had more than twenty baggage-carts, dozens of outriders, and hundreds of attendants in his train. Mr. Guo did not know what official he was either, and at times rode ahead, at times behind, and at times mingled his few riders among the other's retinue. The outriders at the front were annoyed by the disturbance and shouted for him to move away. Mr. Guo paid them no heed. Before long, they arrived at a large town and both parties stopped to rest. He then sent someone to inquire secretly, and learned that it was a student of the Imperial Academy who had purchased a post in Hunan with his contributions. He then sent a servant to summon him. The magistrate, upon being called, was alarmed and suspicious; when he inquired about the official rank, he learned it was Mr. Guo, and was so terrified he did not know where to put himself. He approached in full official dress, crawling on his knees. Mr. Guo asked, 'So you are the magistrate of such-and-such district?' He replied, 'Yes.' Mr. Guo said, 'A tiny district like that—how can it support such a train of attendants? Once you take office, the people there will be devastated! I cannot allow you to bring calamity upon the people. You may return immediately; do not go further.' The magistrate kowtowed and said, 'Your subordinate still has his letter of appointment.' Mr. Guo ordered him to produce it, and after examining it, said, 'This is a small matter—I will return it on your behalf.' The magistrate prostrated himself, kowtowed, and withdrew. On the return journey he did not know how to compose himself, and Mr. Guo went on his way. That a man should receive his official evaluation before even taking up his post is truly unheard of. But Mr. Guo was an extraordinary man, so one can believe such a splendid story." HAN FANG During the late Ming dynasty, in several prefectures and counties north of Ji Commandery, an evil plague erupted violently, and every household was affected. Han Fang, a peasant from Qidong, was extremely filial by nature. Both his parents fell ill, so he prepared paper money and went weeping and praying at the temple of the Lone Stone (Gushi) deity. On his way back, he shed tears. He encountered a man, clean in attire and appearance, who asked, "Why are you so sad?" Han told him everything. The man said, "The deity of Lone Stone is not here; what use is praying to him? I have a minor technique; I can give it a try." Han was delighted and asked his surname and given name. The man said, "I seek no reward, so why must I tell you my native place?" Han earnestly invited him to come to his home. The man said, "There is no need. Just go home, place yellow paper on the bed, and say in a stern voice: 'I am going to the capital tomorrow to inform the Yue Emperor!' The illness will then cease." Han, fearing it might not work, firmly begged him to come over. The man said, "I will tell you the truth: I am not a human. The Patrolling Envoy, because of my sincerity and diligence, appointed me as the Earth God of the southern village. Moved by your filial piety, I have instructed you in this method. Currently, the Yue Emperor is selecting ghosts who died unjustly, those who have rendered service to the people, or those who are upright and do not act as evil spirits, to serve as City Gods and Earth Gods. Those who are afflicting people today are all ghosts killed by soldiers north of the commandery city. They are urgently trying to get to the capital to turn themselves in, so along the way they are extorting bribes to get food. If you say you will inform the Yue Emperor, they will surely be afraid, and so it should stop." Han, startled and filled with reverence, prostrated himself on the ground and kowtowed in thanks. When he rose, the man had already vanished. He returned home in astonishment and wonder. Following his instructions, both his parents recovered. He passed it on to the neighboring villages, and it proved effective in every case. Yi Shi Shi commented: "Those ghosts who go along the road afflicting people so as to be deemed fit for use as non-evil spirits — how are they any different from those who ride horses to take the 'Seeking No Fame and Distinction' examination? Most matters under heaven are broadly like this. I still recall that during the years Jiaxu and Yihai, the officials in charge made the people contribute grain, and in their memorial they stated that the people were willingly contributing (le shu). Hence all prefectures and counties exacted the full amount as per the quota, and much effort was spent on flogging and beating. At that time, the seven towns north of the commandery were flooded and the harvest was poor, so pressing for collection was especially difficult. Grand Historian Tang happened to visit Lijin and saw over a dozen people in chains and arrest. He asked, 'What is this about?' They answered, 'The officials are catching us and taking us to the city to press and pursue the le shu.' The peasants did not know what the two characters 'le shu' meant, and thus took it as a name for corvée labor and beating — is this not lamentable and laughable!" Ren Zhen (The Needle) Yu Xiaosi was a man of Dongchang. He made his living by trading and accumulating wealth. His wife, Xia, had returned from visiting her parents when she saw an old woman outside the gate, accompanied by a young girl, weeping bitterly. Xia questioned them, and the old woman wiped her tears and told her story. Only then did she learn that the woman's husband, Wang Xinzhai, was also of official lineage. His family had declined, and they had no means of livelihood. He had asked a guarantor to borrow gold from a wealthy Huang family to go into trade. On the way he was attacked by bandits, lost his capital, but fortunately survived. Upon returning home, Huang demanded repayment; the principal and interest came to no less than thirty gold pieces, and indeed they had nothing to pledge in settlement. Huang had taken note that their daughter, Renzhen, was beautiful, and planned to take her as a concubine. He sent the guarantor to inform them: if they agreed, besides writing off the debt, he would still give twenty gold pieces as a bond. Wang discussed it with his wife. His wife wept and said, "Though we are poor, we are of an official family by birth. How dare that man who rose from being a groom make our daughter his concubine? Besides, Renzhen already has her own betrothed—how can you arbitrarily decide for her!" Earlier, the son of a local Filial and Incorrupt candidate named Fu, who was on good terms with Wang, had a son named Amao, and they had betrothed him in infancy. Later, the Filial and Incumbent took office in Fujian and died after a little over a year. His wife and children could not return home, and all news ceased. For that reason, Renzhen, at fifteen, was still not betrothed. At this mention, Wang had no reply, but only sought some way to manage. His wife said, "There is no help for it; we should try to ask your two younger brothers." —For his wife, née Fan, her grandfather had held a capital post, and her two grandsons still had considerable property. The next day, the wife took her daughter to visit her two brothers, but they let her weep and were unwilling to offer any solution. Fan then wailed and returned home. Just then she met Xia, and both wept as she told her story. Xia pitied her. Looking at the girl, graceful and lovely, she felt even more sorrow for her. So she invited them into her home and offered them food and drink, comforting them, "Mother and daughter, do not grieve; I will do my utmost." Fan had not time to thank her before the girl had already fallen to the ground weeping, and Xia felt all the more pity. After thinking, she said, "Though I have some small savings, thirty gold pieces is still very difficult. I will pawn and pledge to raise them." The mother and daughter bowed in thanks. Xia set a deadline of three days. After they parted, she tried every means to raise the money, not daring to tell her husband. In three days, she had not reached the full amount; she also sent someone to borrow from her mother. The Fans had already arrived, so she told them the truth and set another day. By nightfall, the borrowed money came, and she wrapped it all together and placed it by her bedside. That night, a thief bored through the wall and entered with a torch. Xia awoke and, peering sideways, saw a man with a short knife at his arm, fierce-looking. Terrified, she dared not make a sound and pretended to be asleep. The thief approached the chest, intending to force it open. Then he glanced at the bundle by Xia's pillow, reached over and snatched it, taking it to the lamp to examine; finding only a money pouch, he left without opening the chest. Xia then rose and cried out. In the house there was only a young maid; she called over the wall to the neighbors, and the neighbors gathered, but the thief was already far away. Xia sat by the lamp sobbing. Seeing the maid sound asleep, she took a belt and hanged herself in the window frame. At dawn the maid awoke, called for help, and they cut her down, but her limbs were cold. Yu rushed home, questioned the maid, learned the cause, and in shock and tears arranged her burial. It was then summer; her body did not stiffen nor decay. After seven days, they placed her in the coffin. After the burial, Renzhen secretly went out and wept at her grave. Suddenly a rainstorm gathered, thunder and lightning crashed, the grave burst open, and Renzhen was struck dead by lightning. Yu heard and rushed to examine; the coffin had been opened, and his wife was groaning within. He carried her out. Seeing the girl's corpse, he did not know who it was. Xia examined it closely and then recognized her. They were all astonished. Not long after, Fan arrived and, seeing her daughter dead, wept, saying, "I suspected she was here; now it is indeed so! When I heard that madam had hanged herself, she wept day and night without cease. Tonight she told me she wished to weep at the funeral hall, and I did not agree." Xia, moved by her devotion, then spoke with her husband and had the girl buried in the same grave and coffin that had been prepared for herself. Fan bowed in thanks. Yu carried his wife home, and Fan also returned to tell her husband. It was heard that a man north of the village was struck dead by lightning on the road, with characters on his body reading: "The thief who stole Xia's gold." Soon they heard a neighbor woman weeping; then they knew the one struck was her husband, Ma Da. The villagers reported it to the authorities, and the woman was arrested and tortured; it turned out that Fan, in her gratitude for Xia's raising the money to ransom her daughter, had wept openly about it, and Ma Da, a wastrel gambler, had heard and conceived the idea of theft. The officials had the woman brought to search for the stolen goods; only twenty-odd pieces remained; and on Ma's body they found four pieces. The court ordered the woman sold to make up the shortfall and repay Yu. Xia was all the more pleased; she gave the entire sum back to Fan to repay the creditor. Three days after the girl was buried, a great thunderstorm with wind arose at night, the grave burst open again, and the girl suddenly revived. She did not return home but went to knock at Xia's door, for she recognized her grave and suspected that Xia had also come back to life. Xia, startled, rose and asked through the door. The girl said, "Madam, are you indeed alive? I am Renzhen." Xia, fearing she was a ghost, called a neighbor woman to question her; learning that she had revived, she joyfully invited her inside. The girl said, "I wish to serve madam as a servant; I will not return." Xia said, "Surely you do not think I spent my money to buy a maidservant? After you were buried, your debt was already paid off; do not be suspicious." The girl wept all the more with gratitude and wished to serve her as a mother. Xia would not agree. The girl said, "I can work and will not eat for nothing." At dawn, they informed Fan. Fan was overjoyed and came at once. She also followed her daughter's wish and entrusted her to Xia. Fan left, but Xia insisted on sending the girl back. The girl wept with longing for Xia. Wang Xinzhai then carried his daughter on his back and brought her, leaving her inside the gate and going away. When Xia saw her, she asked in surprise and learned the reason, so she let her stay. When the girl saw Yu arrive, she at once bowed and called him father. Yu had had no children, and seeing the girl so endearing, was quite pleased. The girl spun, wove, sewed, and embroidered with utmost diligence. When Xia once fell seriously ill, the girl attended her day and night. Seeing Xia not eating, she too would not eat, and tears were often on her face. She told others, "If mother should have any mishap, I vow I will not live!" When Xia recovered a little, she finally brightened and was happy. Xia, hearing this, wept and said, "I am forty and have no son; if I could only have a daughter like Renzhen, it would be enough." Xia had never conceived; but after a year, she suddenly gave birth to a boy, and people took it as reward for her good deeds. Two years passed, and the girl grew older. Yu discussed with Wang that they could not keep the old betrothal. Wang said, "The girl is in your household; her marriage is entirely at your command." At seventeen, the girl was virtuous and incomparably beautiful. When this became known, those asking for her hand thronged at the gate; the couple chose carefully. The wealthy Huang also sent a matchmaker. Yu detested his riches gained through unkindness and firmly refused. He chose the Feng family. Feng was a famous scholar of the county; his son was clever and good at writing. They were about to inform Wang, but Wang had gone out on business and not returned, so they directly agreed. Huang, failing to get the match through Yu, also pretended to go into trade, traced Wang's whereabouts, invited him to a feast, and further assisted him with capital, gradually ingratiating himself. Then he spoke of his own son's cleverness to recommend him. Wang, touched by his kindness and admiring his wealth, agreed to the betrothal. Upon returning, he visited Yu, only to find that Yu had already accepted the betrothal letter from the Feng family the day before. Hearing what Wang said, Yu was displeased and called the girl out to tell her the situation. The girl angrily said, "That creditor is my enemy! To wed me to my enemy—only death will do!" Wang, shamed, sent someone to tell Huang of the Feng betrothal. Huang was furious and said, "The girl's surname is Wang, not Yu. I made the agreement first; his was later. How can he break the vow?" So he sued at the county magistrate's court. The magistrate inclined to decide in Huang's favor based on priority. Feng said, "Wang gave his daughter to Yu, saying that he would no longer have a say in her marriage. Besides, I have a formal betrothal document; his was merely talk over wine." The magistrate could not decide and would have the girl choose according to her will. Huang then bribed the official with gold to favor him, and thus over a month no verdict was reached. One day, a Filial and Incorrupt candidate traveling north for the metropolitan examinations passed through Dongchang and sent someone to ask for Wang Xinzhai. It happened that he asked Yu, and Yu in turn inquired; it turned out the candidate was named Fu, that is, Amao. He had entered the Fujian registration and at eighteen had already passed the provincial examination. Because of the earlier betrothal, he had not married. His mother had instructed him to stop by on the way and inquire about Wang, asking whether the girl had been betrothed to another. Yu was overjoyed and invited Fu to his home, relating all that had happened. But the son-in-law had come from thousands of li away, and they lacked proof. Fu opened his case and produced the marriage agreement that Wang had signed that day. Yu summoned Wang, who verified it was genuine, and they all rejoiced. That day, when the magistrate held the rehearing, Fu presented his card and called on the magistrate, and the case was dismissed. They chose an auspicious day and set the wedding date, then Fu departed. After the metropolitan examinations, he bought bridal gifts and returned, taking up residence in his old house and performing the formal wedding ceremony. The news of his jinshi success had already reached Fujian, and also arrived in Dongchang; Fu had again succeeded in the palace examinations. He then went to the capital for appointment and returned. The girl did not wish to cross south, and Fu, since his ancestral graves were here, went alone to bring his father's coffin and his mother back. After several more years, Yu died, and his son was only seven or eight; the girl raised him even more devotedly than her own brother. He made it possible for him to study and enter the district school, and the family came to be called a household of modest wealth—all this was Fu's doing. The Historian remarks: "Even among the divine dragons, are there knight-errants? To manifest the good and chastise the evil, whether in life or death, all by thunder—this is the 'Qiantang Battle-Formation Dance.' The roaring strokes, repeatedly struck, were all for one person—who knows but that Renzhen might not have been a banished dragon maiden descended to the mortal world?" Marquis Huan Peng Haoshi of Jingzhou was returning home from drinking at a friend's house. He dismounted to urinate, and his horse nibbled at grass by the roadside. There was a cluster of fine grass, lush and lovely, just putting forth yellow blossoms of dazzling brilliance. The horse had already eaten more than half of it. Peng pulled up the remaining stalks, sniffed them, and found an unusual fragrance, so he tucked them into his bosom. He mounted again and continued on his way. The horse galloped with wild speed, and Peng felt quite exhilarated. He did not calculate his return route but gave the horse its head. Suddenly he saw the setting sun near the mountains and was about to turn his reins. But all he could see were tangled peaks and clustered ranges, and he had no idea where he was. A servant in blue came along, and seeing the horse snorting and neighing, he took hold of the bridle for him and said, "The day is nearly over—my master invites you to stay the night." Peng asked, "What place is this?" The man replied, "Langzhong." Peng was greatly startled, for in half a day he had traveled over a thousand li. He then asked, "Who is your master?" The man said, "You will know when you arrive." He asked again, "Where is he?" The man said, "Just close by." Thereupon he took the bridle and hurried along, man and horse as if flying. They passed over a mountain ridge and saw halfway up the mountain layers of houses and pavilions, interspersed with screens and canopies. In the distance he saw a cluster of men in robes and hats, as if waiting for someone. Peng arrived and dismounted, and they all bowed to him in greeting. Soon the host emerged—his bearing was fierce and vigorous, and his headdress and clothing were all different from those of the mortal world. He clasped his hands to the guests and said, "Today no guest has come from farther than Master Peng." Thereupon he bowed to Peng and asked him to go first. Peng modestly declined, unwilling to proceed ahead. The host took him by the arm and led him forward. Peng felt that where he was grasped was like being put in fetters and cangue—the pain was such that he thought his arm would break. He dared not resist further, and so went on. Those below him were still yielding and deferring to one another; the host either pushed them or pulled them, and all the guests groaned and staggered, as if they could barely endure it, following the host's bidding entirely. When they entered the hall, the furnishings were dazzlingly ornate, with two guests to a feast mat. Peng secretly asked the one seated beside him, "Who is the host?" The answer came: "This is Marquis Huan of Zhang." Peng was stunned and dared not even clear his throat. The whole assembly fell silent. When the wine had made its rounds, Marquis Huan said, "Year after year I have imposed upon my relatives and friends; today I have merely prepared a modest repast to fulfill this small token of my feelings. That a distant guest should grace us with his presence is also a fortunate encounter. I venture to make a presumptuous request—if you cherish any attachment, I will not force you." Peng rose and asked, "What is it?" Marquis Huan said, "Your mount already possesses the bone of an immortal and is not fit to be driven by the mundane world. I wish to exchange a horse for it—how would that be?" Peng replied, "I respectfully offer it as a gift; I dare not exchange it." Marquis Huan said, "I shall repay you with a fine horse, and moreover shall bestow upon you ten thousand in gold." Peng left his mat and prostrated himself in thanks. Marquis Huan ordered his attendants to pull him to his feet. Soon wine and food were served in abundance. At sunset, they ordered candles brought. The crowd rose to take their leave, and Peng also bade farewell. Marquis Huan said, "You have come from afar—where will you go?" Peng glanced at the one seated beside him and said, "I have already asked this gentleman to be my host and lodging-keeper." Marquis Huan then poured large goblets of wine for all the guests in turn. He said to Peng, "The fragrant grass you carry in your bosom—fresh, it can make one an immortal; dried, it can transmute base metal into gold. With seven stalks of the grass, you will obtain ten thousand in gold." He then ordered a boy to bring out a formula and gave it to Peng. Peng bowed again in thanks. Marquis Huan said, "Tomorrow, when you go to the market, choose at will the finest horse from among the herds—do not haggle over the price with them; I will provide it myself." He also announced to the crowd, "When our distant guest returns home, you may each contribute a little toward his traveling expenses." All present murmured assent. When the goblets were emptied, they thanked him and departed. On the way, Peng at last asked for names and surnames; the one seated beside him was Liu Zihui. They traveled together two or three li, crossed a ridge, and saw village houses ahead. All the guests accompanied Peng to Liu's place, and only then did he relate the strange events. Earlier, the village had every year held a sacrificial festival at the temple of Marquis Huan, slaughtering livestock and performing theatricals, as established custom, with Liu as the chief patron. Three days before, the festival had just ended. That noon, each household had received an invitation to cross the mountain. When they asked about it, the words were very vague, but they were urged urgently. Crossing the mountain, they saw pavilions and lodges, and all were filled with alarm and doubt. As they were about to reach the gate, the messenger finally told them the truth; but they dared not withdraw. The messenger said, "Gather here for now; a distant guest has been invited and is on his way." That guest was Peng. They all recounted these strange happenings to one another. Among them, those who had been grasped all suffered arm pain; when they bared their arms and examined them by candlelight, the flesh was black and blue. Peng looked at himself and saw the same. The company dispersed, and Liu spread bedding for him to sleep. When dawn came, the villagers vied to invite the guest; they also accompanied Peng into the market to look at horses. In over ten days, they looked at several dozen horses, but all were poor specimens; Peng was also resigned to taking whatever he could get. He entered the market again and saw a horse whose bone structure seemed excellent; he rode it to try it out, and it was incomparably spirited and fine. He rode it straight back to the village to await the seller; when he went back to look for him, the man had already left. Thereupon he bade farewell to the villagers and wished to return. Each villager presented him with gifts of money, and so he set off. The horse traveled five hundred li in a single day. When he reached home, he told of where he had been, but no one believed him. When he brought out Sichuan goods from his bag, they all began to marvel. The fragrant grass had long since dried, and he found precisely seven stalks. Following the formula for transmutation, his family suddenly became rich. Thereupon he reverently visited the old place and offered sacrifices alone at the temple of Marquis Huan, with theatrical performances for three days before returning. The Historian remarks: "Observing Marquis Huan hosting his guests, one then believes that the Canopy Pavilion on Mount Wuyi was no fabrication. Yet when the host received his guests, he caused those whom he favored nearly to have their arms broken—from this one may imagine his valor and strength in those days." Wu Muxin related: "There was a certain Li Sheng whose lips did not cover his front teeth, which protruded beyond them by a full finger's breadth. One day, at a banquet somewhere, two guests were deferring over precedence, arguing bitterly over it. One pulled hard to bring the other forward, while the other pulled hard to fall back. His strength was such that his elbow suddenly came loose, and Li happened to be standing right behind him. The elbow swept past and struck him on the mouth—both front teeth were knocked out, and blood gushed forth. Everyone was stunned, and the argument ceased." This is the same sort of laughable matter as Marquis Huan's gripping arms until they broke. Pink Butterfly Yang Dairan was a native of Qiongzhou. Happening to return from another prefecture, he sailed on the sea. He encountered a typhoon, and the boat was about to capsize; suddenly a vacant boat drifted over, and he hastily leaped aboard. Looking back, he saw that all his fellow voyagers had sunk. The wind grew fiercer, and he let himself be carried wherever it blew, unconscious. Before long, the wind ceased. Opening his eyes, he suddenly saw an island with houses and pavilions in rows. He rowed to the shore and went straight to the village gate. The village was silent; he walked and sat for a long while, with no sound of dogs or chickens. He saw a gate facing north, shaded by pines and bamboos. Though it was already early winter, within the wall he did not know what flowers they were, with buds covering the trees. Delighted in his heart, he hesitated and then entered. From afar he heard the sound of a qin, and he paused for a moment. A maidservant came out from inside, about fourteen or fifteen, graceful and dazzlingly beautiful. Seeing Yang, she turned and hurried back in. Soon the qin music ceased, and a young man came out, asking in surprise where the guest had come from. Yang told him everything. He then inquired about his clan and native place, and Yang told him that too. The young man rejoiced, saying, "We are in-laws!" Thereupon he bowed and invited him into the courtyard. Within the courtyard were fine and elegant lodgings, and again the sound of a qin was heard. When they entered the room, a young lady sat upright, just tuning the red strings; she was about eighteen or nineteen, radiant and resplendent. Seeing the guest enter, she pushed the qin aside and was about to withdraw. The young man stopped her, saying, "Do not flee; this is precisely a relative of your family." He then recounted the circumstances on her behalf. The young lady said, "He is my nephew." Then she asked, "Is your grandmother still well? How old are your father and mother?" Yang said, "My parents are over forty, both in good health; only my grandmother is sixty, afflicted with a chronic illness, so that she cannot take a step without support. Your nephew truly does not know which branch of the family you belong to, Aunt; I beg you to tell me clearly so that I may relate it on my return." The young lady said, "The roads are far and wide, and news has been cut off for a long time. When you return, just tell your father, 'Your Tenth Aunt sends her regards,' and he will know of himself." Yang asked, "Which clan does my uncle belong to?" The young man said, "His surname is Yan, and he lives on this isle. This place is called Immortal Island, three thousand li from Qiongzhou. I have been a sojourner here only a short time as well." Tenth Aunt hurried inside and ordered the maidservant to serve wine and food to the guest. The fresh vegetables were fragrant and delicious, but he did not know their names. After the meal, they went out to look around, and he saw peach and apricot trees bearing buds, which he found quite strange. Yan said, "Here summer has no great heat, winter no great cold, and flowers never cease." Yang rejoiced, saying, "This is indeed an immortal land. I shall tell my parents and move the family here to be neighbors." Yan only smiled. Returning to the study, they lit candles, and Yang saw a qin placed on the table; he asked to hear its sublime melody. Yan then stroked the strings and adjusted the pegs. Tenth Aunt came out from inside, and Yan said, "Come, come! Play for your nephew." Tenth Aunt sat down and asked her nephew, "What would you like to hear?" Yang said, "Your nephew has never read the Qin Manual, so truly I have no preference." Tenth Aunt said, "Just name any theme at will, and it can be rendered in a tune." Yang laughed and said, "Could 'The Sea Wind Guides the Boat' be made into a tune?" Tenth Aunt said, "It can." She then pressed the strings and plucked them, as if following an old score; the mood and rhythm surged tumultuously. When he quietly attended to it, it was as if he were still in a boat, tossed and buffeted by the typhoon. Yang was astounded beyond measure and asked, "May I learn it?" Tenth Aunt gave him the qin and let him try plucking and strumming, then said, "You can be taught. What do you wish to learn?" He said, "That piece you just played, the 'Typhoon Melody'—I wonder how many days it would take to learn? Please first record the tune so I can chant and recite it." Tenth Aunt said, "This has no written notation; I composed it by ear." Then she took another qin and demonstrated the finger movements of plucking and flicking, making Yang imitate her. Yang practiced until past the first watch, and when the pitch and rhythm were roughly matching, the husband and wife left him. Yang focused his gaze and concentrated his mind, playing by candlelight to himself; after a long while, he suddenly gained a wonderful insight and could not help dancing. Lifting his head, he suddenly saw the maidservant standing by the lamp. Startled, he said, "You have not yet left, have you?" The maid laughed and said, "Tenth Aunt ordered me to wait for you to retire, to close the door and move the lampstand." He looked her over carefully; her eyes were clear as autumn waters, and her bearing was exquisitely alluring. Yang's heart stirred, and he made a slight advance toward her; the maid lowered her head and smiled. Yang grew even more entranced, and abruptly rose and put his arm around her neck. The maid said, "Do not do that! It is already the fourth watch; the master will soon rise. We each have feelings—tomorrow night will not be too late." While they were embracing, they heard Yan call, "Fendie!" The maid changed countenance and said, "Disaster!" She hurried away. Yang stealthily went to listen. He only heard Yan say, "I always said that this maid's earthly ties were not yet extinguished, yet you insisted on taking her in. What now? She deserves three hundred strokes!" Tenth Aunt said, "Once such a thought is born, she cannot be kept for service; better to give her to our nephew." Yang was deeply ashamed and afraid, and returned to his study, extinguishing the candle and lying down alone. At dawn, a boy came to attend to his washing, and he did not see Fendie again. His heart was uneasy, fearing reproach and expulsion. Soon Yan and Tenth Aunt came out together, seeming to bear no grudge, and examined his progress. Yang played for them once. Tenth Aunt said, "Though not yet inspired, you have grasped nine-tenths; with practice, you can reach excellence." Yang then asked to be taught another piece. Yan taught him the tune "The Banished Celestial Maiden," whose fingering was intricate and difficult; after three days of practice, he was able to play it through. Yan said, "The essentials are complete; from now on, only practice is needed. Master these two pieces, and there will be no tunes in the qin repertoire that will stump you." Yang missed his family considerably and said to Tenth Aunt, "Living here under your care, Aunt, I have been very happy; but my family at home is anxious about me. Being three thousand li from home, when shall I ever return?" Tenth Aunt said, "That is not difficult. Your old boat is still here; I will help you with a favorable wind. You have no wife, and I have already sent Fendie away." She then presented him with a qin. She also gave him medicine, saying, "Go and treat your grandmother with this—it will not only cure her illness but also prolong her years." Then she escorted him to the seashore and had him board the boat. Yang looked for an oar, but Tenth Aunt said, "There is no need for that." She untied her skirt to make a sail and fastened it for him. Yang worried about losing his way, but Tenth Aunt said, "Do not worry; just let the sail flutter." Having tied it, she went down to the boat. Yang was melancholy and was about to bow farewell when a south wind sprang up, and the shore was already far behind. He saw that provisions had been placed in the boat, but they sufficed for only one day's meals, and he inwardly resented her stinginess. Hungry, he dared not eat much, fearing they would be consumed too quickly; he only ate one flat cake, and found it sweet and fragrant both inside and out. He treasured the remaining six or seven and kept them carefully, and he felt no further hunger. Soon he saw the sun about to set, and regretted not having asked for lamp oil when he came. In an instant, he saw distant signs of human habitation; looking closely, it was Qiongzhou. Overjoyed, he soon approached the shore, untied the skirt, wrapped the cakes in it, and went home. Upon entering the door, the whole family was both surprised and delighted, for he had been away sixteen years, and only then did they learn that he had encountered immortals. He saw that his grandmother's old illness had worsened; he produced the medicine and administered it, and her chronic ailment was immediately cured. They all questioned him in wonder, and he related what he had seen. His grandmother wept and said, "She is your aunt." Originally, the old lady had a younger daughter named Tenth Aunt, born with an immortal aspect, who had been betrothed to the Yan family. Her intended husband had gone into the mountains at sixteen and never returned; Tenth Aunt waited until she was over twenty, then suddenly died without illness, and had been buried for over thirty years. Hearing Yang's words, they all suspected she had not died. They brought out her skirt, and it was indeed the very one she had often worn at home. They divided the cakes and ate them; one cake kept them from hunger all day, and their spirits were greatly enhanced. The old lady ordered the grave opened for inspection, but only an empty coffin remained. Yang had earlier been betrothed to a Miss Wu but had not yet married; as Yang had not returned for several years, she had married another. They all trusted Tenth Aunt's words and waited for Fendie to arrive; but after more than a year with no news, they began to consider other plans. A scholar named Qian in a neighboring county had a daughter called Hesheng, whose beauty was renowned far and wide. At sixteen, she had not yet married but had already lost three betrothed husbands in succession. So they made a match and chose an auspicious day for the wedding. When she entered the household, her beauty was dazzling and peerless; Yang looked at her, and she was Fendie. Startled, he asked about past events, but the girl was completely unaware. For it was at the very moment of her banishment that she had been born. Whenever he played the tune "The Banished Celestial Maiden" for her, she would rest her chin on her hand and gaze into space as if comprehending something. Li Tansi Li Tansi of Changshan was a student of the National Academy. In his village, there was an old woman who acted as a go-between for the dead, and she told people, "Tonight I will carry old man Tan with someone else to be reborn into a new household in Baijiazhuang, Zichuan. His body was so heavy and cumbersome that I was nearly crushed to death." At that time, Li was drinking merrily with guests and took the old woman's words to be nonsense. That night, he died without illness. At dawn, they went to inquire as the old woman had said, and found that a girl had been born that night in that household. Jinse A man of Yi named Wang Sheng, orphaned young, became the head of his own household. His family was poor and unassuming; yet he was handsome and clean of bearing, a young gentleman in gown and shoes. A wealthy man, Lan, saw him and took a liking to him, giving him his daughter in marriage and promising to build him a house and establish his estate. Not long after the marriage, old man Lan died. The woman's brothers looked down on Wang and would not count him among their number. She herself was especially arrogant and overbearing, often treating her husband like a hired servant; she enjoyed rich fare for herself, but when Wang came, she would set before him coarse grain, a gourd of water, and a broken piece of millet-stalk for a spoon. Wang bore it all in silence. When he was nineteen, he went to take the prefectural examination for licentiates and was rejected. Returning from the prefectural city, he found his wife not in the chamber; a pot of mutton broth was cooked, so he ate some. When she entered, she said nothing but carried the pot away. Deeply ashamed, Wang threw his spoon to the floor and said, "If this is what I face, I might as well die!" Angered, she asked when he meant to die and at once handed him a rope as the instrument for hanging himself. In fury he flung the bowl of broth, striking her forehead and wounding her. Burning with resentment, Wang went out, thinking that death was truly better than life, and so took a belt and went into a deep ravine. When he reached a cluster of trees and was choosing a branch on which to fasten the belt, he suddenly glimpsed a skirt hem faintly showing from an earthen cliff; in an instant a maidservant emerged, saw him, turned quickly back and vanished like a shadow into nothing, while the earthen wall showed no crack. He knew this was something demonic; yet since he sought death, he felt no fear, so he loosened the belt and sat down to watch. After a little while, half a face appeared again, glanced at him, and withdrew. He thought: if I follow this ghost, I will surely find the pleasure of death. So he grasped a stone, tapped the wall, and said, "If the earth can be entered, pray show me a way! I do not seek pleasure, but death." For a long time there was no sound. Wang spoke again. From within came a voice: "If you seek death, please withdraw for now; you may come at night." The voice was clear and sharp, thin as a wandering bee. Wang said, "Agreed," and withdrew to wait for evening. Before long the stars were thick in the sky, and suddenly a lofty mansion stood where the cliff had been, with both doors quietly open. Wang mounted the steps and entered. After only a few paces, a surging stream barred his way, its vapor like that of a hot spring. He put his hand into it—it was scalding like boiling water; he could not tell how deep it was. Suspecting that the spirits were showing him the place of death, he leaped in. The heat penetrated his layered clothes, and his skin ached as if melting; fortunately he floated and did not sink. He swam and struggled for a long while, until the heat gradually became bearable; with all his strength he clawed and pulled himself ashore on the south bank, his body thankfully not scalded. As he went on, he saw lights in a large hall far off and hurried toward them. A fierce dog burst out and tore at his clothes and socks. He picked up a stone and threw it, and the dog drew back slightly. Then a pack of dogs barked and barred his way, all as large as calves. In this crisis the maidservant came out, scolded them away, and said, "Has the seeker of death come? Our young mistress pities your distress and has sent me to escort you into a place of comfort; from now on you will have no more misfortune." She lit a lantern and led him on. Opening a rear gate, she led him through darkness. They entered a house where bright candles shone through the windows. She said, "You may enter yourself; I am going." Wang entered the room and looked around—it was already his own home. He rushed back out and ran into the old woman who served his wife, who said, "We have looked for you all day—where are you going now?" She dragged him back in. His wife, her wound wrapped in a kerchief, came down from the bed and smiled as she greeted him, saying, "We have been man and wife over a year—surely you recognize me in jest? I know my fault. You have suffered empty mockery, while I have taken real hurt; your anger should now be somewhat relieved." She then took two large gold ingots from the head of the bed and placed them in his bosom, saying, "From now on, food and clothing shall be entirely at your command—agreeable?" Wang said nothing, flung away the gold, and dashed out the door, heading back to the ravine to knock at the gate of the lofty mansion. Once he reached the wilds, the maidservant walked slowly and weakly; her lantern was still visible in the distance. Wang ran after her, calling out, and the lantern stopped. When he caught up, the maid said, "You have come again—you disappoint our mistress's kind intent." Wang said, "I seek death; I do not seek to be brought back to life with you. The mistress is of a great household, and underground she must need people. I am willing to serve; truly I take no pleasure in living." The maid said, "To delight in death is worse than to suffer life—how perverse is your thinking! Our household has no other duties: only dredging the river, sweeping filth, feeding dogs, and carrying corpses; if work is not done according to standard, then the ears are cropped, the nose slit, or the elbows, shins, and toes broken. Can you do that?" He answered, "I can." She again led him through the rear gate, and Wang asked, "What are these various tasks? You just spoke of carrying corpses—where do so many dead bodies come from?" The maid said, "Our mistress is compassionate and has established the 'Garden for the Lonely' to take in the ghosts of those who died violently and have no one to claim them in the Nine Netherworlds. The ghosts number in the thousands; every day some die and must be carried and buried. Please come and see." After a while they entered a gate inscribed "Garden for the Lonely." Inside, the buildings were jumbled and the stench overpowering. The ghosts in the garden gathered at the sight of the lantern—all were headless or lacking limbs, a sight unbearable to look upon. He turned to leave but saw a corpse lying under the wall; on closer look, flesh and blood were scattered about. She said, "It has not been carried for half a day, and already the dogs have gnawed it." She then ordered Wang to move it away. Wang showed reluctance; the maid said, "If you cannot do it, please go back and enjoy your comfort." Wang had no choice but to carry it and deposit it in a hidden place. Then he begged the maid to plead for him so that he might be spared the filth of corpses. She agreed. Approaching a building, she said, "Sit here for a while; I will go in and speak. The task of feeding the dogs is lighter; I will try to arrange it for you, and perhaps repay you properly." She went away, soon ran back, and said, "Come, come! The mistress is coming out." Wang followed her in. He saw the hall brightly lit with four hanging candles; a young lady sat near the door, a heavenly beauty of about twenty. Wang prostrated himself at the steps. The lady ordered him raised and said, "This is a Confucian scholar—how can he feed dogs? Let him dwell in the western hall and keep the ledgers." Wang was delighted and prostrated himself in thanks. The lady said, "Because you are simple and honest, you may reverently perform this duty. If there are errors, the penalty will not be light!" Wang assented. The maid led him to the western hall, where he saw that the beams and walls were clean; overjoyed, he thanked her. Then he asked about the lady's rank and lineage. The maid said, "Her given name is Jinse; she is the daughter of Marquis Xue of the Eastern Sea. My name is Chunyan. For anything you need at any hour, pray let me know." The maid left and soon returned with clothes, shoes, quilts, and mats, placing them on the bed. Wang was pleased with his lot. At dawn he rose early to attend to business, recording the ghosts' registers. All the servants of the household came to pay their respects, presenting him with much wine and dried meat. Wang, wary of gossip, declined everything. His two daily meals were all sent from within. The mistress, observing his integrity and caution, specially awarded him a Confucian cap and fine new clothes. Whatever gifts or allowances came, they were always sent by Chunyan. The maid was quite attractive, and after they became familiar, she often cast amorous glances at him. Wang guarded himself strictly, not daring to make the least slip, only pretending to be dull and obtuse. After more than two years, his rewards and gifts were double the ordinary stipend, yet Wang remained as cautious and restrained as before. One night, as he lay asleep, he heard shouting and clamor from the inner quarters. He jumped up, seized a sword, and went out; he saw torches lighting the sky. Peering in, he beheld a band of robbers filling the courtyard, while servants and attendants fled in panic. One servant urged him to flee with them, but Wang refused; he smeared his face, tightened his belt, and mingled with the robbers, shouting, "Do not startle Lady Xue! Only divide and seize the goods; do not let anything be left behind." At that time the robbers were searching every room for Jinse but could not find her; Wang knew she had not been taken, so he slipped behind the inner quarters to look for her alone. He met an old woman in hiding and learned that the mistress and Chunyan had both climbed over the wall. Wang too crossed the wall and saw the mistress and maid crouching in a dark corner. Wang said, "How can you hide here?" The lady said, "I can go no further!" Wang cast away his sword and carried her on his back. After running two or three li, drenched in sweat, he entered a deep valley and set her down to rest. Suddenly a tiger appeared. Wang was terrified and was about to meet it head-on when the tiger already seized the lady in its jaws. Wang urgently grabbed the tiger's ears and thrust his arm as far as he could into the tiger's mouth to take Jinse's place. The tiger, enraged, released the lady and bit Wang's arm, crunching audibly. The arm broke and fell to the ground, and the tiger went away. The lady wept, saying, "How you have suffered! How you have suffered!" Wang, in his panic, had not yet felt the pain, but only saw blood gushing like water; he told the maid to tear a strip from his robe and bind the stump. The lady stopped her, bent down, found the severed arm, and reattached it herself; then she wrapped it. As dawn broke in the east, they slowly made their way back. The hall was desolate as a ruin. Only after daylight did the servants and old women gradually gather. The lady personally came to the western hall and asked Wang how he fared. When she undid the wrapping, the bone of the arm had already knitted; she applied a salve to the wound and then left. From this time on she valued him all the more, ordering that all his food and comforts be equal to her own. When his arm healed, the lady prepared wine in the inner chamber to reward him. She offered him a seat; after three refusals, he sat in the corner. The lady raised her cup as if toasting a guest. After a long while, she said, "My person is already joined to your body; I wish to follow the example of the King of Chu's daughter toward her minister Jian. Yet without a go-between, I am ashamed to offer myself." Wang, in fear and alarm, said, "I have received such heavy grace that death itself would not repay it. To do what is improper would be to fear the thunderbolt; I dare not obey your command. If you pity my being unwed, to give me a maidservant would be more than enough." One day, the elder sister of the girl, Yaotai, arrived. She was a fine woman of about forty. That evening, she summoned Sheng in, and Yaotai bade him be seated, saying, "I have come a thousand li to arrange a marriage for my younger sister. Tonight you may be united with this gentleman." Sheng again rose to decline. Yaotai at once ordered wine and made the two exchange cups. Sheng firmly declined, but Yaotai seized them and exchanged them herself. Sheng then prostrated himself on the ground to apologize for his offense, and accepted the wine and drank it. Yaotai went out, and the girl said, "To tell you the truth: I am a fairy maiden, condemned to exile for a transgression. I willingly chose to dwell in the underworld, to gather and nurture wronged souls, to atone for the Heavenly Emperor's punishment. I just encountered a demonic calamity, and thus came to be bound to you in union of body. I sent far away to invite my elder sister here, not only to preside over our marriage, but also to manage the household in my stead, so that I might return with you." Sheng rose and saluted her respectfully, saying, "The underworld is most delightful! But in my household I have a shrew of a wife; moreover, the house is cramped and mean, and I could not possibly accommodate you to live together in such straits." The girl laughed and said, "No matter." After they were drunk, they returned to the bedchamber, and their love and delight reached the utmost. After several days, she said to Sheng, "A tryst in the underworld cannot last long. Please return home, my lord. When you have settled your household affairs, I shall come of my own accord." She gave him a horse, opened the door and went out herself, and the wall closed up again. Sheng rode the horse into the village, and all the villagers were alarmed. When he reached his own gate, there stood a lofty mansion, gleaming and resplendent. Now, earlier, when Sheng had left, his wife had summoned her two elder brothers, intending to flog him in revenge; but by evening, when he did not return, they left. Later someone found one of Sheng's shoes in a ditch, and they suspected he was dead. After that, more than a year passed without news. A merchant from Shaanxi, one Jia, acted as go-between with the Lan family, and came to Sheng's house to wed his wife. In half a year, he had built connecting pavilions. Jia went out on business and also bought a concubine to bring home, after which his wife became restless and discontent. Jia also frequently stayed away for months at a time. When Sheng learned the full story, he was furious. He tied up his horse and went inside. He saw the old serving-woman, who was startled and prostrated herself on the ground. Sheng berated her for a long while, then made her lead him to his wife's quarters, but when they searched for her she had fled. They found her behind the house—she had hanged herself. He then had her carried back to the Lan family. He called out the concubine; she was eighteen or nineteen, of charming appearance, and so he lay with her. Jia entrusted a villager to plead for the return of his concubine, but the concubine wept and wailed and refused to go. Sheng then drew up a plaint, intending to sue Jia for seizing his property and taking his wife. Jia dared say no more, packed up his shop, and went west. Sheng was just beginning to wonder if Jinse had broken her promise; one evening, while he was drinking with the concubine, carriage and horse arrived at the gate and the girl appeared. She kept only Chunyan and sent the rest back. When she entered the room, the concubine paid her respects as a lesser wife. The girl said, "This one has the features of a son-bearer; she can take my place in that hardship." She then bestowed on her a brocade garment and pearl ornaments. The concubine bowed and received them, then stood waiting upon her; the girl drew her to sit, and they talked and laughed most merrily. After a long while, she said, "I am drunk and wish to sleep." Sheng likewise removed his shoes and climbed onto the bed; the concubine then withdrew. When she entered her own room, she found Sheng lying on her bed; amazed, she peeped back, but the candle had already been extinguished. Sheng did not spend a single night without staying in the concubine's chamber. One night, the concubine rose and secretly stole a look at the girl's quarters—and there were Sheng and the girl, laughing and talking together. She was greatly astonished. She hurried back to tell Sheng, but there was no one on the bed. At daybreak, she told Sheng in secret; Sheng himself did not know, only feeling that sometimes he stayed with the girl and sometimes lodged with the concubine. Sheng bade her keep this strangeness hidden. After a long time, the maid also became intimate with Sheng, though the girl seemed not to know of it. The maid suddenly went into difficult labor and cried out only, "Mistress!" When the girl entered, the child came down at once; she lifted it up—it was a boy. She cut the cord, placed the child in the maid's arms, and laughed, saying, "Maid, do not do that again! If you have too many deeds, it will be hard to part with them." After this, the maid bore no more children. The concubine gave birth to five sons and two daughters. They lived together for thirty years; the girl would from time to time return to her own home, traveling always by night. One day, she took the maid away and did not come back. Sheng, at eighty years of age, suddenly took an old servant and went out by night, and he too did not return. **The Taiyuan Case** In Taiyuan there was a commoner's household in which both mother-in-law and daughter-in-law were widows. The mother-in-law, in middle age, could not keep herself chaste, and the village riffraff frequently consorted with her. The daughter-in-law disapproved of her conduct and secretly barred the doors and walls against them. The mother-in-law, ashamed, used this as a pretext to expel the daughter-in-law; but the daughter-in-law would not leave, and there was much quarrelling. The mother-in-law grew even more resentful and, in turn, brought a false accusation, lodging a complaint with the magistrate. The magistrate asked for the name of the adulterer. The old woman said, "He came by night and left by night; I truly do not know who he is. Interrogate the daughter-in-law, and you will know." He then summoned the daughter-in-law. She indeed knew him, but laid the adulterous affair upon the mother-in-law, vehemently denying it. The vagabond was arrested, but he also clamored in his defense: "I have had illicit relations with neither. Those two cannot get along, and so they falsely accuse each other and slander me." The magistrate said, "In a village of a hundred people, why should they accuse only you?" And he gave him a heavy flogging. The vagabond kowtowed and begged to be spared further punishment, confessing that he had had relations with the daughter-in-law. She was put in the cangue, but she never confessed. He dismissed them. The daughter-in-law, incensed, appealed to the higher tribunal, where the same story was told, and for a long time no decision was reached. At that time, a jinshi of Yi County, Sun Liugong, was serving as magistrate of Linjin. Renowned for his talent in adjudication, the case was transferred down to Linjin. When the parties arrived, the magistrate briefly questioned each and confined them in jail. He then ordered his runners to prepare bricks, stones, knives, and awls, to be ready for use at dawn. They all wondered, saying, "For severe torture there are shackles and fetters—why should he use unlawful punishments to decide a case?" Not understanding his intent, they nonetheless prepared them. The next day, when he ascended the hall, he asked if the various implements were ready, and ordered them all placed before the court. He then summoned the accused and again briefly interrogated each. Then he said to the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, "This matter need not be investigated too thoroughly. Though the adulteress is not yet fixed, the adulterer is certain. Your family has always been of good standing; it was only a moment of being led astray by a scoundrel. The fault lies entirely with that fellow. The knives and stones are here on the hall; you may take them yourselves and strike him dead." The mother-in-law and daughter-in-law hesitated, fearing that if they struck him they might have to pay with their own lives. The magistrate said, "Do not worry—I am here." Then both the old woman and the young woman rose, seized stones, and hurled them in turn. The daughter-in-law, nursing a long-standing grudge, lifted a great rock with both hands, wishing she could kill him on the spot; the mother-in-law only struck at his buttocks and legs with a small stone. He next ordered them to use the knives. The daughter-in-law thrust the knife into his chest; the mother-in-law still hesitated and did not strike. The magistrate stopped them and said, "I know now who the adulteress is." He ordered that the mother-in-law be arrested and severely tortured, and thus obtained the truth. He gave the vagabond thirty strokes, and the case was finally concluded. **Supplementary Note:** One day the magistrate dispatched a runner to collect the rent. The tenant was out, and his wife received the runner. The runner, not receiving a bribe, arrested the wife and brought her to the magistrate. The magistrate angrily said, "The man has his own time to return—why should you harass his wife?" He then flogged the runner and sent the wife away. He then ordered the craftsmen to prepare many handcuffs, to be used for punitive comparison. The next day, the whole district praised the magistrate's benevolence. When those in arrears on their taxes heard this, they all made their wives come forward to answer; the magistrate had them all arrested and placed in cangues. I have often remarked: Magistrate Sun's abilities were not lacking; but once he discovered the truth, he rejoiced and had no leisure to be compassionate. **The Xinzheng Case** Shi Zongyu, a jinshi of Changshan, was magistrate of Xinzheng. It happened that a traveler from afar, one Zhang, had been doing business abroad and, falling ill, wished to return home. Unable to walk or ride, he hired a handcart, carrying five thousand in silver, with two men pulling it along. When they reached Xinzheng, the two men went into the market to eat and drink, while Zhang guarded his silver and lay alone in the cart. A certain Jia passed by, glanced at him, and seeing no one nearby, snatched the silver and fled. Zhang could not defend himself; forcing himself up despite his illness, he trailed him from afar and entered a village. He followed further, entering a gate. Zhang dared not go in, but only peered over the low wall. Jia set down his burden, turned back, and seeing the peeper, angrily seized him as a thief, bound him, and brought him before Magistrate Shi, where he related the circumstances. When Zhang was questioned, he fully recounted his grievance. The magistrate, having no material evidence, dismissed them both. As the two left, both felt that the magistrate had no sense of right or wrong. The magistrate pretended not to hear. He recalled that Jia had long been in arrears on his taxes, and dispatched runners to press him strictly. After a day, Jia brought in three taels of silver to pay the tax. Magistrate Shi asked where the silver had come from. Jia said, "I pawned clothes and sold goods," naming each item to substantiate it. Magistrate Shi sent runners to examine those paying taxes, to see if there were any from the same village as Jia. It happened that Jia's neighbor was there; he was summoned in and asked, "Since you are a near neighbor of this Jia, you should know where the money came from." The neighbor said, "I do not know." The magistrate said, "If even the neighbor does not know, its origin is dubious." Jia, afraid, looked at the neighbor and said, "When I pawned such-and-such and sold such-and-such, were you not aware?" The neighbor hurriedly said, "Yes, yes—there was indeed such a thing." The magistrate angrily said, "You must surely be in league with Jia in this robbery—nothing but torture will get the truth!" He ordered that the cangue be brought. The neighbor, frightened, said, "Because we were neighbors, I dared not invite enmity; but now that punishment is upon my own body, why should I conceal it? He actually robbed Zhang's money and used it to buy those goods." Thereupon the magistrate released Zhang. At that time, Zhang, having lost his capital, had not yet returned home; the magistrate ordered Jia to pay compensation under escort. This too shows Shi's ability to govern with sincere effort. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When Mr. Shi was still a candidate, he was modest and refined in manner. One would have thought him suited for the Hanlin Academy, but deficient in文书 administration. Yet once he took office as a functionary, the name of 'Divine Lord' resounded through the region north of the Yellow River. Who can say that scholarship has no practical application! Therefore I record this to admonish those in office." Li Xiangxian Li Xiangxian was a notable man of Shouguang. In a former life he had been a cook-monk at a certain monastery, who died without illness. His soul emerged and perched atop the archway, and looking down, he saw the pedestrians in the market, each with a fiery light issuing from the crown of the head—this was the yang energy within their bodies. When night fell, he thought that the archway was no place to stay for long, but all the dwellings were dark, and he did not know where to go. Only one household still had a lamp burning; he drifted toward it. When he reached the gate, he found himself already an infant. His mother nursed him. But at the sight of the breast he was afraid; his stomach could not bear hunger, so he closed his eyes and sucked forcefully. After more than three months, he no longer took the breast; when nursed, he would cry in terror. His mother fed him rice-water mixed with dates and chestnuts, and so he grew up. This was Xiangxian. When he was a child and went to a certain monastery, he could call every monk there by name. Even in old age he was still afraid of the breast. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Xiangxian was learned and profound, a pure scholar of the Hai-Dai region. His son attained high office early, but he himself ended his life merely as a literary scholar—is this not what Buddhists call one whose blessings and merits were not cultivated? His younger brother was also a famous scholar. He had a hidden ailment: once every few months he would be aroused; when aroused he would rise abruptly, heedless of guests, and call out from outside as he entered, whereupon the maids and old women all fled; if he reached the door and the arousal subsided, he would not enter the chamber but turn back. Both brothers were extraordinary men." Fang Wenshu Deng Chengde of Kaifeng, traveling to study in Yanzhou, lodged in a dilapidated monastery and was employed as a copyist for a man who compiled household registers. At year's end, his fellow clerks each went home; Deng alone cooked his meals in the temple. At dawn, a young woman knocked and entered—exceedingly beautiful—went before the Buddha, burned incense, prostrated herself, and left. The next day, she came again. By night, Deng arose and trimmed the lamp, just as he had some work to do, when the woman arrived even earlier. Deng said, "Why so early?" She said, "By daylight it is crowded; night is better. Too early, and I feared disturbing your sound sleep. I saw the lamplight from afar and knew you were already up, so I came." He teased, "There is no one in the temple; you could lodge here and spare yourself the journey." She smiled and said, "There is no one in the temple—are you a ghost, then?" Deng saw she could be dallied with, and after she finished her prostrations, he drew her to sit and sought intimacy. She said, "Before the Buddha, how can one do such a thing? You have not even a single roof-tile of your own, yet you still harbor such fancies!" Deng pressed her persistently. She said, "In a village thirty li from here, there are six or seven boys who have not yet found a tutor. Go visit Li Qianchuan, and you can obtain the post. Say you have a wife with you, and have them give you a separate quarters; then I can cook for you—this is a long-term plan." Deng worried that if the truth came out he would be punished. She said, "No matter. I am of the Fang family, my given name Wenshu, and I have no relatives; I always stay the year round at my uncle's house—who would know?" Deng was delighted. After parting from her, he went straight to that village, called on Li Qianchuan, and the arrangement was indeed settled. It was agreed that before the New Year he would bring his family there. When he returned, he told the woman. She agreed to wait for him along the way. Deng bid farewell to his companions, borrowed a horse, and set off. The woman was indeed waiting halfway; he dismounted, handed her the reins, and let her ride while he walked alongside. When they reached the study, they were very happy together. Over six or seven years passed, and they lived like a harmonious couple, with no one pursuing them as fugitives. The woman suddenly gave birth to a son. Deng, whose wife had been barren, was overjoyed and named the child "Yansheng." The woman said, "A pretend match can never become real. I am about to leave you—and why bring this troublesome creature into the world?" Deng said, "If fortune favors me, should I get enough money, I plan to take you back to our native place. Why say such a thing?" She said, "Many thanks, many thanks! I cannot cringe and fawn, look up to the first wife's eyebrows, and be a wet-nurse for others—that bawling one would be unbearable!" Deng assured her that his wife was not jealous, but the woman said nothing. After more than a month, Deng finished his tutorship and planned to go into business with Li Qianchuan's son. He told the woman, "I think that teaching will never bring wealth. Now I will try peddling goods—then perhaps there will be a time to return home." The woman did not answer. That night, she suddenly picked up the child and rose. Deng asked, "What are you doing?" She said, "I wish to leave." Deng jumped up and pursued her with questions, but before the door could be opened, she had already vanished. Terrified, he then realized she was not human. Since her appearance was suspicious, Deng dared not tell anyone, and simply made the excuse that she had gone to visit her parents. Originally, when Deng left home, he had promised his wife Lou that he would return by year's end; but then years passed with no word, and it was rumored he was dead. Her elder brother, seeing she had no son, wanted to have her remarried. Lou insisted on a three-year term, and spent her days spinning and weaving to support herself. One day, at dusk, she went to bolt the outer door when a woman slipped in, holding a swaddled child in her arms, and said, "I am returning from my mother's home and arrived late. I know you live alone, so I beg to stay the night." Lou let her in. When they reached the inner room, she saw the woman was a beauty of about twenty. She was pleased to share the bed with her, and together they played with the child, whose skin was white as a gourd. Lou sighed, "A widow like me has no such treasure!" The woman said, "I find it troublesome, actually. If you would adopt him as your own, what do you say?" Lou said, "Putting aside the fact that you could not bear to part with him—even if you could, I have no milk to keep him alive." The woman said, "That is easy. When he was born, I had no milk, but half a dose of medicine cured it. I still have the remaining medicine, and I give it to you." She produced a packet and placed it on the windowsill. Lou gave a casual assent, not yet thinking it strange. They went to sleep, and when she woke and called out, the child was there but the woman had already opened the door and gone. Lou was terrified. As dawn approached, the child cried with hunger; Lou had no choice but to administer the medicine. After a while, her milk flowed, and she nursed the child. Over a year passed, the child grew plump and began to speak; she loved him as if he were her own. From then on, she gave up all thoughts of remarriage. But having to hold the child from early morning, she could not work to earn food and clothing, and grew increasingly impoverished. One day, the woman suddenly returned. Lou, fearing she would claim the child, first reproached her for leaving without warning, then recounted her hardships in raising him. The woman smiled and said, "Sister, you tell me your hardships—do you think I will therefore not ask for my child back?" She then called the child. The child cried and clung to Lou's bosom. The woman said, "The calf does not recognize its own mother! This child cannot be exchanged for a hundred taels of gold—bring the gold and I will sign a deed of guarantee." Lou took it seriously and flushed red. The woman laughed and said, "Sister, do not fear. I have come precisely for the child. After parting, I worried you would have no means to raise him, so I managed to scrape together over ten taels of gold." She produced the gold and gave it to Lou. Lou, afraid that accepting the gold would give her grounds to claim the child, firmly declined. The woman placed it on the bed and went out the door straight away. Lou chased after her with the child in her arms, but she was already far off; calling out, she did not look back. Lou suspected ill intent. Yet with the gold, she was able to lend it out at interest, and the household became well-off. Three years later, Deng returned from his trading with profits, having packed up for home. While they were consoling each other, he saw the child and asked whose it was. His wife told him the story. He asked, "What is his name?" She said, "His mother called him Yansheng." Deng started in surprise and said, "This is truly my son!" He asked the date, and it matched the night of their parting. Deng then related in full his encounters with Fang Wenshu, and they were both comforted and delighted. They still hoped the woman would return, but she never appeared again. Qin Hui In the household of Gentleman Feng of Qingzhou, they slaughtered a pig. After scalding and removing the bristles, there were characters in the flesh reading: "Qin Hui's seventh incarnation." They cooked and ate it, but the meat was foul and stinking, so they threw it to the dogs. Alas! The flesh of Qin Hui—even dogs, I fear, should not eat it! I have heard people of Yidu say: "The grandfather of Gentleman Feng, in a former existence during the Song dynasty, had been wronged by Qin Hui. Therefore, throughout his life, he most revered Yue Wumu. On the main thoroughfare north of Qingzhou city, he built a temple to Yue Wang, with Qin Hui and Moqi Xie prostrate on the ground below. Travelers passing by who paid their respects to Yue Wang would throw stones at Qin and Moqi, and the incense never ceased. Later, during the campaign against Yu Qi in the year of the great army, the descendants of Gentleman Feng destroyed the image of Yue Wang. Several li away, there was a common shrine to the 'Lady of Descendants,' so they carried Qin and Moqi into it and made them kneel facing it. In ages to come, there will surely be the error of Du Shiyi and Wu Zixu—truly laughable. "Moreover, within Qingzhou city, there was formerly a shrine to Ziyu of Tántái. When the eunuch Wei was at the height of his power, some flatterer among the great families removed Ziyu's cap and shaved off his beard, remaking him into the eunuch Wei. This too is a thing shocking to hear." Student from Eastern Zhejiang A Scholar from Eastern Zhejiang A scholar named Fang, a native of eastern Zhejiang, was sojourning in Shaanxi, teaching pupils. He often boasted of his courage and daring. One night, as he lay naked in bed, a furry creature suddenly dropped from the air and struck his chest with a thud. He felt it was as large as a dog, breathing heavily, its four paws clawing about. Greatly terrified, he tried to rise; but the creature threw him down with its two forepaws, and he was so frightened that he died. After about an hour, he felt someone piercing his nose with a sharp object, and he gave a great sneeze, whereupon he revived. He saw lamplight flickering in the room, and by the bedside sat a beautiful woman, who said with a laugh: "What a fine fellow! So this is the measure of your courage!" Realizing she was a fox, Fang grew even more afraid. The woman gradually began to play with him, and only then did his courage relax, so they became intimate and affectionate. After half a year, they were as harmonious as qin and se. One day, while the woman was lying at the head of the bed, Fang secretly covered her with a hunting net. When she awoke, she dared not move but only pleaded piteously. Fang laughed and did not approach. The woman suddenly transformed into a white vapor, escaped from under the bed, and said angrily: "After all, you are not a true friend! You may send me away." She took him by the hand, and he found himself walking involuntarily. They went out the door and soared through the air. After the space of a meal, the woman released him, and Fang swooned and fell. It chanced that a great family's garden contained a tiger pit, with a frame of bent wood and a net of twisted ropes covering its mouth. Fang fell onto the net, which tilted from his weight; he lay on his belly upon the net, his body half suspended upside-down. Looking down, he saw a tiger crouching in the pit, looking up at the reclining man, and leaping up, it came within less than a foot of him. His heart and gall were shattered. The gardener came to feed the tiger, and seeing this, was astonished. He helped Fang down; he was already dead. After a while, he gradually revived and recounted everything that had happened. The place was at the border of Zhejiang, only a little over four hundred li from his home. The master of the house gave him money and sent him on his way. On returning, he told people: "Although I died twice, had it not been for the fox, I would have been too poor to return home." The Girl of Boxing In Boxing, there was a man named Wang whose daughter had reached the age of fifteen. A powerful local bully, coveting her beauty, waited for her to go out, seized her, and carried her off, with none the wiser. When he brought her home and tried to force himself upon her, the girl screamed and struggled, pushing him away, whereupon the bully strangled her to death. Outside his gate there was a deep pool, so he tied a stone to her body and sank it there. Her father Wang searched for his daughter but could find no trace, and was at his wits' end. Suddenly rain fell from heaven, and thunder and lightning coiled around the bully's house. With a crack of thunder, a dragon descended and carried off the bully's head. When the sky cleared, the girl's corpse floated up from the pool, one hand clutching a human head. On examination, it was the bully's head. The authorities learned of this and interrogated his household, whereupon they obtained the full truth. Was it that the girl had transformed into the dragon? Otherwise, how could this have come about? Strange indeed! One Official Assistant Prefect Wu of Jinan was upright and unyielding. At that time there was a corrupt practice: whenever an avaricious official embezzled and committed crimes of graft, his superiors would shield him and apportion the stolen funds among his subordinate officials, and none dared to obstruct them. When they ordered Wu to accept such a share, he refused; when they pressed him and could not prevail, they angrily reviled him. Wu returned their abuse in kind, saying: "Though my post is humble, I too am commissioned by the Son of Heaven. You may impeach me, but you shall not curse me! If I must die, then I shall die; but I cannot diminish the court's emolument and pay for another man's unlawfully gotten gains on his behalf!" The superior thereupon changed his expression and spoke to him soothingly. People all say that in this world one cannot practice the straight way; but it is because men themselves lack straightness—why blame the world for being unfit for it? Now in Gaoyuan there was a man named Mu Qinghuai, with whom a fox had attached itself. It would speak with great fervor and discuss matters, its voice coming from his seat, though the fox itself could not be seen. It happened to come to the prefectural city, and while the guests were conversing, one of them asked: "Since the immortal knows all things, may we ask how many officials there are in this prefecture?" The voice answered at once: "One official." All laughed at this. When they asked further for the reason, it said: "Though there are seventy-two office-holders in the entire prefecture, in truth the only one who can be called an official is Assistant Wu alone." At that time, Prefect Zhang of Tai'an was known by all for his stubbornness and was nicknamed "The Stump." Whenever high-ranking officials and great ministers came to Mount Tai, they made excessive demands for porters, horses, sedan chairs, and the like, and the people of the prefecture suffered greatly from providing for them. Zhang abolished all of this. When someone demanded sheep or pigs, he said: "I myself am one sheep, one pig—please slaughter me to feed your attendants." The great ministers could do nothing with him. Zhang had been away on official service, separated from his wife and children for twelve years. When he first took up his post in Tai'an, his wife and son came from the capital to visit him, and they were overjoyed to see one another. After six or seven days, his wife said calmly: "Your cooking pot is as dusty as ever—why are you so stubborn and oblivious to your children and grandchildren?" Zhang flew into a rage, shouted for a staff, and forced his wife to prostrate herself to receive punishment. His son covered his mother and wept, begging to take her place. Zhang beat them brutally before stopping. His wife then immediately had the carriage prepared and departed with their son, swearing: "Even if he dies here, I shall never come again!" The following year, Zhang died. This man cannot but be called a strong-necked official of the present day. Yet for a couple long separated, how could a single word provoke such violent anger? Is this human sentiment? That he could exercise his authority even within the bedchamber is a matter stranger even than ghosts and spirits. The Beggar Immortal Gao Yucheng was a son of an old family, dwelling in Guangli of Jincheng. He was skilled in acupuncture and moxibustion, and would treat anyone regardless of wealth or poverty. In the village there came a beggar with a festering sore on his leg, lying in the road. Pus and blood were scattered about, and the stench was so foul that none could approach him. The villagers, fearing he might die, gave him food once a day. Gao saw him and took pity, sending men to help him back and placing him in a side room. His household loathed the stench and stood at a distance, covering their noses. Gao brought out moxa and personally moxibusted him, and daily fed him with simple vegetables. After several days, the beggar asked for soup and noodles. The servant angrily rebuked him. Gao heard this and at once ordered the servant to give him soup and noodles. Before long, the beggar again begged for wine and meat. The servant ran and reported: "This beggar is utterly ridiculous! When he lay in the road, he could not get even one meal a day; now he gets three meals and still complains they are coarse, and after being given soup and noodles, he begs for wine and meat. Such a glutton should simply be cast back onto the road." Gao asked about his sore, and the servant said: "The scabs are gradually falling off, and he seems able to walk, but he feigns moans and groans as if in pain." Gao said: "What does it cost? Just give him the wine and meat. When he recovers, perhaps he will not bear a grudge against me." The servant pretended to agree, but in the end did not give them; moreover, he gossiped with the other servants, all laughing at their master's folly. The next day, Gao personally went to see the beggar. The beggar limped to his feet and thanked him, saying: "I am grateful for your great righteousness, which brings the dead back to life and restores flesh to bones—your kindness is deeper than heaven and earth. But I have just recovered and am not yet strong, and foolishly crave some tasty morsels." Gao, knowing that his former order had not been carried out, summoned the servant and gave him a severe beating, then immediately ordered wine and roasted meat to be brought to feed the beggar. The servant bore a grudge. At midnight, he set fire to the side room, then deliberately raised a cry. Gao rose to look, and the room was already ashes. He sighed: "The beggar is done for!" He supervised the others in putting out the fire. Then they saw the beggar sleeping soundly in the flames, his snoring like rolling thunder. They called him to rise, and he feigned surprise, saying: "Where has the house gone?" Only then did they all marvel at his strangeness. Gao held him in even greater esteem, gave him a guest room to sleep in, new clothes to wear, and daily sat with him in the same place. He asked his name, and he said of himself: "Chen Jiu." After several days, his countenance grew even more lustrous. His speech was refined and elegant, and he was skilled at weiqi; when Gao played against him, he always lost. So Gao studied under him daily and soon grasped many of its secrets. Thus passed half a year. The beggar did not speak of leaving, and Gao for his part could not be happy without him for even a moment. Even when noble guests came, he would always bring Chen along to drink with them. Sometimes they threw dice to set the rules, and Chen always called the throws for Gao, never failing to get the winning casts of pheasant or leopard. Gao found this most extraordinary. Whenever he asked Chen to perform tricks, Chen would plead ignorance. One day, Chen said to Gao: "I wish to take my leave. I have received deep kindness from you, and now I would like to invite you to a modest gathering—do not bring anyone with you." Gao said: "We get along so well—why part so abruptly? Besides, your purse is empty, and I would not presume to trouble you to play host." Chen insisted, saying: "It is only a cup of wine, and costs nothing." Gao asked: "Where?" Chen answered: "In the garden." At that time it was deep winter, and Gao feared the garden pavilion would be bitterly cold. Chen insisted: "No matter." So they went together into the garden. Gao felt the climate suddenly turn warm, as if it were early spring. When they reached the pavilion, it grew even warmer. Strange birds flocked about, warbling sweetly, as if it were late spring. The tables and stands in the pavilion were all inlaid with agate and jade. There was a screen of crystal, so clear and bright it could serve as a mirror: within it, flowering trees swayed, blooming and fading in turn; and there were white birds like snow, flitting to and fro, tracing patterns upon it. When he touched it with his hand, there was nothing there at all. Gao stood stunned for a long time. When they sat down, he saw a myna perched on a rack, calling out: "Bring tea!" Soon a vermilion phoenix came, holding in its beak a red jade tray on which were two glass cups filled with fragrant tea, and it stretched out its neck and stood erect. When they had drunk, they placed the cups back in the tray, and the phoenix took it in its beak, flapped its wings, and flew away. The myna called again: "Bring wine!" Then came green luan and yellow cranes, fluttering down from the sun, bearing flagons and cups in their beaks, and set them in profusion on the table. Soon birds of all kinds brought dishes, coming and going without pause for rest; rare delicacies were arrayed in disarray, and in an instant the table was full. The fragrance of the dishes and the clarity of the wine were all beyond ordinary fare. Chen, seeing Gao drink with great gusto, said: "You have a vast capacity—you should have a large goblet." The myna called again: "Bring the great goblet!" Suddenly, from the direction of the sun, there was a flash, and a huge butterfly bore down a parrot-shaped cup that could hold a bushel, and alighted among the tables. Gao saw that the butterfly was larger than a wild goose, with graceful wings and brilliant, splendid markings, and he praised it profusely. Chen called out: "Butterfly, urge the wine!" The butterfly spread its wings and flew up, transforming into a beautiful woman in embroidered robes, who danced lightly forward and presented the wine. Chen said: "We cannot have this without something to accompany the cups." The woman then danced with ethereal grace. When the dance reached its peak, her feet left the ground by more than a foot, and she would bend her head backward until it was level with her feet, then somersault upright without her body ever touching the dust. And she sang: "Linking smiles and laughter, we tread the fragrant thicket, Bending low beneath flower-laden boughs, the blossom brushes my reddened cheeks. In winding steps I know not when my golden hairpin falls, And follow the butterfly past the eastern hedge." The lingering notes swirled on, no less than music that haunts the rafters. Gao was overjoyed, and drew her to drink with him. Chen bade her sit, and she too drank wine. Gao, flushed with wine, his heart stirred and his mind moved, suddenly rose and embraced her familiarly. When he looked, she had turned into a yaksha: eyes bulging from their sockets, fangs jutting from her maw, black flesh pitted and rugged, hideous beyond words. Gao cried out in fright and let go, prostrating himself over the table, trembling. Chen struck her beak with his chopsticks and rebuked: "Begone!" At the strike, she transformed again into a butterfly, fluttering away. Gao calmed himself, took his leave, and went out. Seeing the moonlight as if washed clean, he said casually to Chen: "Your fine wine and excellent dishes came from the sky—your home must be in heaven. Why not take an old friend for a visit?" Chen said: "We can." Thereupon he took Gao by the hand and leaped up. Gao felt himself floating in the vast emptiness, gradually drawing near the heavens. He saw a tall gate, round as a well, and as they entered, it was bright as day. The steps and paths were all paved with pale blue stone, smooth and spotless. There was a great tree, several zhang tall, bearing red blossoms as large as lotus flowers, crowding the branches in profusion. Below it was a woman, pounding crimson garments on a stone, of peerless beauty. Gao stood stock-still, staring fixedly, forgetting to walk on. When the woman saw him, she cried angrily: "What wanton fellow is this, who dares come here uninvited!" She flung her pestle at him, striking his back. Chen hastily pulled him into an empty space and sternly reproached him. Gao, struck by the pestle, instantly sobered, and felt deeply ashamed and sweaty. Then he followed Chen out, and white clouds caught under their feet. Chen said: "We part here. I have something to entrust to you—heed it carefully and do not forget: your allotted years are short. Tomorrow, quickly take refuge in the western mountains, and you may be spared." Gao tried to detain him, but he turned and went away. Gao felt the clouds gradually lower, and his body dropped into the garden; but the scene was utterly changed. He returned to his wife and children and told them all, and they were all astounded. Looking at the place on his clothing where the pestle had struck, there was a strange red pattern like brocade, with a wondrous fragrance. At dawn he followed Chen's words, packed provisions, and entered the mountains. Thick fog shrouded the sky, and he could not distinguish the path in the vast whiteness. He hurried onward through the wilds, when suddenly he lost his footing and fell into a cloud pit, feeling it to be unfathomably deep; but his body was fortunately uninjured. After he had composed himself for a long time, he looked up and saw the cloud vapor like a cage. He sighed to himself: "The immortal told me to flee, but fate cannot ultimately be avoided. When shall I get out of this pit?" He sat a while longer, and saw a faint light in the depths, so he rose and gradually entered, and found another world. Three old men were playing weiqi; seeing Gao arrive, they did not ask about him, and did not stop their game. Gao crouched and watched. When the game ended, they gathered the pieces into boxes, and only then asked the visitor how he had come here. Gao said: "I lost my way and fell here." The old man said: "This is not the mortal world; you should not stay long. I will send you back." He then led him to the bottom of the pit. Gao felt cloud vapor lift him up, and he was back on level ground. He saw the trees on the mountain were deep yellow, with leaves falling in a rustling wind, as if it were late autumn. Startled, he said: "I came in winter—why has it turned to late autumn?" He hurried home, and his wife and children were all astonished, gathering around and weeping. Gao asked in surprise, and his wife said: "You have been gone for three years without return; we all thought you were dead." Gao said: "Strange—it was only a moment." He took out the provisions from his waist, and they had turned to ashes. They were all amazed. His wife said: "After you left, I dreamed of two men in black, with gleaming belts, like bailiffs, who burst into the room and looked around, saying: 'Where has he gone?' I scolded them: 'He has gone out. Even if you are official messengers, how dare you enter a lady's chambers?' The two then left, and as they walked, they said: 'Strange, strange,' and went away." Then he understood that those he had met were immortals, and those his wife had dreamed of were ghosts. Whenever Gao received guests, he wore inside his clothes the garment that bore the pestle's mark, and the whole room was filled with fragrance—not musk, not orchid—and it grew even stronger with sweat. The Human Monster Ma Sheng Wanbao was a man of Dongchang, unrestrained and untrammeled by nature. His wife, née Tian, was also unconventional and free-spirited. The couple were deeply devoted. A young woman came and lodged with a widowed old woman who lived next door, saying that she had been mistreated by her father- and mother-in-law and had temporarily fled. Her sewing and mending were supremely skillful, so she worked for the old woman. The old woman was pleased and kept her. After a few days, she said she could perform massage at night to cure women's consumptive illnesses. The old woman often came to the Ma household to praise her skills, but Tian had never paid it much heed. One day, Ma caught sight of the girl through a crack in the wall. She was about eighteen or nineteen, quite elegant in manner. He secretly took a liking to her. Privately he plotted with his wife, and pretending to be ill, he summoned her. The old woman came first, felt his pulse at the bedside, and then said, "Since the lady has summoned her, she will come directly. But she fears to see men, so please do not let your husband enter." Tian said, "There is no spare room in the house; he comes and goes from time to time — what can be done about that?" After a moment's thought she added, "In the evening, my uncle from the western village is inviting him to drink. I can simply tell him not to come back — that would be easy enough." The old woman agreed and left. Tian and her husband used the stratagem of "pulling down Zhao's banner and raising Han's banner," and carried it out with laughter. At dusk, the old woman led the girl to the house and asked, "Will the master not be returning tonight?" Tian replied, "He won't." The girl said happily, "That is good, then." After a few words, the old woman took her leave. Tian then lit a candle, spread the bedclothes, and urged the girl to get into bed first, then undressed and darkened the lamp. Suddenly she said, "I nearly forgot — the kitchen door is not closed. I'm afraid the dog will steal food." She got out of bed, opened the door, and exchanged places with Ma. Ma crept in, climbed into bed, and lay down on the same pillow with the girl. The girl said in a trembling voice, "I am here to cure the lady's ailment." She interjected some endearments, but Ma said nothing. The girl then stroked Ma's belly, gradually moving down to below the navel. She stopped her hand and did not massage further, but suddenly reached for his private parts. Her wrist touched something that sprang up. Her look of shock and terror was no different from having mistakenly grabbed a snake or scorpion. She sprang up in haste to flee. Ma blocked her. He reached his hand between her thighs — and found a pendulous handful, a formidable organ as well. Greatly alarmed, he called for a light. Ma's wife, thinking matters had come to a rupture, quickly lit the lamp and came, intending to mediate. There she saw the girl prostrate on the floor begging for mercy. Ashamed and frightened, she rushed out. Ma interrogated the girl, who said she was Wang Erxi of Gucheng. Because her elder brother, Wang Daxi, was a disciple of Sang Chong, she had learned his techniques secondhand. Ma asked, "How many have you defiled?" She answered, "I have only been practicing this profession for a short while — only sixteen people." Ma thought her deeds deserved execution and considered reporting her to the prefecture; but pitying her beauty, he instead bound her arms behind her back and castrated her. Blood gushed out and she fainted; after the space of a meal she revived. He laid her on the bed, covered her with a quilt, and warned: "I will medicate you. When your wound heals, you will stay with me for life. Otherwise, if this comes to light, there will be no pardon." Wang consented. The next day, when the old woman came, Ma deceived her, saying, "She is my niece by a cousin, Wang Erjie. Because she was born a eunuch, her husband's family expelled her. Last night she told me the whole story, and only then did I learn it. Suddenly she felt unwell, and I am about to buy medicine for her and also inform her family, asking to keep her here to keep my wife company." The old woman entered the room to look at Wang, and saw her face was ashen and dusty. She asked from beside the bed. Wang said, "My private parts have suddenly swollen terribly — I fear it is a malignant ulcer." The old woman believed her and left. Ma administered medicinal soups and sprinkled powders on her, and day by day she recovered. At night he would draw her to share his intimacies; at dawn she would draw water and mend clothes for Tian, sweep and cook, like a maidservant. Before long, Sang Chong was executed; seven of his fellow conspirators were also beheaded in the marketplace. Only Erxi escaped the net, and warrants were sent to every district for a strict search. The villagers secretly suspected; they gathered the village matrons to feel through her clothing, and the suspicions were dispelled. Wang thereafter felt grateful to Ma, and stayed with him until the end. After Wang died, she was buried beside the Ma family graveyard west of the prefecture — the site can still be vaguely seen today. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Ma Wanbao may be said to have known how to employ people. Children love to play with crabs, yet fear their pincers; so they break off the pincers and keep them. Alas! If one could apply this principle, one could govern the whole realm." Appendix The Hibernating Snake In my district there was a scholar named Guo, who kept a school at Hezhuang in the eastern mountains. He had five or six young pupils, all just entering school. To the south of the study was the latrine, which was also a cattle pen; it leaned against the rocky cliff, and the wall was overgrown with tangled weeds and brush. When the boys went to the latrine, they often took a long time before returning. Guo scolded them. They said, "We were riding the clouds in the latrine." Guo was suspicious. When the boys went to the latrine, he watched from the side and saw them rise two or three feet into the air, bobbing up and down; after a while they remained still. Guo approached and examined carefully, and saw that from a crack in the wall a snake was raising its head, larger than a basin, inhaling upward. He then told all the villagers, and they came to look together. They burned the wall with torches; the snake died and the wall split. The snake was not very long, but as thick as a huge barrel. It had been hibernating inside, unable to get out, for many years. The Man from Jin A certain man from Jin, possessed of great courage and strength, did not deign to study the arts of grappling, yet any martial adept who faced him was routed. Passing through Zhongzhou, he was insulted by a Shaolin disciple, who angrily reported it to his master. They plotted together and prepared a feast to invite him, intending to trap him. When he arrived, they first set out tea and fruits. Walnuts with their shells, too hard to eat. The man took one to the table and struck it with his index finger — it shattered at the touch. The monastery crowd was greatly alarmed, treated him with utmost courtesy, and dispersed. The Dragon In Bo county there was a farmer named Wang Maocai, who went early to the fields. By the field he picked up a small boy of four or five, handsome and charming in appearance, with clever speech. He brought him home and adopted him as a son; the boy was extraordinarily intelligent. After four or five years, a monk came to his house. When the boy saw him, he fled in terror and disappeared. The monk told the farmer, "This boy is one of the five hundred little dragons from the pool of Mount Hua, who stole away and fled here." He then produced a bowl, filled it with water, and inside there appeared a small white snake swimming about. He put the bowl in his sleeve and departed. Love of Talent Among the officials, there was a man whose sister was raised in the palace and betrothed to a nobleman. A certain military officer wrote a formal letter on his behalf, which contained this striking couplet: "Your younger brother follows in your footsteps, for generations near the dragon's radiance; the sable-tasseled cap has graced the painted chamber. My unworthy sister, as a lady, for ten years attended the phoenix carriage; the rainbow-colored robes have shone bright as morning clouds. The pestle by the cold anvil may be grasped — it does not pound the frost of the night moon. The waters of the palace moat may be entrusted — there is no need for the ode of Yunying." The superior official marveled at his literary talent, and so exchanged his military rank for a civil one; later he rose to the post of Transmission Commissioner.