Chapter 3

Return to the Table of Contents Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Volume One Author: Pu Songling Volume Two → Testing the City God The grandfather of my elder sister's husband, Mr. Song, whose given name was Tao, was a stipendiary scholar in the district. One day, while ill in bed, he saw an official holding a summons and leading a white-headed horse, who said, "Please come to take the examination." Mr. Song said, "The Literary Chancellor has not yet arrived, why is there suddenly an examination?" The official did not speak, but only urged him on. Mr. Song, forcing himself up despite his illness, mounted the horse and followed him. The road was very unfamiliar, until they came to a city wall, like the capital of a king. After a while, they entered a government office, with stately palaces and halls, where more than ten officials were seated above; he did not know who any of them were, except that he could recognize Lord Guan the Mighty and Loyal. Beneath the eaves were placed two desks and two cushions, and a scholar was already seated at the far end. Mr. Song then took the seat beside him. On each desk were writing brushes and paper. Presently a examination paper flew down; he looked at it, and the eight characters read: "One man and two men, with intention and without intention." The two scholars completed their essays and presented them in the hall. In Mr. Song's essay there was a line: "When one does good with intention, though it be good, it is not rewarded; when one does evil without intention, though it be evil, it is not punished." The various deities passed it around praising it without end, and summoned Mr. Song up, saying, "There is a vacancy for a City God in Henan; you are worthy of this post." Only then did Mr. Song realize, and kowtowing with tears said, "I am humbly honored by this gracious appointment—how dare I decline! But my old mother is seventy, and there is no one to care for her; please allow me to live out her natural span of years, and only then submit to your appointment." The one above who bore the likeness of an emperor immediately ordered, "Examine the register of the mother's allotted years." A long-bearded official brought out a book and flipped through it once, then reported, "She has nine years of worldly life remaining." While they were all hesitating, Lord Guan said, "It is no harm to let Mr. Zhang hold the seal in the interim, and let him be relieved after nine years—that will do." He then said to Mr. Song, "You should go to your post at once, but now, out of consideration for your filial and benevolent heart, we grant you nine years' leave; when the time comes, we shall summon you again." He also spoke a few words of encouragement to the other scholar. The two gentlemen bowed their heads and withdrew together. The scholar took Mr. Song's hand and saw him off into the countryside, saying that he was Zhang of Changshan; he gave Mr. Song a farewell poem in parting, of which Mr. Song forgot all the words, except a line that ran: "With flowers and wine, spring is ever present; without candle or lamp, the night shines of itself." Mr. Song mounted his horse and took his leave, returning home, where he suddenly awoke as if from a dream. By then he had been dead for three days. His mother heard groaning from within the coffin, and helped him out; after half a day, he was able to speak. He made inquiries about Changshan, and indeed a certain scholar Zhang had died on that very day. Nine years later, his mother indeed passed away. After the burial was completed, he washed and entered his chamber, and there he died. His wife's family lived inside the western gate of the city, when suddenly they saw Mr. Song, with a tasseled bridle and crimson trappings, attended by many carriages and horsemen, entering their hall; he made one bow and departed. They were all startled and puzzled, not knowing he had become a deity, and rushed to inquire in his hometown—only to find he had already passed away. Mr. Song left a personal memoir, but alas it did not survive the chaos; this is only a rough account. The Ear Person Tan Jinxuan—some versions give the name as "Yuan"—was a district scholar in the county. He was deeply devoted to the art of daoyin breathing exercises, and practiced it without pause through cold and heat; after several months of practice, he felt he had gained something. One day, while sitting cross-legged—some versions say "with legs folded"—he heard a tiny voice within his ear, like a fly, saying, "I may appear now." He opened his eyes and it ceased to be heard; closing his eyes and steadying his breath, he heard it again as before. Thinking that his elixir was about to be completed, he secretly rejoiced. From then on, whenever he sat in meditation he heard it, and so he waited for it to speak again, intending to respond and observe it. One day, it spoke again. He therefore answered softly, saying, "You may appear now." Presently he felt a rustling within his ear, as if something were emerging. Glancing sideways, he saw a little man about three inches tall, with a hideous and ferocious face like a yaksha, spinning about on the ground—some versions say "below." He was secretly astonished, but he composed his mind and watched for what would happen next. Suddenly a neighbor came to borrow something, knocking at the gate and calling out. The little man, hearing this, grew frantic and ran circling around the room, like a mouse that has lost its hole. Tan felt his spirit and soul scatter away, and no longer knew—some versions say "no longer knew"—where the little man had gone. He then fell into a mad fit, shrieking without cease; (The Dan Commentary says: Thinking the elixir was about to be completed, he instead fell into madness—this is what is meant by trying to paint a tiger but failing. The way of the sages and worthies is not like this.) After half a year of medicine and treatment, he gradually recovered. (The He Commentary says: The art of daoyin, without proper orthodox transmission, naturally produces strange abnormalities. The *Cantong qi* speaks of this in great detail.) Corpse Transformation In Yangxin there was an old man, a native of Caidian in that district. His village was five or six li from the city; he and his son set up an inn by the road, lodging traveling merchants. There were several carters who came and went carrying goods for sale, and they always stayed at his house. One day at dusk, four men came together, seeking lodging at his door, but the old man's house was full of guests. The four had no alternative and earnestly begged to be accommodated. The old man pondered and thought of a place, but seemed afraid it might not suit the guests. The guests said, "We only ask for a bit of shelter; we would not dare to choose." At that time, the old man's daughter-in-law had recently died; her corpse was laid in a room, and his son had gone out to buy timber and had not returned. The old man, thinking the room where the spirit lay was quiet, therefore led the guests through the lane to that place. They entered the room; a lamp was dim on the table, and behind the table there was a hanging curtain, with a paper coverlet over the deceased. Looking at the sleeping quarters, there was a connecting room with a joined couch. The four guests, quite tired from their journey, had barely laid their heads on the pillows when their breathing grew heavy. Only one guest was still half-awake. Suddenly he heard a rustling sound from the spirit bed; he quickly opened his eyes, and by the lamp before the spirit, he saw clearly: the female corpse had lifted the coverlet and risen; soon she came down and gradually entered the bedroom. Her face was pale golden, and she wore a raw silk band around her forehead. She bent near the couch and blew on each sleeping guest three times. The guest was terrified, fearing she would come to him; he secretly drew the cover over his head, held his breath and swallowed his fear, listening. After a while, the woman indeed came and blew on him just as on the others. He felt she left the room, and then he heard the sound of the paper coverlet. He stuck his head out and peeped; he saw the corpse lying rigid as before. The guest was extremely frightened and dared not make a sound; secretly he kicked the other guests with his foot, but they did not stir at all. Thinking it over, he saw no plan, and decided it would be better to put on his clothes and flee. Just as he rose and shook his clothes, the rustling sound came again. The guest was afraid and lay down again, shrinking his head under the cover. He felt the woman come again, and after blowing on him several times in succession, she finally left. After a short while, he heard the spirit bed creak, and knew she had lain down again. Then from under the cover he gradually reached out his hand, got his trousers, hastily put them on, and barefoot ran out. The corpse also rose, as if to pursue the guest. By the time she left the curtain, the guest had already drawn the bolt and gone out. The corpse sped after him. The guest ran and shouted, but none of the villagers were roused. He wanted to knock at the host's door, but feared he would be caught if he delayed. So he made for the road to the county town and fled with all his might. Arriving at the eastern outskirts, he caught sight of a temple and heard the sound of a wooden fish; he urgently pounded on the temple gate. The Daoist priest, surprised at this unusual commotion, did not immediately let him in. In a moment, the corpse had arrived, only a foot away from him. The guest was even more distressed. Outside the gate there was a white poplar about four or five feet in girth; he used the tree to screen himself, moving left when she went right, and right when she went left. The corpse grew angrier. But both gradually became exhausted. The corpse suddenly stood still. The guest, sweating and breathless, sheltered behind the tree. The corpse suddenly sprang up, stretched out both arms, and reached around the tree to grab him. The guest fell in fright. The corpse could not catch him, and remained stiff, embracing the tree. The Daoist priest listened stealthily for a long time; hearing no sound, he gradually came out and saw the guest lying on the ground. He held a candle to him and found him dead, but there was still a faint movement in his heart. He carried him in; it was only after the whole night that he revived. He gave him some warm broth and asked him; the guest told him everything. At that time the morning bell had already ceased, and dawn was hazy; the priest looked at the tree and indeed saw the stiff woman. Greatly alarmed, he reported it to the county magistrate. The magistrate came in person to verify. He ordered men to pull the woman's hands away, but they were firmly clenched and would not open. Examining closely, the four fingers of each hand were curled like hooks, with the nails sunk into the wood. With several men pulling hard, they finally got her down. The holes left by her fingers looked like chisel marks. He sent a constable to the old man's house, and found that because the corpse was missing and the guest had died, everyone was in an uproar. The constable told them the reason. The old man then went with him and carried the corpse back. The guest wept and told the magistrate, "Four of us came out together; now only one returns. How can I make this believable to my fellow villagers?" The magistrate gave him a written certificate and sent him home with it. Spraying Water When Mr. Song Yushu of Laiyang was serving as a department official, the house he rented was very desolate. One night, two maidservants attended the old lady to sleep in the main hall. They heard a flapping sound in the courtyard, like that of a seamstress spraying water. The old lady urged the maids to get up and peep through a hole in the window. They saw an old woman, short and hunchbacked, with white hair like a broom, wearing a topknot about two feet long, walking around the courtyard, now slowly now quickly, in a crane-like step, and as she walked she sprayed water, which issued endlessly. The maids were startled and returned to report. The old lady also rose in alarm; the two maids supported her to the window and they gathered to watch. Suddenly the old woman approached the window and sprayed straight into the lattice; the window paper burst, and all three fell down, and the household knew nothing of it. After the eastern sun had risen, the household assembled; they knocked at the door but got no answer, and were frightened. They forced the door open and saw the mistress and two maids lying dead together in one room. One maid was still warm below the diaphragm. They raised her up and administered a decoction; after a while she revived, and then related what she had seen. When the master arrived, he was grief-stricken and almost died of rage. He searched carefully for the place where she had disappeared; they dug more than three feet deep, and gradually white hair appeared; digging further, they found a corpse exactly like the one they had seen, with a plump, swollen face as if alive. He ordered it to be struck; the flesh and bones all rotted away, and inside the skin was nothing but clear water. Pupil Dialogue A scholar of Chang'an, Fang Dong, was quite famous for his talent, but he was frivolous and careless of propriety. Whenever he saw young women on the road, he would follow them with light behavior. On the day before Qingming, he happened to stroll in the outskirts, and saw a small carriage with red curtains and embroidered canopy, followed by several maids in blue, walking at an easy pace. Among them was a maid riding a small horse, of extremely beautiful appearance. He drew a little nearer to peer at her, and saw that the carriage curtains were wide open; inside sat a young lady of about sixteen, in red makeup, gorgeous, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. His eyes were dazzled and his mind captivated; he could not tear himself away, and followed the carriage, sometimes before, sometimes behind, for several li. Suddenly he heard the young lady call the maid to the side of the carriage and say, "Lower the curtain for me! What madcap youngster is this who keeps peeping?" The maid then lowered the curtain and angrily glared at Fang and said, "This is the new wife of the Seventh Young Master of Furongcheng, returning to her parents' home; she is not some country woman to be allowed to be rudely stared at by a scholar." Having said this, she scooped up some dust from the wheel track and flung it at Fang, blinding his eyes so that he could not open them. Just as he wiped his eyes and looked, the carriage and horses had vanished; he returned home in alarm and doubt. He felt that his eyes were still uncomfortable; he asked someone to lift his eyelids and look, and found that a small film had grown on his eye. Overnight it grew worse, and tears flowed down without stopping. The film gradually enlarged, and after a few days it was as thick as a coin; on the right eye a spiral protuberance rose up. No medicine worked. He was so vexed and dismayed that he felt like dying, and thought of repenting. He heard that the *Guangming Jing* (Sutra of Light) could dispel calamities, so he got a copy and asked someone to teach him to recite it. At first he was still agitated, but gradually he became calm; morning and evening, with nothing else to do, he sat cross-legged and told his beads. He recited it for a year, and all worldly attachments became quiet. Suddenly he heard, from his right eye, a tiny voice like a fly say, "It's pitch-black, unbearably suffocating." The left eye answered, "Let us go out for a little stroll together and relieve this stuffiness." Gradually he felt an itching, wriggling sensation in both nostrils, as if something came out, left the nostrils, and went away; after a long while it returned and again entered through his nose. Then the voice in the eye socket said, "For a long time we have not looked at the garden pavilions; the pearl orchids have suddenly withered and died." Fang had always loved fragrant orchids; he had planted many in his garden and watered them daily, but since losing his sight, he had long neglected them. Suddenly hearing this remark, he hurriedly asked his wife, "What has made the orchids so withered and shrunken?" His wife asked how he knew; he told her the reason. She went to examine them, and indeed the flowers were all withered; she was greatly amazed. He quietly hid himself in the chamber, when he saw little figures emerge from his own nose, no larger than beans, bustling about and finally going out the door. They gradually went farther away, until he lost sight of where they had gone. Soon they returned, linking arms, and flew up onto his face, like bees and ants entering their hive. This went on for two or three days. Then he heard the left side say: "The tunnel is circuitous; going back and forth is not very convenient. Better to open a door ourselves." The right side answered: "My wall is thick; it is not easy at all." The left said: "I will try to open it, and then you can follow." Thereupon he felt within his left eye-socket a faint sensation as if it were being scratched and torn. After a while, he opened it and looked, and could clearly see the objects before him. Joyfully he told his wife, who examined it carefully—it was a small aperture in the fatty membrane, with the dark pupil glistening, just like a split pepper-corn. After a night passed, the obstruction had completely disappeared. Examining it closely, it turned out to be a double pupil; but the right eye remained spiral as before, so he realized that the two pupils had simply come to reside together in one socket. Though the scholar had lost one eye, he could see even more clearly than those with two eyes. From then on he became even more careful in his conduct, and in the village he was praised as a man of great virtue. The Historian of the Strange comments: In the countryside there was a scholar who was walking along the road with two friends. From afar they saw a young woman riding a donkey ahead of them. He jokingly recited: "There is a beautiful lady," and turning to his two friends said, "Chase her!" Together they laughed and galloped after her. Soon they caught up, and it was his own daughter-in-law. His heart filled with shame and his spirit quailed; he fell silent and said nothing more. His friends pretended not to know, and made lewd comments about her. The scholar, embarrassed and stammering, barely managed to say: "This is my eldest son's wife." They each suppressed their laughter and dropped it. Those who are frivolous often bring shame upon themselves—how ridiculous! As for having one's eyes darkened and losing sight, that is a terrible retribution from the spirits. The Lord of Hibiscus City—what god could he be? Could it be an incarnation of Bodhisattva? Yet the little young man opened a door of his own accord; though the spirits may be harsh, they have never denied a person the chance to reform. --- The Painted Wall A scholar from Jiangxi named Meng Longtan and a xiaolian named Zhu were staying as guests in the capital. They happened to enter a Buddhist temple, whose halls and monks' quarters were not particularly spacious, with only an old monk lodging there. Seeing the visitors enter, he straightened his robes and came out to receive them, guiding them around to view the premises. In the main hall stood a statue of the Venerable Zhigong; the murals on the two walls were exquisitely painted, with figures as lifelike as if alive. On the eastern wall was painted a heavenly maiden scattering flowers, among whom one with her hair still in childish tufts held a flower and smiled, her cherry lips seemingly about to move, and the waves of her eyes about to flow. Zhu gazed at her for a long time, until his mind was seized and his spirit carried away. He fell into a daze, and suddenly his body drifted up as if riding clouds and mist, and he found himself upon the wall. He saw halls and pavilions rising one upon another, no longer of the human world. An old monk was expounding the Dharma from a seat, while many others in half-exposed robes gathered around to listen; Zhu also stood among the crowd. After a short while, someone seemed to tug stealthily at his robe. He turned and saw the girl with the childish tufts, beaming at him. He at once followed her, crossing a winding balustrade into a small chamber, but hesitated and dared not go further. The girl turned back, raised the flower in her hand, and made a beckoning gesture from afar; so he hurried toward her. Inside the chamber there was no one else. He embraced her at once, and she did not resist much, so they became intimate. Then she closed the door and left, telling Zhu "Do not cough," and returned again at night. This went on for two days. Her female companions noticed it and together searched him out. They teasingly said to the girl: "The little one in your belly is already so big, and you still wear your hair in tufts like a maiden?" They all brought out hairpins and earrings and urged her to coil up her hair. The girl hung her head in shame and said nothing. One of the girls said: "Sisters, let us not stay long, lest we make someone unhappy." They all laughed and left. Zhu looked at the girl: her hair was now piled high like clouds, with phoenix-shaped sidelocks hanging low—she was even more exquisite than when her hair had been in tufts. Looking around and seeing no one, he gradually grew more amorous, and the fragrance of orchids and musk filled his senses. Their pleasure had not yet reached its height when suddenly they heard the loud clanking of boots of black leather, and the clashing of chains, followed by the clamor of confused voices disputing. The girl started up in alarm and peered out with Zhu, and they saw a golden-armored messenger, his face black as lacquer, holding chains in one hand and a hammer in the other, surrounded by a crowd of women. The messenger said: "Is it complete?" They answered: "It is complete." The messenger said: "If any of you has hidden a mortal from the lower world, come forward and confess at once, so as not to bring trouble upon yourselves." They all answered in one voice: "There is none." The messenger turned around and looked about in surprise, as if about to search for any hidden person. The girl was terrified, her face ashen. Flustered, she said to Zhu: "Quick, hide under the couch!" Then she opened a small door in the wall and suddenly fled. Zhu lay hidden and dared not even breathe. Soon he heard the sound of boots entering the room, and then going out again. Before long, the noisy commotion gradually receded into the distance, and his heart settled somewhat. But outside, there were still voices of people coming and going and talking. After crouching there for a long time, Zhu felt a ringing in his ears like cicadas, and fire seeming to shoot from his eyes; the situation was nearly unbearable. He could only wait quietly for the girl to return, and no longer even remembered where he himself had come from. Meanwhile, Meng Longtan was still in the main hall. In the blink of an eye, he could not see Zhu, and asked the monk in puzzlement. The monk smiled and said: "He has gone to hear the Dharma." Meng asked: "Where?" The monk said: "Not far." After a moment, he tapped the wall with his finger and called out: "Zhu benefactor, why do you tarry so long and not return?" Immediately the painted image of Zhu appeared on the wall, tilting its ear and standing still, as if listening. The monk called out again: "Your traveling companion has been waiting a long time." Thereupon Zhu floated down from the wall, his heart deadened, his body stiff as a wooden statue, his eyes staring and his feet weak. Meng was greatly alarmed and asked him calmly what had happened. It turned out that while he was lying under the couch, he heard a knocking sound like thunder, and so came out of the room to look and listen. Together they looked at the flower-holding maiden—her coiled hair now stood up in a spiral topknot, no longer in childish tufts. Zhu bowed in awe to the old monk and asked him the reason. The monk smiled and said: "Illusions arise from the mind—how could this old monk explain it?" Zhu was choked with frustration and could not speak; Meng was terrified and at a loss, so they rose and walked down the steps to leave. The Historian of the Strange comments: "Illusions arise from the mind"—these words seem to belong to one who understands the Way. When a person has lustful thoughts, they give rise to a realm of licentiousness; when a person has thoughts of fear, they give rise to a realm of terror. The Bodhisattva transforms the ignorant and benighted; a thousand illusions arise at once, but they are all set in motion by a person's own mind. The old monk's compassionate heart was earnest—it is a pity that he did not hear those words and awaken greatly, to let his hair down and enter the mountains. --- Mountain Demon Sun Taibai once said: His great-grandfather was studying at Liugou Temple in South Mountain. At wheat harvest he returned home, and only after ten days did he come back. He opened the door of his study, and found dust had gathered on the table and cobwebs filled the windows. He ordered a servant to sweep and clean, and it was not until evening that the room felt fresh enough to sit in. He then brushed the couch, laid out his bedding, closed the door, and rested his head upon the pillow. Moonlight already filled the window. He tossed and turned for some time, and all sounds had ceased. Suddenly he heard a rumbling wind, and the temple gate crashed open. He thought to himself that the monks must have neglected to latch it. While he was pondering this, the sound of the wind drew nearer to his dwelling, and soon the door of his room burst open. He was greatly perplexed. Before his thoughts could settle, the sound had entered the room, and there came the clanking of boots, gradually approaching the bedroom door. His heart began to fear. Soon the bedroom door opened. Glancing up abruptly, he saw a huge ghost stoop and squeeze itself in, then suddenly stand erect before his couch, nearly reaching the beam. Its face was the color of old melon rind; its eyes darted and flashed as it looked around the room; it opened a great mouth like a basin, with sparse teeth some three inches long; its tongue moved and its throat rumbled, and a harsh grating sound echoed off all four walls. The gentleman was terrified to the extreme, yet he thought again: in such close quarters there was no chance of escape, so he might as well strike at it. He therefore secretly drew the knife he kept under his pillow, whipped it out, and hacked at it, striking its belly with a sound like a stone earthenware jar. The ghost flew into a rage, reached out its huge claws and grabbed at him. The gentleman shrank back slightly. The ghost seized the quilt and wrung it, then departed in a fury. The gentleman fell with the quilt, prostrated himself on the ground, and cried out. His household came running with torches, but the door was shut as before. They forced open the window and entered, and were horrified at the sight. They helped him onto the bed, and only then did he tell them what had happened. They examined the scene together, and found the quilt wedged in the crack of the bedroom door. When they opened the door and inspected by lamplight, they saw claw marks like a winnowing basket, where the five fingers had pierced straight through the door. After day broke, he dared not stay any longer, and carrying his books on his back, he returned home. Later he asked the monks, but there were no further strange occurrences. The Biting Ghost Shen Linsheng related: A certain elderly gentleman, a friend of his, was napping during a summer day. In a daze he saw a woman lift the curtain and enter, her head wrapped in white cloth, wearing mourning garments and a hemp skirt, heading toward the inner chamber. He suspected it was a neighbor's wife visiting his own wife, but then thought: why would she enter someone's house in mourning attire? While he was still flustered and uncertain, the woman came back out. He looked at her closely: she appeared about thirty years old, her complexion sallow and puffy, her brows knit in a grimace, her expression fearsome. She lingered and did not leave, gradually approaching his bed. He therefore pretended to be asleep to see what she would do. Before long, the woman gathered up her clothes and climbed onto the bed, pressing down on his belly. He felt it as heavy as a hundred jun. Though his mind was clear, when he tried to lift his hands they seemed tied; when he tried to move his feet they were like dead weights. He urgently wanted to call for help, but could not make a sound. The woman put her mouth to his face and sniffed all over his cheekbones, nose, brows, and forehead. Her mouth felt cold as ice, and her breath chilled him to the bone. In his desperation, the old gentleman hit upon a plan: when she sniffed down to his chin and cheeks, he would bite her then. Before long, she reached his chin. The gentleman seized the moment and bit down on her cheekbone with all his might, his teeth sinking into her flesh. The woman jerked back in pain, struggling and crying out. The gentleman bit even harder. He only felt blood and fluid streaming down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beside him. While they were locked in this bitter struggle, he suddenly heard his wife's voice from outside the courtyard. He called out urgently that there was a ghost, and the moment he relaxed his jaw, the woman had already vanished. His wife rushed in and saw nothing, laughing at him for a nightmare delusion. The gentleman recounted the strange event and said there was physical evidence of blood. They examined it together: it was like rain leaking through the roof, having soaked the pillow and drenched the mat. They bent down and smelled it; the stench was extraordinary. The gentleman vomited violently. For several days after, an odd smell still lingered in his mouth. Catching a Fox Elder Sun was the uncle of Qingfu, who was connected to my family by marriage. He had always been bold. One day, as he lay napping, he felt something climb onto the bed, and then his body swayed as if riding clouds and mist. He thought to himself: could this be a fox pressing down on me? Peeking slightly, he saw a creature the size of a cat, yellow-furred with a blue beak, coming from the foot of the bed. It crept along in a writhing, crawling manner, as if afraid he might wake. It hesitated and drew near his body: when it touched his foot, his foot grew weak; when it touched his thigh, his thigh went limp. As soon as it reached his belly, the old man suddenly sat up, pinned it down, and seized it by the nape of its neck. The creature squealed urgently and could not escape. Sun urgently called his wife to bring a belt and tie it around the creature's waist. Then he took the two ends of the belt in his hands and laughed, saying: "I've heard you are good at transformation. Now my eyes are fixed on you—let's see how you transform." As he spoke, the creature suddenly contracted its belly until it was as thin as a pipe, nearly slipping free. Sun was greatly startled and hurriedly pulled the belt tight, but then it swelled its belly out again, thicker than a bowl, and so stiff it could not be compressed. As soon as he relaxed a little, it shrank again. Sun, fearing it would escape, ordered his wife to kill it at once. His wife looked around in panic, unable to find a knife. Sun glanced left to show her where it was. But by the time she turned back, the belt was in his hands as an empty loop, and the creature had vanished. The Monster in the Buckwheat Elder An of Changshan was fond of farm work. In autumn, when the buckwheat was ripe, he had it cut and piled by the ridges. Since there were thieves from nearby villages stealing the crops, he ordered his hired laborers to haul it to the threshing ground by moonlight. He waited until they had loaded it and departed, then stayed behind himself to keep watch. So he lay down in the open with his spear as a pillow. As his eyes were just closing, he suddenly heard someone treading on the buckwheat stubble, crackling and crunching. Suspecting a thief, he quickly raised his head, and saw a great ghost over a zhang tall, with red hair and a bristly beard, already quite near him. Terrified, with no time to think of other plans, he leaped up and thrust at it fiercely. The ghost screamed like thunder and fled. Fearing it would return, he shouldered his spear and went home. He met his laborers on the road and told them what he had seen, cautioning them not to go back. They were not fully convinced. The next day, as they were spreading the wheat to dry on the threshing floor, they suddenly heard a sound in the air. The old man cried out in alarm: "The ghost is coming!" He ran, and the others ran too. After a while they regrouped, and Elder An ordered them to set up many crossbows and wait. The next day, it indeed came again. Several arrows were loosed at once, and the creature fled in fright. For two or three days it did not return. After the wheat was stored in the granary, the straw and stalks lay in a jumble, and Elder An ordered them gathered into a rick. He climbed up himself to trample it solid, several feet high. Suddenly he looked into the distance and shouted in horror: "The ghost has come!" The men hurried to find their bows and arrows, but the creature had already rushed at Elder An. He fell, and it bit his forehead and left. They climbed up to look at him: a piece of his forehead as large as a palm was gone, and he was unconscious. They carried him home, and he died soon after. It did not appear again. No one knows what monster it was. The House Demon Li, of Changshan, was the nephew of the Grand Minister of Justice. His house was full of strange apparitions. Once he saw a spring stool in the hall, of a fleshy red color, very smooth and glossy. Li knew he had no such object, and went closer to press it with his hand. It bent at his touch, soft as flesh. Startled, he drew back. When he turned to look again, the four legs were moving, gradually disappearing into the wall. On another occasion he saw a white staff leaning against the wall, smooth, clean, and long. He went to support it, but it fell over limply and slithered into the wall, vanishing after a while. In the seventeenth year of the Kangxi reign, Wang Junsheng was teaching in that household. At dusk, when the lamps had just been lit, Wang was lying on the couch in his shoes. Suddenly he saw a little man about three inches tall come in from outside. After a brief circuit of the room, he left again. Soon after, two little men carried in a coffin about four inches long and set it on the stool. Before they had finished arranging it, a woman led several maidservants in, all likewise tiny as before. The woman wore mourning clothes, a hemp cord around her waist, and her head wrapped in cloth. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and sobbed in a tiny voice that sounded like a great bumblebee. Wang stared at them for a long time until his hair stood on end and his body felt covered with frost. He let out a great cry and fled, falling from the couch and trembling so violently he could not rise. When the others in the house heard the commotion and gathered, the figures in the hall had entirely vanished. Wang Liulang There was a man named Xu who lived in the northern suburbs of Zi. He made his living by fishing. Every night he would take wine to the river, drinking and fishing. Before he drank, he would pour a libation on the ground and pray: "May the drowned ghosts in the river have this drink." He did this as a rule. Other men who fished there never caught anything, but Xu alone always filled his basket. One evening, as he was drinking alone, a young man came and paced about beside him. Xu invited him to drink, and the young man readily joined him. But that night Xu caught not a single fish, and he felt quite disappointed. The young man rose and said, "Let me go downstream and drive them up for you." He then drifted away. After a short while he returned and said, "A great school of fish is coming." Sure enough, Xu heard the sound of fish feeding and sucking. He cast his net and hauled in several fish, all over a foot long. Overjoyed, he thanked the young man profusely. As he was about to go home, he offered the young man some fish, but he would not accept, saying, "I have often partaken of your fine wine—how could so little serve as repayment? If you do not mind, I should like to come often." Xu said, "We have only shared one evening together—how can you say 'often'? If you are willing to come forever, that would truly be my dearest wish—but I am ashamed I have nothing to offer you." He asked his name and surname, and the young man replied, "My surname is Wang, and I have no style name. When we meet, you may call me Wang Liulang." Then they parted. The next day, Xu sold his fish and bought more wine. When he reached the riverbank that evening, the young man was already there, and they drank merrily together. After a few cups, he would drive fish for Xu as before. Thus half a year passed. He suddenly announced to Xu: "In knowing your pure brilliance, our affection surpassed that of flesh and blood. Yet the time for our parting has come." His speech was extremely sorrowful. Xu asked him in surprise. He stopped himself from speaking several times, then said: "With affection as good as ours, might you not be surprised if I speak of it? Now as we part, there is no harm in telling you plainly: I am actually a ghost. I originally loved wine, got heavily drunk and drowned, and have been here several years. Previously, the fish you caught that surpassed all others were all secretly driven by your servant, to repay your libations. Tomorrow my term is fulfilled, and there should be a replacement; I am going to cast off for rebirth. We can gather only this very evening, hence I cannot help but feel emotion." Xu was greatly startled upon first hearing this; yet since their intimacy had long been established, he was no longer terrified. Therefore he also sighed, poured a drink, and said: "Sixth Young Master, drink this, and do not be sorrowful. Meeting and suddenly parting is truly enough to cause grief and lamentation, but with your term fulfilled and your kalpa cast off, it is precisely proper to congratulate you. Sorrowing would be out of place." Thereupon they drank heartily together. Then Xu asked: "Who is the replacement?" He replied: "Brother, watch by the river bank. At high noon, there will be a woman crossing the river and drowning—that is she." Hearing the village rooster crowing its first, he shed tears and parted. The next day, Xu respectfully watched by the river to observe anything unusual. There truly was a woman carrying an infant who came, and upon reaching the river she fell in. The child was thrown onto the bank, waving its hands and feet and crying. The woman sank and surfaced repeatedly, then suddenly drenchedly climbed up the bank and emerged, rested briefly on the ground, and hurried away with the child. When the woman was drowning, his heart truly could not bear it, and he thought of running to save her; then he turned his thought that this was how Sixth Young Master would be replaced, so he stopped and did not save her. When the woman came out by herself, he doubted whether the other's words were true. At dusk, he fished at the old spot. The youth returned, and said: "Today we gather together once more, and I will not speak of parting." Xu asked the reason. He said: "The woman has already taken my place; but I pitied the child in her arms—to replace one younger brother meant destroying two lives—so I spared her. As for finding another replacement, I know not when. Perhaps the bond between our two persons is not yet exhausted?" Xu exclaimed with emotion: "This is the heart of a benevolent person, which can reach the Supreme Emperor!" From then on they gathered and congregated as before. Several days later, [the youth] came again to say farewell. Xu suspected he had found another replacement. [The youth] said: "Not so. My previous thought of compassion truly reached the Emperor of Heaven. Now I have been appointed as the Tudigong of Wuzhen in Zhaoyuan County, and tomorrow I assume office. If you do not forget our old friendship, you should come for a visit and not fear long and rugged roads." Xu congratulated him, saying: "Your uprightness as a god greatly comforts people's hearts. But with the paths of men and gods separated, even if I do not fear long and rugged roads, what shall be done?" The youth said: "Just come, do not worry." He exhorted him again and again and left. Xu returned and immediately wanted to pack his bags and head east. His wife laughed and said: "Going several hundred li from here, even if there is such a place, I fear earthen statues cannot speak together." Xu would not listen and finally arrived in Zhaoyuan. Asking the local residents, there truly was a Wuzhen. He searched until he reached the place, put down his burden at an inn, and asked where the shrine was located. The host asked in alarm: "Could the guest's surname be Xu?" Xu said: "Indeed. How did you know?" [The host] asked again: "Could the guest's district be Zichuan?" Xu said: "Indeed. How did you know?" The host did not answer, and hurriedly went out. Presently, the husband carried his child, and the daughter-in-law peeked through the door, crowding and coming forth, surrounding him like a wall. Xu then announced: "Several nights ago, a god said in a dream: 'Xu, the friend from Zichuan, will soon arrive; you may assist him with traveling expenses.' We have awaited you for a long time." Xu was also astonished by this, so he went to offer sacrifices at the shrine and prayed, saying: "Since parting from you, waking and sleeping you have not left my mind, and I have traveled far to fulfill our past appointment. Furthermore, you favored us by appearing in a dream to the residents, and gratitude is engraved in my bosom. Ashamed to have no fine goods, I have only a cup of wine; if you do not disdain it, it shall be like the drinking by the river." When the prayer was finished, he burned paper money. Presently he saw a wind rise behind the seat, spinning for some time before dispersing. That night he dreamed the youth came, dressed in fine robes and caps, greatly different from usual. He gave thanks, saying: "You have labored from afar to visit and inquire, and my tears of joy mingle. Yet holding a minor post, it is inconvenient for us to meet face to face; with rivers and mountains close at hand, my heart is deeply grieved. The residents have slightly provided gifts, to modestly repay our former affection. If your return has an appointed time, I shall surely come to send you off." After staying several days, Xu wished to return. The villagers retained him earnestly, inviting him morning and evening, with the hosts changing daily. Xu firmly declined and wished to leave. The villagers then folded letters and held bundles, rushing to present parting gifts. Before the morning was over, the gifts filled his bags. Old servants and young children gathered completely, seeing him off out of the village. Suddenly a whirlwind arose, following him for more than ten li. Xu bowed twice and said: "Sixth Young Master, treasure yourself! Do not trouble yourself with a distant journey. With your benevolent and loving heart, you will naturally bring blessings to the locality, and have no need for your old friend's injunctions." The wind circled for a long time, then departed. The villagers also sighed and marveled as they returned. Xu returned home, and his family being somewhat prosperous, he thereupon fished no more. Later when he saw people from Zhaoyuan asking about it, [they said] its efficacious responses were like an echo. Some say: it is right at Shikengzhuang in Zhangqiu. Which is correct is unknown. The Historian of the Strange says: "To place oneself among the blue clouds and not forget poverty and lowliness—this is the reason why he is a god. Can today's nobles in carriages still recognize the man who wears a straw hat? In my home district there was a retired official whose family was extremely poor. He had a childhood friend who held a lucrative rank. Reckoning that if he threw himself upon him, the other would surely care for him, he exhausted his efforts to prepare luggage and rushed a thousand li, only to suffer utter disappointment; having emptied his bag and sold his horse, he was finally able to return. His younger paternal cousin was very witty, and wrote a 'Yueling' satire about him, saying: 'This month, the elder brother arrives; the sable hat is doffed, the canopy is not unfurled, the horse turns into a donkey, and the boots finally cease their sound.' Remembering this, one may have a good laugh." *Stealing Peaches* When I was a child, I went to the prefectural examination, and it happened to be the Spring Festival. According to old custom, the day before, all merchants would set up colorful towers and play drums and pipes, going to the provincial treasury, called "Yan Chun" (Spring Performance). I joined my friends in watching the spectacle. On that day, the crowds of onlookers were like a wall. On the hall sat four officials, all in red robes, facing east and west. At that time I was young and did not understand what officials they were. I only heard a hubbub of voices and the deafening noise of drums and pipes. Suddenly a man appeared, leading a boy with disheveled hair, carrying a pole on his shoulder, as if to report something; but the ten thousand voices were so tumultuous that I could not hear what he said. I only saw laughter from the hall. Then a man in blue robes loudly ordered a performance. The man responded and was about to begin, asking: "What performance?" The officials on the hall conferred a few words. A clerk came down and asked what his specialty was. He answered: "I can invert the growth of living things." The clerk reported to the officials. After a short while, he came down again and ordered him to fetch peaches. The conjurer acknowledged, took off his coat and covered his box with it, then deliberately showed a resentful expression, saying: "The officials are truly unreasonable! The ice has not yet melted, where can I get peaches? If I don't fetch them, I fear I will anger the southern-facing ones. What to do!" His son said: "Father has already promised, how can he refuse?" The conjurer pondered for a long time, then said: "I have thought it through thoroughly. In early spring, with snow accumulated, where in the human world can they be found? Only in the Queen Mother of the West's garden, where they never wither all year round, perhaps there are some. I must steal them from heaven, then it can be done." The son said: "Alas! Can heaven be ascended by stairs?" He said: "There is a technique." Then he opened the box and brought out a coil of rope, about several tens of zhang in length, straightened its end, and threw it into the air; the rope immediately stood upright in the air, as if something were holding it. After a while, the more he threw, the higher it went, disappearing into the clouds; the rope in his hand was also exhausted. Then he called his son: "Come, my son! I am old and weary, my body heavy and clumsy, I cannot go; I need you to go once." Thereupon he gave the rope to his son, saying: "Hold this and you can ascend." The son took the rope with a look of difficulty, and complained: "Father is also greatly muddled! With such a thin thread of a rope, you want me to cling to it and ascend ten thousand ren into the high heavens. If it breaks midway, where will my bones remain?" The father again forced and patted him, saying: "I have already spoken, regret is too late. I trouble you to go once. Do not suffer, my son; if you steal them, there will certainly be a reward of a hundred taels of gold, and I will get you a beautiful wife." The son then took the rope and wound his way up, moving his hands and feet, like a spider following its thread, gradually entering the clouds, until he could no longer be seen. After a long while, something fell—a peach as big as a bowl. The conjurer was delighted, and presented it to the hall. The officials passed it around for a long time, also not knowing whether it was real or fake. Suddenly the rope fell to the ground, and the conjurer exclaimed in shock: "Oh no! Someone up there has cut my rope, where will my son find support?" After a moment, an object fell. He looked—it was his son's head. He held it and wept, saying: "This must be because the guardian of the peaches caught him stealing; my son is done for!" After another while, a foot fell; soon, limbs and body fell in pieces, nothing remaining. The conjurer was extremely grieved, picking them up one by one and placing them into the box, then closed it, saying: "I have only this one son, who follows me on my travels north and south. Now, having received your stern command, I did not expect to encounter such a tragic disaster! I must carry him away and bury him." Then he went up to the hall and knelt, saying: "For the sake of the peaches, I have lost my son! If you pity me and help me with his burial, I will repay you by tying grass knots as a sign of gratitude." The officials were astonished and each gave him gold. The conjurer received it and wrapped it around his waist, then tapped the box and called out: "Eight-eight, why don't you come out to thank the donors? What are you waiting for?" Suddenly a disheveled boy pushed up the lid of the box and emerged, facing north and kowtowing—it was his son. Because his technique was so strange, I still remember it to this day. Later I heard that the White Lotus Sect could perform such arts, and I wonder if he was a descendant of theirs? Planting Pears There was a villager selling pears in the market; they were quite sweet and fragrant, and the price was very high. A Daoist priest with a torn turban and ragged clothes begged at the cart, but the villager scolded him and he did not leave; the villager grew angry and cursed at him. The Daoist said: "You have several hundred in your cart; I, the old monk, beg only for one of them. To you, my layman, it is no great loss, why be angry?" The onlookers advised him to give one inferior pear and let him go, but the villager stubbornly refused. A hired servant in the shop, seeing the incessant quarrel, then paid out money to buy one pear and gave it to the Daoist. The Daoist thanked him and said to the crowd: "We who have left home do not understand stinginess; I have fine pears, please allow me to offer them to the guests." Someone said: "Since you have them, why not eat them yourself?" He said: "I only need this core to plant." So he scooped up the pear and ate it voraciously; when it was finished, he held the core in his hand, took the spade from his shoulder, dug a hole in the ground several inches deep, placed it in, and covered it with earth, then asked the market people for hot water to water it. An enthusiast fetched boiling water from a roadside shop; the Daoist received it and poured it over the hole. All eyes were fixed on it; they saw a sprout emerge, gradually grow, and soon become a tree, with branches and leaves spreading luxuriantly; suddenly it flowered, suddenly it bore fruit, large and fragrant, hanging in clusters all over the tree. The Daoist then plucked the fruits from the tree and gave them to the onlookers, and in a moment they were all gone; then he took his spade and cut down the tree, chopping for a long time before it fell, and he carried it on his shoulder with its leaves, leisurely walking away. At first, when the Daoist was performing his magic, the villager was also among the crowd, craning his neck and staring intently, completely forgetting his business. After the Daoist had left, he then looked at his cart, and the pears were all gone. He then realized that the pears that had been distributed were all his own. On closer inspection, he saw that one of the handles of the cart was missing, and it appeared to have been newly cut off. He was greatly enraged. He quickly traced the Daoist, and turning around a corner, he saw the broken handle discarded under the wall; he then understood that the pear tree that had been cut down was none other than that handle. The Daoist was nowhere to be found, and the whole market burst into laughter. The Historian of the Strange says: The villager was muddled, his foolish appearance was laughable; it was fitting that he was laughed at by the market people. I often see those in the countryside who are called "wealthy commoners"—when a good friend asks for grain, they become displeased and calculate: "That is several days' worth of provisions." Or when advised to help in a crisis or feed a solitary poor person, they again angrily calculate: "This is enough for ten or five people's meals." Even between father and son, brothers, they calculate down to the smallest coin. But when their lust or gambling obsesses their minds, they empty their purses without hesitation; when the knife and saw are at their necks, they hasten to ransom their lives. Such examples are countless; why should we be surprised at this foolish villager? The Taoist of Laoshan In the county there was a man named Wang, who was the seventh son of an old family. In his youth he admired the Dao and heard that on Mount Lao there were many immortals. He took a satchel and went there to travel. Ascending a peak, he saw a Daoist temple, very secluded. A Daoist sat on a rush cushion, his white hair hanging to his neck, but his expression was bright and spirited. He bowed and spoke with him; the principles were very profound and mysterious, and he asked to become his disciple. The Daoist said, "I fear you are pampered and lazy and cannot endure hardship." He answered, "I can." His followers were many; at dusk they all gathered, and Wang made obeisances to all, and so he stayed in the temple. At dawn, the Daoist called Wang to go, gave him an axe, and made him follow the others to gather firewood. Wang received the instruction respectfully. After more than a month, his hands and feet were covered with thick calluses, and he could not bear the suffering; secretly he had thoughts of returning. One evening he came back, and saw two men drinking with the master; the sun had already set, but there were no lamps or candles. The master then cut a piece of paper in the shape of a mirror and stuck it on the wall. In a moment, the moon shone brightly on the wall, its light illuminating even the finest hairs, and all the disciples gathered round, attending and running about. One of the guests said, "On such a fine night with such delight, we must share it together." He then took a pot of wine from the table and distributed it among the disciples, also telling them to drink their fill. Wang thought to himself, "With seven or eight men, how can one pot of wine suffice for all?" So each found a bowl or cup and vied to drink first, fearing the pot would be emptied; but as they poured back and forth, it never diminished at all, and he found it strange. Soon one guest said, "We have been graced with the moonlight, yet we drink in silence—why not summon Chang'e?" He then threw his chopstick into the moon, and they saw a beautiful woman emerge from the light. At first she was less than a foot tall, but when she reached the ground, she became the size of a person, with a slender waist and a graceful neck, dancing lightly in rainbow skirts. Then she sang: "Immortal and ethereal, shall you return? Or shall you confine me in the Cold Palace of the Moon?" Her voice was clear and piercing, like the sound of flutes and pipes. When the song ended, she whirled upward and leaped onto the table; as they looked in amazement, she had already turned back into a chopstick. The three men laughed loudly. Another guest said, "Tonight is most joyful, but I cannot hold my wine any longer. May you see me off to the Moon Palace?" The three moved their seats and gradually entered the moon. The others watched the three men sitting in the moon drinking; their beards and eyebrows were all visible, like reflections in a mirror. After a while, the moon gradually grew dim. When the disciples brought lighted candles, the Daoist sat alone, and the guests were nowhere to be seen. On the table the leftover food and fruit still remained; on the wall, the paper moon was only a round piece like a mirror. The Daoist asked the crowd, "Have you drunk enough?" They said, "Enough." "If enough, you should go to bed early; do not delay the gathering of firewood and grass." They all assented and withdrew. Wang secretly admired and rejoiced, and his thoughts of returning ceased. After another month, the suffering was unbearable, but the Daoist still did not teach him a single technique. He could not contain himself, and took his leave, saying, "I traveled several hundred li to receive instruction from the immortal master. Even if I cannot obtain the art of eternal life, if I could learn a small skill, it would console my seeking heart. But now after two or three months, I have done nothing but go out early to cut wood and return late. At home I never knew such hardship." The Daoist laughed and said, "I indeed said you could not endure hardship. Now it is indeed so. Tomorrow morning I will send you on your way." Wang said, "I have labored for many days, and if the master will condescend to teach me a small trick, then this visit will not have been in vain." The Daoist asked what art he sought. Wang said, "I have often seen that wherever the master walks, walls cannot stop him. If I could only obtain this method, it would be enough." The Daoist laughed and agreed. He then taught him the incantation and made him recite it himself, then called out, "Enter!" Wang faced the wall and dared not enter. The Daoist said again, "Try to enter." Wang then stepped forward calmly, but at the wall he was blocked. The Daoist said, "Lower your head and dash in suddenly; do not hesitate." Wang indeed stepped back several paces from the wall and ran into it; when he reached the wall, it was as if empty of anything. Looking back, he was indeed outside the wall. Overjoyed, he entered again to thank him. The Daoist said, "When you return home, you should keep yourself pure and disciplined; otherwise it will not work." He then gave him travel money and sent him home. On reaching home, he boasted of having met an immortal, and that solid walls could not stop him. His wife did not believe him. Wang imitated his previous action: he stood several feet from the wall and ran into it. His head struck the hard wall, and he fell over with a thud. His wife helped him up and looked; on his forehead a lump had risen as big as a giant egg. His wife mocked him; Wang was ashamed and angry, and could only curse the old Daoist for being heartless. The Historian of the Strange says: On hearing this story, no one fails to laugh heartily, yet they do not know that the Wangs of this world are by no means few. Now there are vulgar fellows who delight in sores and poison but fear medicine and stone; thus there are those who lick ulcers and suck hemorrhoids, who present arts of displaying might and practicing violence to gratify their whims, and deceive them, saying, "Hold fast to this art and go forth—you may act with impunity." At first trial, it never fails to have a small effect, and so they think that under heaven all things may be done this way. They will not stop until circumstances bring them to strike a hard wall and stumble. **The Monk of Changqing** A monk of Changqing was of lofty and pure conduct in the Dao. At over eighty years of age he was still vigorous. One day he fell and did not rise; the temple monks rushed to save him, but he had already passed into nirvana. The monk himself did not know he was dead; his soul drifted away and reached the territory of Henan. In Henan there was the son of an old official family, who led more than ten riders, holding a falcon and hunting hares. His horse bolted, and he fell and died. The soul happened to meet him, and with a rush it merged, and gradually he revived. His servants surrounded him and asked. He opened his eyes and said, "How did I come here?" They helped him back. As he entered the gate, ladies with powdered faces and darkened eyebrows crowded around to ask after him. He was greatly alarmed and said, "I am a monk—how did I come here?" His family thought he was delirious, and together they pulled his ears to awaken him. The monk did not explain himself, but only closed his eyes and said nothing more. When they offered him coarse grain he ate it; wine and meat he refused. At night he slept alone, and would not accept the attentions of his wives and concubines. After several days, he suddenly thought of taking a short walk. All were pleased. When he went out and had settled a little, various servants came in a flurry, with account books of money and grain, asking for a reckoning. The young master excused himself as tired from illness and declined all of them. He only asked, "Do you know of Changqing county in Shandong?" They all answered, "We do." He said, "I am dull and listless; I wish to go there for sightseeing. You should prepare my travel gear at once." They all said that he had just recovered and should not travel far. He did not listen, and the next day he set out. When he arrived at Changqing, he saw the scenery just as before. He did not need to ask the way, and went straight to the temple. Several disciple monks saw that a noble guest had arrived, and prostrated themselves most respectfully. He then asked, "Where has the old monk gone?" They answered, "Our master has already passed away." He asked for the grave. They led him there; it was a lone mound three feet high, and the wild grass had not yet covered it. The monks did not know what he intended. Soon he ordered the horses to be prepared and wanted to return, but he exhorted them, saying, "Your master was a monk of pure precepts; the works he left behind, you should guard reverently, and not let them be damaged." They all assented. Then he left. After returning, he sat blankly as if dead wood, and took no care at all of domestic affairs. After several months, he left the house of his own accord and went straight back to his former temple, where he said to his disciples, "I am your master." They all doubted the absurdity of this and exchanged glances with smiles. He then recounted the circumstances of his soul's return and also told of what he had done in his former life, all of which matched perfectly. They then believed him, and he took up residence on his old couch, being served by them as in former days. Later, the son of the noble family repeatedly sent carriages and horses to beg him to return, but he paid them no heed whatsoever. After another year or more, his wife sent her steward with many gifts. He refused all gold and silk, accepting only one cloth robe. Friends and acquaintances who came to his native place would pay him respectful visits. They saw him to be silent, sincere, and steady; though only about thirty years of age, he would speak of events from over eighty years ago. The Historian of the Strange says: "When a man dies, his soul scatters; that it does not scatter even over a thousand li is because his nature is fixed. As for this monk, I am not so much astonished that he was reborn as that he could enter a region of extravagance and luxury and still break away from men to escape the world. If one's eyes are but dazzled and the fragrance of orchids and musk fills the heart, there are those who would seek death and not obtain it—how much less so a monk!" THE SNAKE CHARMER A certain man of Dongjun made his living by handling snakes. He had once kept two tame snakes, both green: the larger he called Daqing, and the smaller Erqing. Erqing had a red spot on its forehead and was especially intelligent and docile, coiling and winding in whatever way he wished. The snake charmer loved it more than his other snakes. After a year, Daqing died, and he thought to find a replacement but had no leisure to do so. One night, he lodged in a mountain temple. At daybreak, when he opened his basket, Erqing was gone as well. The snake charmer was so grieved and vexed he wished he were dead. He searched everywhere and called out urgently, but there was no trace of it. However, whenever he came to lush forests and thick grass, he would release his other snakes, letting them go to enjoy themselves, and they would soon return; for this reason, he hoped Erqing would come back of its own accord. He sat waiting for it; when the sun was already high, he gave up hope and set off dejectedly. He had gone but a few paces from the door when he heard a rustling sound in a pile of firewood and brush. He stopped in astonishment and looked around—and there was Erqing coming toward him. Overjoyed, he cherished it as if he had found a priceless jade disc. He set down his load by the roadside, and the snake stopped as well. Looking behind it, he saw a small snake following. He stroked it and said, "I thought you had gone forever. Is this little companion your recommendation?" He brought out food to feed it, and also fed the small snake. Though the small snake did not leave, it cowered and dared not eat. Erqing fed it with its own mouth, exactly like a host pressing a guest to eat. The snake charmer fed it again, and only then did it eat. After eating, it followed Erqing into the basket. He carried it away and trained it; it turned and coiled with perfect precision, no different from Erqing, so he named it Xiaoqing. He performed his skills everywhere and made endless profit. Generally speaking, snake charmers kept their snakes to no more than two feet in length; larger ones were too heavy and were quickly replaced. But because Erqing was so docile, he had not yet abandoned it. After another two or three years, Erqing grew to over three feet and filled the basket when it lay down, so he decided to let it go. One day, in the eastern mountains of Ziyi, he fed it choice morsels, offered a prayer, and released it. After it had gone, it soon returned, coiling outside the basket. The snake charmer waved it away, saying, "Go! In this world there is no feast that lasts a hundred years. Hide yourself henceforth in the great valleys, and you will surely become a divine dragon—how can a basket hold you for long?" The snake then went. The snake charmer watched it depart. But soon it returned, and when he waved it away it would not go, but struck the basket with its head. Xiaoqing inside stirred and trembled as well. The snake charmer understood and said, "Do you wish to part from Xiaoqing?" He then opened the basket. Xiaoqing came straight out, and the two intertwined their heads and extended their tongues, as if conversing. Then they glided away together. He had thought Xiaoqing would not return, but soon it came back alone, dejected, and crept into the basket to lie down. From then on he searched everywhere for a replacement, but found none as good. Xiaoqing also grew gradually larger and could no longer be handled. Later he found one, fairly docile, but ultimately not as fine as Xiaoqing. And Xiaoqing was now as thick as a child's arm. Now, Erqing had been seen in the mountains by many woodcutters. After several more years, it grew several feet long and as thick as a bowl; gradually it began to chase people, so travelers warned one another and dared not take that road. One day, the snake charmer passed that place, and the snake burst out like the wind. The snake charmer was terrified and fled. The snake pursued him ever more swiftly; looking back, he saw it was almost upon him. But when he saw the red spot on its head, he realized it was Erqing. He set down his load and called, "Erqing! Erqing!" The snake stopped at once. It raised its head for a long time, then sprang up and coiled around the snake charmer as it used to do in his performances. He felt that its intent was by no means malicious, but its body was so huge and heavy that he could not bear its coils; he fell to the ground and cried out in supplication, whereupon it released him. It then struck the basket with its head. The snake charmer understood its intent and opened the basket to bring out Xiaoqing. When the two snakes met, they intertwined like malt sugar, and only after a long while did they separate. The snake charmer then addressed Xiaoqing: "I have long wanted to part from you; now you have a companion." He said to Erqing, "I beg you to lead it here—you may lead it away again. And one more word: the deep mountains have no lack of food and drink; do not disturb travelers, lest you invite Heaven's punishment." The two snakes hung their heads, as if in assent. Then they suddenly rose, the larger one leading, the smaller following; where they passed, the trees and grass parted in their wake. The snake charmer stood watching until they were out of sight, then went on his way. From that time, travelers passed as before, and no one knew where they had gone. The Historian of the Strange says: "The snake is but a dull creature, yet it cherished the affection of an old friend. Moreover, it followed advice as readily as turning a circle. One can only wonder at those who, though outwardly human, with friends of ten years' clasped hands or lords of generations of kindness, think nothing of casting a stone into the well after one has fallen; or else, when remonstrated with as with medicine, recklessly ignore it and even turn angry and hostile—such men would be shamed by this snake." CHOPPING THE PYTHON In Hutian village, there was a man of the Hu family. Two brothers went to gather firewood and penetrated deep into a secluded valley. They encountered a huge python; the elder brother, being in front, was swallowed by it. The younger brother was at first terrified and wanted to flee, but seeing his brother being devoured, he flew into a rage, raised his woodcutter's axe, and struck the python's head. Though the head was wounded, it continued to swallow. The head had already gone in, but fortunately the shoulders could not pass down. The younger brother, frantic and at a loss, gripped his brother's feet with both hands and tugged with all his might against the python, and actually pulled his brother out. The python, pained, withdrew. Examining his brother, he saw that his nose and ears had already dissolved away and he was barely breathing. Carrying him on his shoulders, he rested more than ten times along the way before finally reaching home. After half a year of medicine and care, he recovered. To this day his face is covered with scars, with only holes remaining where his nose and ears had been. Alas! Among farmers, there is such a younger brother as this! Some say, "The python did not do further harm—this was because it was moved by virtue and righteousness." Indeed! THE DOG'S ADULTERY A certain merchant of Qingzhou, while traveling abroad, would often not return home for years at a time. His household kept a white dog, and his wife induced it to mate with her, and the dog became accustomed to it. One day, her husband arrived and slept with his wife. The dog suddenly burst in, leaped onto the bed, and bit the merchant to death. Later, when the neighbors got wind of it, they were all indignant and reported it to the authorities. The officials tortured the woman, but she would not confess, so they imprisoned her. They ordered the dog brought in, then brought the woman out. As soon as the dog saw the woman, it rushed forward, tore at her clothes, and assumed the mating posture. The woman then had nothing to say. Two constables were sent to escort them to the provincial capital—one escorting the person and one escorting the dog. Those who wished to see them copulate pooled money to bribe the constables, who would then bring them together and make them mate. Wherever they stopped, there were often several hundred onlookers, and the constables profited thereby. In the end, both the person and the dog were executed by dismemberment. Alas! Under the vast heavens, truly there is nothing that does not exist. But are human-faced creatures that mate with beasts limited to this one woman alone? The Historian of the Strange made this judgment: "Trysts at Puyang were condemned by the ancients; assignations in Sangzhong were disdained by all. But this woman, unable to bear the bitterness of solitary wifely chastity, recklessly craved the pleasures of illicit union. The night-visiting demon she had arranged turned out to be nothing but the brute beast of her own household; when the swift one entered her chamber, he became the lover beneath her covers. Before the Cloud-and-Rain terrace, she wantonly wagged the tail that followed the sable; within the land of warmth and fragrance, she frequently proffered the waist that swayed like an elephant's. The sharp awl within its sheath—at one thrust of the thighs it emerged; affection tied to the arrowhead—no sooner had it pierced than it took root. To suddenly entertain intercourse with a different species is truly an unthinkable fancy. The mongrel's barking at lewdness while itself committing lewdness—jealous, cruel, and murderous, the law cannot punish such with the statutes of Xiao and Cao; human in form but in truth a beast—vile, filthy, and rank, even wolves and tigers would not eat its flesh. Alas! For human adultery and murder, the woman is condemned to dismemberment; but for a dog's adultery and murder, the living world has no such penalty. If a man is unworthy, he is punished by being reborn as a dog; but if a dog is unworthy, even the underworld should be at a loss for law. It is fitting to rend limb from limb and pursue its soul—let it be escorted to the judgment of King Yama." THE HAIL GOD Minister Wang Juncang was appointed to an office in the Chu region. He planned to ascend Mount Longhu to pay homage to the Celestial Master. When he reached the lake, just as he boarded his vessel, a man came rowing a small boat and had those on the great ship announce him. The minister saw that the man was tall and handsome. From his bosom he produced a visiting card from the Celestial Master, saying: "Hearing that your retinue was about to arrive, I was sent ahead as a vanguard." The minister was astonished at his foreknowledge, held him in even greater reverence, and proceeded with sincere intent. The Celestial Master prepared a feast in his honor. Those who served there, in their attire, caps, beards, and whiskers, mostly did not resemble ordinary men. The earlier messenger also attended at his side. After a moment, he whispered something to the Celestial Master. The Celestial Master said to the minister: "This gentleman is your fellow townsman—do you not know him?" The minister asked who he was. He replied: "This is none other than Li Zuoche, the Hail God celebrated in the world." The minister was stunned and his expression changed. The Celestial Master said: "He has just now received an imperial decree to send down hail, and so has come to take his leave." The minister asked: "Where?" The reply was: "Zhangqiu." As that place bordered his own jurisdiction, the minister was deeply concerned, rose from his seat, and begged that it be spared. The Celestial Master said: "This is a jade decree from the Most High; the hail has a fixed quota—how can I bend the rules?" The minister pleaded without cease. The Celestial Master pondered for a long while, then turned and instructed: "Let it fall mostly in the mountain valleys, and do not harm the crops—that will suffice." He further enjoined: "A distinguished guest is present—depart in a civil manner, not in a martial one." The god went out into the courtyard, and suddenly smoke arose beneath his feet, spreading in dense vapors over the ground. After lingering for more than the space of a quarter-hour, he strained to rise, and only then cleared the height of the courtyard trees; rising again, he cleared the towers and pavilions. With a clap of thunder, he flew northward; the house trembled, and the banquet vessels rocked and swayed. The minister exclaimed in alarm: "So in departing he makes thunder!" The Celestial Master said: "I had just cautioned him; that is why he was so slow. Otherwise, with one thunderclap from level ground, he would have been gone in an instant." The minister took his leave and returned, noted the month and day, and sent someone to inquire in Zhangqiu. On that day there was indeed a great hailstorm; the ditches and channels were all filled, yet in the fields there were only a few hailstones. THE FOX MARRIES OFF HIS DAUGHTER Minister Yin of Licheng was poor in his youth but possessed bold courage. In his district there was an old nobleman's mansion, covering several dozen mu, with buildings and pavilions stretching in unbroken succession. Strange occurrences were often seen there, and for that reason it had been abandoned and uninhabited for a long time; over the years, brambles and mugwort gradually filled the grounds, and even by daylight no one dared enter. It happened that the minister was drinking with some scholars, and one of them jested: "If anyone can spend a night here, we will all pool our money for a feast." The minister sprang up and said: "What difficulty is there in that!" Carrying a single mat, he set off. The others escorted him to the gate and joked: "We shall wait for you here for a while; if you see anything, you must call out at once." The minister laughed and said: "If there are ghosts or foxes, I shall catch them as evidence." Thereupon he entered and saw tall sedge blocking the path, and mugwort and hemp as thick as thickets. It was the time of the first quarter moon; fortunately the moonlight was dim and yellow, so that the doors and gates could still be made out. Groping his way through several inner gates, he at last reached the rear tower. He ascended the terrace and, finding it clean and pleasant, stopped there. Looking west, the moonlight was bright, but only a single line of it remained where it touched the mountains. He sat for a long while, with nothing unusual occurring, and privately laughed at the tales as being erroneous. He spread his mat on the ground, pillowed his head on a stone, and lay gazing at the Cowherd and Weaving Maid stars. When the first watch had almost run out, he grew drowsy and was on the verge of falling asleep, when he heard footsteps on the stairs below, many of them ascending. Feigning sleep, he peered through his lashes and saw a person in blue garments carrying a lotus-shaped lantern. This person caught sight of the minister and started back in fright, then said to those behind: "There is a living man here." Someone below asked: "Who is it?" The reply came: "I do not know." Soon an old man came up, drew near the minister, and scrutinized him, saying: "This is Minister Yin; he is sound asleep. Let us just attend to our business; the young master is unconventional and likely will not scold or take offense." Thereupon they led one another into the tower, and all the tower doors were thrown open. After a time, those coming and going grew ever more numerous. The lamps on the tower shone as bright as day. The minister shifted slightly and made a sneezing and coughing sound. The old man, hearing that the minister was awake, came out and knelt, saying: "Your servant has a daughter of the dustpan and broom who is to be wedded this night. Little did I expect to offend a noble personage; I beg that you will not hold it too gravely against me." The minister rose and drew him up, saying: "I did not know that the happy rites were to be held this evening; I am ashamed that I have nothing with which to offer congratulations." The old man said: "That a noble person should grace us with his presence dispels evil and ill-omen—we are fortunate indeed. If I might trouble you to attend as a guest, it will doubly enhance our honor and glory." The minister was pleased and agreed. Entering the tower, he saw that the furnishings were resplendent and fragrant. Then a woman came out and made obeisance; she was about forty years of age. The old man said: "This is my unworthy wife." The minister returned her bow. Soon the sounds of pipes and drums assailed the ears, and someone came running up, crying: "They have arrived!" The old man hastened out to welcome them, and the minister also stood waiting. In a short while, a cluster of gauze lanterns ushered in the bridegroom. He was about seventeen or eighteen, with a handsome and youthful bearing. The old man bade him first pay respects to the noble guest. The young man's eyes fell upon the minister. The minister acted as if he were a groomsman and performed the rites of a half-host. Next the father-in-law and son-in-law exchanged bows, after which they took their seats at the banquet. Presently, maids in powder and paint attended in a cloud, while wine and viands descended in a mist; jade bowls and golden goblets gleamed upon the tables. After several rounds of wine, the old man called to a maidservant to invite the young lady to come out. The maidservant assented and went in, but after a long time did not emerge. The old man rose himself, lifted the curtain, and urged her on. Presently several maids and old women escorted the bride out; her girdle ornaments tinkled and the fragrance of musk and orchids filled the air. The old man bade her bow in the direction of the host. She rose and then took her seat beside her mother. The minister stole a glance at her: with her kingfisher feather ornaments and bright pearl earrings, her countenance was peerless in beauty. Thereafter wine was poured in a golden goblet of great capacity, holding several dou. The minister thought to himself that this object could be taken to show his companions, and secretly slipped it into his sleeve. Feigning intoxication, he slumped over the table and lay there as if unconscious. Everyone said: "The young master is drunk." Before long, the bridegroom announced his departure; the pipes and drums suddenly burst out, and the company went down the stairs in a flurry and departed. Afterward the host gathered up the wine vessels, and one goblet was missing. He searched everywhere but could not find it. Some whispered suspicions of the sleeping guest, but the old man urgently bade them be silent, for fear the minister might hear. After a time, all was quiet both inside and out, and only then did the minister rise. There was no lamp or candle, only the scent of rouge and the fragrance of wine filling the four walls. Seeing that the east was already growing light, he calmly made his way out. Feeling in his sleeve, he found that the golden goblet was still there. When he reached the gate, the scholars were already waiting there, suspecting that he had come out at night and returned early in the morning. The minister produced the goblet to show them. They were all astonished and questioned him, and he told them what had happened. They reflected that such an object was not something a poor scholar could possess, and so they believed him. Later the minister passed the metropolitan examination and was appointed to a post in Feiqiu. There a prominent family named Zhu entertained him and ordered that a large goblet be brought; after a long time it had still not arrived. A young servant whispered behind his hand to the master, who showed an expression of anger. Soon afterward a golden goblet was presented for toasting the guests. The minister examined it closely: its style, form, and ornamentation were in no way different from the fox's goblet. He was greatly puzzled and asked where it had been made. The reply was: "There are eight such goblets in all. When my father was a minister in the capital, he commissioned a skilled artisan to supervise their manufacture. They are heirlooms handed down in our family and have been kept carefully wrapped for a long time. Because you, Prefect, have graced us with your presence, we just now took them from the storage chests, yet only seven were found. We suspected that a servant had stolen one, but the chests had been sealed with dust for ten years just as before—it is quite inexplicable." The minister laughed and said: "The golden goblet has ascended to immortality. But such a treasured heirloom should not be lost. I have one that closely resembles it; I shall present it to you." At the end of the banquet he returned to his office, selected the goblet, and sent it over posthaste. The host examined it and was utterly astounded. He personally called on the minister to thank him and asked where it had come from. The minister then recounted the whole matter from beginning to end. Only then did he realize that objects from a thousand li away could be summoned by foxes, though they dared not keep them to the end... JIAO NA Scholar Kong, style Xue笠 [Snow-hat], was a scion of a sage. He was well-read and skilled in poetry. A close friend who served as a magistrate in Tiantai sent a letter inviting him. Kong went, but the magistrate had just passed on. Destitute and unable to return home, he lodged at Putuo Temple, taking work copying texts for the temple monks. More than a hundred paces west of the temple stood the estate of Mister Shan. The mister was the son of a former nobleman; owing to a major lawsuit, his family had fallen into decline and their household was small, so they had moved to the countryside, leaving the residence vacant. One day, a fierce snowstorm raged, leaving the roads utterly devoid of travelers. As Kong happened to pass by their gate, a youth came out, of exceptionally handsome bearing. Seeing Kong, he hurried forward to exchange courtesies, offered brief condolences, and cordially invited him in. Kong, charmed and pleased, gladly followed him inside. The buildings were not particularly vast, yet everywhere hung brocade curtains, and the walls were adorned with many ancient books and paintings. On the desk lay a volume with a title tag reading: *Trifles of the Langhuan Paradise*. He flipped through it, and all of it was something his eyes had never beheld before. Believing they were in the Shan estate, Kong assumed the youth was the master of the house, and thus did not inquire about his official rank or lineage. The youth closely questioned him on his travels, felt pity for him, and advised him to set up a school and take on pupils. Kong sighed and said, "As a wandering traveler, who would play the role of Cao Qiu for me?" The youth replied, "If you do not disdain my dullness and sluggishness, I wish to enroll as a disciple." Kong was delighted; not daring to accept him as a student, he asked to be friends. He then inquired, "Why has this residence been locked up for so long?" The youth answered, "This is the Shan mansion. Formerly, when the young master moved to the countryside, it stood vacant for a long time. I am of the Huangfu clan, originally from Shaanxi. Because our family home was burned down in a wildfire, we have temporarily borrowed this place to settle." Only then did Kong realize he was not a Shan. That very evening, amidst cheerful and lively conversation, the youth kept him to share a couch. At daybreak, a boy servant came to stoke a charcoal fire in the room. The youth rose first and went inside; Kong was still sitting wrapped in his quilt. The servant entered and announced, "The Elder Lord has arrived." Kong startled and rose. An old man entered, his hair and beard as white as snow, and bowed deeply to Kong in gratitude, saying, "You, sir, have not cast aside this stubborn boy, and have even been willing to bestow your instruction. The youngster is merely beginning to daub on paper; do not treat him as a peer just because you are friends." Afterward, he presented a suit of brocade garments, a sable cap, stockings, and shoes, one set of each. Having watched Kong wash and comb his hair, he called for wine and food to be served. The tables, couches, robes, and garments were of names unknown to him, their radiance dazzling the eyes. After several rounds of wine, the old man asked to be excused, leaning on his staff as he departed. Once the meal was finished, the young master presented his lessons, which were all classical prose and essays, entirely free of the standard eight-legged examination style. When asked about this, he smiled and said, "I do not seek advancement through the examinations." As dusk fell, they poured wine again, and the youth said, "Tonight we shall drink our fill, for tomorrow we will not be permitted." He called to the servant, "Check if the Elder Lord has gone to sleep; if he has already slept, you may secretly call the maid here." The servant went, first bringing the pipa in an embroidered pouch. A moment later, a maid entered, her red makeup breathtakingly stunning. The young master ordered her to play *The Consorts of Xiang*. With an ivory plectrum, the maid plucked the strings—strident and mournful, with a rhythm unlike anything heard before. He further commanded her to circulate wine in giant goblets, and the gathering only ceased at the third watch. The next day, they rose early and studied together. The young master was exceedingly clever; a single glance at a text enabled him to compose poetry, and after two or three months, the pieces he set down were brilliantly peerless. They agreed to drink together every five days, and at every drinking session they invariably summoned Xiangnu. One evening, flushed with wine and high-spirited, Kong gazed intently at her. The youth had already grasped his intent and said, "This maid was raised by my old father. Brother, you are far from home and without a family, and I have long been devising plans on your behalf day and night. I shall presently arrange a fine match for you." Kong said, "If you truly favor me with such kindness, it must be someone like Xiangnu." The youth smiled and said, "You are truly one who has 'seen little and wondered much.' If you consider her a fine choice, your desires are indeed easily satisfied." Half a year passed, and Kong wished to roam the outskirts and suburbs. When he reached the gate, he found the double doors bolted from the outside. When he asked about it, the youth said, "My father fears that socializing will distract your focus, which is why he has declined visitors." Kong was content with this. At the time, it was the stifling heat of deep summer, so they moved their study to the garden pavilion. A tumor, shaped like a peach, swelled up on Kong's chest; by nightfall it was the size of a bowl, causing him to groan in agony. The youth attended to him morning and night, abandoning both sleep and meals. After a few more days, the wound grew severe, and he cut off food and drink entirely. The Elder Lord also arrived, and the two of them sighed facing one another. The youth said, "Thinking of the gentleman's severe affliction last night, younger sister Jiaona is able to cure it. We sent someone to summon her back from our maternal grandfather's place—why has she not arrived for so long?" Presently a servant entered and announced, "Mistress Na has arrived; her aunt and Mistress Song have come with her." Father and son hurried inside. A short while later, they led the younger sister in to see Kong. She appeared to be about thirteen or fourteen, her charming eyes flowing with intelligence, her slender willow-like figure full of grace. As soon as Kong caught sight of her complexion, his scowling and groaning vanished instantly, and his spirit was refreshed as if touched by clarity. The youth immediately spoke up: "This is my good friend, no less than a full brother to me. Sister, be so good as to cure him." The girl then collected her bashful expression, rolled back her long sleeves, and approached the couch to examine him. As their hands touched, he felt a fragrant aura surpassing orchids. The girl smiled and said, "It is fitting that he has this illness, for his heart pulse is stirring. Yet though the condition is critical, it can be cured; however, the flesh has already congealed, and it cannot be done without stripping the skin and paring the flesh." Thereupon she removed the golden bracelet from her arm and placed it upon the afflicted spot, pressing down slowly. The wound suddenly bulged an inch or so, rising above the bracelet, while the remaining swelling at the base was entirely constricted within, no longer as wide as a bowl as it had been before. Then, with one hand she opened the lapel of her gauze robe and unfastened her ornamental dagger. Its blade was thinner than paper; holding the bracelet and grasping the blade, she gently approached the base and cut. Purple blood flowed profusely, staining the bed mats. Yet, eagerly close to her enchanting form, not only did he fail to feel the pain, but he even feared she would finish the cutting too soon and that he would not be able to linger near her for long. Before long, she severed the corrupted flesh, which came away in a rounded mass like a tumor shaved from a tree. She then called for water to wash the excised area. She spat a red pill from her mouth, the size of a bullet, and placed it upon the flesh, pressing it down to make it revolve. No sooner had it spun a single circle than he felt a surge of heated vapor; a second circle brought a gentle, creeping itch; after three circles, his whole body was cool and refreshed, permeating down to his marrow. The girl retrieved the pill into her throat and said, "It is healed!" She walked away with brisk steps. Kong leaped up to bow in thanks, his chronic ailment as if vanished. Yet his pining for her radiant countenance was so bitter he could not control himself. From then on he abandoned his books and sat in a dazed stupor, utterly devoid of the will to live. The youth had already perceived this and said, "I have been scouting for a fine match for you, brother." "Whom?" asked Kong. "She is also of my family," replied the youth. Kong pondered deeply for a long time, only to say, "There is no need." Facing the wall, he chanted: *"Having once beheld the Canghai, all other waters are hard to call water;* *Excepting the Wushan clouds, no other peaks deserve the name of clouds."* The youth understood his intent and said, "My father admires your grand talent and has often wished to become connected through marriage. It is just that our only younger sister is still too young and tender. However, our aunt's daughter, A-Song, is eighteen years old and quite not uncomely. If you do not believe me, Sister Song frequents the garden pavilion daily; if you wait by the front parlor, you can catch sight of her." Kong followed his instruction and indeed saw Jiaona arrive in the company of a stunning beauty. Her painted eyebrows were curved like moth antennae, and her lotus-like bound feet trod with phoenix-like grace; she was a match for Jiaona in every way. Kong was overjoyed and asked the youth to act as matchmaker. The next day, the youth emerged from the inner quarters and offered congratulations: "It is settled!" Thereupon they cleared a separate courtyard and arranged the wedding rites for Kong. That evening, wind instruments and drums swelled with sound, and falling dust drifted through the air. To have immortals seen in visions suddenly share the same bed curtains made him suspect that the palaces of the Vast Cold Moon Palace might not necessarily be located above the clouds. After the joining of the cups, his heart was supremely satisfied. One evening, the youth said to Kong, "The kindness of our mutual refinement is something I can never forget. Recently, Master Shan has resolved his lawsuit and returned, demanding his estate back with great urgency. We intend to abandon this place and head west. It will be difficult for us to gather again under these circumstances, and thus parting sorrows weigh heavy upon my breast." Kong expressed his wish to follow them. The youth advised him to return to his native village, but Kong found this difficult. The youth said, "Have no anxiety, I can escort you on your way right now." Not long after, the Elder Lord led Lady Song over, bestowing upon Kong a hundred pieces of gold. The youth took Kong and his wife by their left and right hands, bidding them close their eyes and not look. They felt themselves soaring lightly through the void, only hearing the sound of wind rushing past their ears. After a long time, the youth said, "We have arrived." Opening their eyes, they indeed beheld his old hometown. Only then did Kong realize the youth was not human. Joyfully, he knocked upon his family's door. His mother came out in astonishment, and upon beholding the beautiful wife as well, they shared in mutual relief and gladness. When Kong looked back, the youth had vanished. Lady Song served her mother-in-law with filial piety; her stunning beauty and virtuous reputation were renowned far and wide. Later, the young man successfully passed the imperial examinations for the jinshi degree and was appointed Judicial Commissioner of Yan'an Prefecture. He took his family with him to his post. His mother, however, did not go because the journey was too far. Songniang gave birth to a son, named Xiaohuan. Kong Sheng was dismissed from office for having offended the Imperial Censor, and being entangled in legal obstacles, he could not return home. One day, while hunting in the countryside, he encountered a handsome young man riding a black stallion, who kept gazing at him repeatedly. Taking a closer look, he recognized him as Huangfu Gongzi. They reined in their horses and stopped, sharing both sorrow and joy. The young man invited Kong Sheng to his home. They arrived at a village where trees were dense and gloomy, their shade darkening the sky and sun. Entering the household, they found golden studs on the doors, evoking the air of a noble clan. When he asked about his younger sister, he was told she was married; his mother-in-law had already passed away, which moved him deeply with grief. He stayed overnight and left the next day, returning with his wife. Jiaona also came, picked up their infant son, lifted him, and played with him, saying, "Sister, you have muddled our lineage." Kong Sheng bowed to thank her for her past kindness. She laughed and said, "Brother-in-law has become honored. Though your wound has healed, have you forgotten the pain?" Her husband, Wu Lang, also came to pay his respects. They stayed two more nights before departing. One day, the young master wore a worried expression and said to Kong Sheng, "Heaven is sending down a dire calamity; can you save us?" Kong Sheng did not know what it was, but he resolutely took it upon himself. The young master hurried out, summoned all the members of his household to come in, and they all knelt in obeisance in the hall. Kong Sheng, greatly startled, urgently asked the reason. The young master said, "I am not human—I am a fox. Now a thunderbolt ordeal is upon us. If you are willing to face the danger in our stead, our whole family may hope to survive; otherwise, please take your child and leave, so as not to be burdened." Kong Sheng swore to share life and death with them. Thereupon the young master had him stand at the gate holding a sword, and instructed him, "When the thunder and lightning strike, do not move!" Kong Sheng did as told. He indeed saw dark clouds turning the daylight into gloom, black as lacquer. Looking back at the former residence, he no longer saw any gate or wall, only a tall tomb mound standing there with a huge bottomless pit. While he was still stunned, a thunderclap burst forth, shaking the mountains; fierce rain and violent wind uprooted old trees. Kong Sheng's eyes were dazzled and ears deafened, but he stood firm without flinching. Suddenly, amid dense smoke and black mist, he saw a demonic creature with a sharp beak and long claws snatch a person out of the pit and rise straight up with the smoke. With a quick glance at the clothing and footwear, he thought it looked like Jiaona. He then leaped urgently from the ground, struck it with his sword, and the figure dropped down at once. Then a crashing thunderbolt suddenly exploded, and Kong Sheng fell, dying. After a short while, the sky cleared, and Jiaona was able to revive. Seeing Kong Sheng lying dead beside her, she wept loudly, saying, "Kong Lang died for my sake—how can I go on living?" Songniang also came out, and together they carried Kong Sheng home. Jiaona had Songniang hold his head; the young master used a gold hairpin to pry open his teeth; Jiaona herself pinched his cheeks, put a red pill into his mouth with her tongue, and then kissed him and breathed into him. The red pill followed the breath down his throat, making a rattling sound. After a while, he revived with a start. Seeing all his family before him, he felt as if waking from a dream. Thus the whole household was reunited; after their shock subsided, they rejoiced. Kong Sheng, deeming the burial mound uninhabitable for long, proposed that they all return to his hometown. Everyone in the hall agreed, except Jiaona, who was not pleased. Kong Sheng suggested that Wu Lang come along as well, but they worried that the old father and mother would not leave their youngest son; after a whole day's discussion, nothing was decided. Suddenly, a young servant from the Wu household arrived, sweating and out of breath. Alarmed, they questioned him closely; it turned out that the Wu household had also suffered a calamity on the same day, and the entire family had perished. Jiaona stamped her feet in grief, weeping uncontrollably. Everyone consoled her. Thereupon the plan to return together was settled. Kong Sheng went into the city to settle affairs for a few days, then hurriedly packed up by night. After they returned, he housed the young master in an idle garden, always keeping the gate locked; only when Kong Sheng and Songniang came did he open it. Kong Sheng and the young master and his sister played chess, drank, and feasted together, just like one family. When Xiaohuan grew up, he was handsome and refined, with a fox-like air. When he went about in the city, everyone knew he was a fox's child. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "As for Scholar Kong, I do not envy him for obtaining a beautiful wife, but I envy him for gaining such an intimate friend. Looking upon her countenance could make one forget hunger; hearing her voice could bring a smile to one's face. To have such a good friend, and to occasionally share a feast and conversation—that 'spirit is bestowed and the soul is entranced' is even better than 'turning the clothes upside down.'" --- **The Monk's Wickedness** A man named Zhang died suddenly and followed the ghostly emissary to see the King of Hell. The King checked the register and, angered that the emissary had mistakenly seized him, ordered him sent back. Zhang, on his way down, privately begged the emissary to let him see the infernal prisons. The emissary guided him through the nine depths of the underworld, pointing out the mountain of knives and the forest of swords one by one. At last they came to a place where a monk had a rope threaded through a hole in his thigh and was hanging upside down, screaming in agony. Drawing near, Zhang saw that it was his own elder brother. Zhang was shocked and grieved, and asked, "For what crime is he suffering this?" The emissary said, "He is a monk who widely collected money from alms and spent it all on lust and gambling, hence this punishment. To escape this torment, he must repent of his own accord." After Zhang revived, he suspected that his brother might already be dead. At that time his brother was residing at Xingfu Temple, so he went to visit him. Upon entering the gate, he heard his brother's cries of pain. Entering the room, he saw a sore on his thigh, with pus and blood gushing out; his leg was hung up against the wall, exactly like the inverted suspension in the underworld. Alarmed, he asked the reason. His brother said, "Hanging it this way gives some relief; otherwise the pain pierces my heart and guts." Zhang then told him what he had seen. The monk was terrified, and thereupon abstained from meat and wine and devoutly recited scriptures and incantations. Within half a month he recovered completely. He then became a monk of strict observance. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "The ghostly hells are vague and remote, and wicked people often use that to excuse themselves; but they do not know that manifest calamities are but the punishments of the unseen. Can one not fear them?" --- **The Sorcerer's Arts** Mr. Yu, in his youth, was chivalrous and fond of boxing and martial arts. He could lift a heavy wine vessel and whirl it like a storm. During the Chongzhen reign, he went to the capital for the palace examination, but his servant fell ill and could not rise, which troubled him greatly. At that time there was a fortune-teller in the market who could determine life and death; Yu intended to consult him on his servant's behalf. When he arrived, before he spoke, the fortune-teller said, "Do you not wish to ask about your servant's illness?" Yu answered in surprise. The fortune-teller said, "The sick one is not in danger; it is you who are in peril." Yu then had his own fortune told. The fortune-teller cast the hexagrams and, startled, said, "You will die within three days!" Yu was astonished for a long while. The fortune-teller calmly said, "I have a minor art; if you give me ten taels of silver, I can perform a ritual to ward it off." Yu reflected that life and death were already fixed—how could sorcery resolve it? He made no reply and rose to leave. The fortune-teller said, "Grudge this small expense—do not regret it, do not regret it!" Those who cared for Yu were all frightened for him and urged him to empty his purse to beg for mercy. Yu did not listen. Suddenly, the third day arrived. Yu sat upright in the inn, quietly watching; the whole day passed without incident. At night, he closed the door, lit the lamp, and sat upright with his sword leaning beside him. When the first watch was nearly over, there was still no sign of death. He was about to lie down when he heard a rustling sound from the crack in the window. Looking quickly, he saw a tiny man carrying a halberd come in; as soon as it touched the ground, it grew to the height of a man. Yu seized his sword and rose, striking swiftly, but the figure flitted away and he missed. It then shrank again and sought the window crack, intending to flee. Yu slashed at it swiftly, and it fell at his blow. Lighting a candle, he saw it was a paper man, already cut in two at the waist. Yu dared not sleep, and sat waiting again. After some time, an object pierced through the window—hideous and monstrous like a ghost. As soon as it touched the ground, he struck it quickly, cutting it into two pieces, both of which wriggled. Fearing they might rise again, he struck repeatedly, each blow landing; the sound was not soft. Examining it closely, it was a clay figurine, now shattered into fragments. He then moved his seat beneath the window and fixed his gaze on the crack. A long while later, he heard from outside a sound like an ox breathing, and something pushed against the window frame, causing the wall to shake as if it might collapse. Fearing the roof would fall in on him, he decided it was better to go out and fight, so he suddenly threw open the bolt and rushed out. He saw a huge ghost, as tall as the eaves; in the dim moonlight, its face was black as soot, with yellowish glinting eyes; it wore no clothes above and no shoes below, but carried a bow in its hand and arrows at its waist. Yu was just startled when the ghost bent its bow. Yu parried the arrow with his sword, and it fell; he was about to strike, but the ghost drew the bow again. Yu leaped aside swiftly, and the arrow pierced the wall with a clanging sound. The ghost, enraged, drew its side-sword and brandished it like the wind, chopping straight at Yu. Yu moved nimbly forward; the sword struck the courtyard stone, splitting it instantly. Yu darted between its legs and slashed at the ghost's ankle, producing a clang. The ghost grew angrier, roaring like thunder, turned around and hacked again. Yu ducked down again; the sword fell, cutting his robe. Yu had already reached its flank and struck fiercely, again with a clang; the ghost fell and stiffened. Yu hacked at it repeatedly; the sound was hard as a clapper. Lighting a candle, he saw it was a wooden puppet, as tall as a man. The bow and arrows were still tied around its waist; its carved features were fierce and hideous. Where the sword had struck, there was blood. Yu then held the candle and waited for dawn. He then realized that these demonic things had all been sent by the fortune-teller, who intended to bring about his death in order to make his arts appear miraculous. The next day, he told all his acquaintances and went with them to the diviner's place. The diviner, seeing him from afar, suddenly vanished from sight. Someone said, "It is all the art of concealment; dog's blood can break it." As the gentleman had been told, he went prepared. The diviner again hid as before. He quickly splashed dog's blood on the spot where he had stood, and there appeared only the diviner's head, all blurred with dog's blood, his eyes blazing like a ghost standing there. He then seized him and handed him over to the authorities, who put him to death. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "I have often said that consulting diviners is a folly. How many in this world who practice this art are never wrong about life and death? If the divination is wrong, it is as good as not divining at all. And even if it clearly told me the day of my death, what then? How much more fearsome are those who use the lives of others to make their art seem divine!" The Wild Dog During the Rebellion of Yu Qi, killing was as common as mowing hemp. A villager named Li Hualong fled back from the mountains. Happening upon a great army advancing by night, he feared disaster would strike like fire consuming jade and stone alike, and in his desperation found nowhere to hide. He lay stiff among a pile of corpses, pretending to be dead. After the soldiers had all passed, he still dared not get up at once. Suddenly he saw the headless and arm-broken corpses rise up like a forest. Among them, one corpse still had its severed head attached to its shoulders, and from its mouth came words: "The wild dog is coming—what to do?" The crowd of corpses answered in a jumbled chorus: "What to do!" In an instant, they all collapsed to the ground, and all fell silent. Li was trembling with fright and about to rise, when a creature came—beast-headed, human-bodied—crouching to gnaw at human heads, sucking out the brains one by one. Li was terrified and hid his head under a corpse. The creature came and pulled at Li's shoulder, wanting to get his head. Li pressed down with all his might, so that it could not get it. The creature then pushed aside the covering corpse and moved it away, exposing his head. Li, greatly alarmed, felt around his waist and found a stone as big as a bowl, which he gripped. The creature bent down to bite him. Li suddenly rose, shouted loudly, and struck its head, hitting it in the mouth. The creature howled like an owl, covered its mouth, and fled in pain, spitting blood along the road. He went to look and found in the blood two teeth, curved in the middle and sharp at the ends, over four inches long. He carried them home and showed them to others, but none knew what creature they came from. Three Lives Liu, a provincial graduate, could remember the affairs of his past lives. He was a contemporary of my elder brother Wenben, and once told the whole story in detail: In his first life, he was a gentleman of the gentry, but his conduct had many blemishes. He died at sixty-two. When first he saw the King of Hell, he was treated with the courtesy due a village elder, given a seat, and offered tea. He noticed that in the King of Hell's cup, the tea was clear and pure, while in his own it was murky as unstrained wine. He secretly suspected that this must be the potion of forgetfulness. Taking advantage of the King's looking away, he poured it out at the corner of the table, pretending to have drained it. Before long, the King checked the ledgers of his former life's misdeeds; enraged, he ordered the host of ghostly attendants to drag him down and punish him by turning him into a horse. Immediately a fierce ghost bound him and led him away. They came to a house with a threshold so high he could not step over. As he hesitated, the ghost gave him a terrible blow, and from the pain he stumbled and fell. Looking at himself, he found his body was already in a stable. He heard someone say, "The black horse has foaled—a male." His mind was perfectly clear, but he could not speak. He felt great hunger, and with no choice, went to the mare for milk. After four or five years, he grew tall and strong. He greatly feared beatings; at the sight of a whip, he would bolt in terror. When his master rode him, he always put on a saddle-cloth and held the reins loosely, and the ride was not too painful; only the servants and grooms, who rode without padding and clamped his flanks with their legs, caused him agony straight to his heart. In his fury, he went three days without eating and died. Arriving in the underworld, the King of Hell found that his allotted punishment was not yet fulfilled, blamed him for evading it, stripped off his hide, and punished him by making him a dog. He was dejected and unwilling to go. The crowd of ghosts beat him savagely, and in extreme pain he fled into the wilds. He thought it better to die, and in a rage threw himself off a cliff; he fell and could not rise. Looking at himself, he found his body crouched in a kennel, with a bitch licking and nursing him—and so he knew he had been reborn into the world. As he grew a little, he found even excrement and urine to be foul; yet they smelled fragrant to him, but he resolved not to eat them. Being a dog for a full year, he often raged with the wish to die, yet feared again being blamed for evading punishment. And his master, who kept and fed him, would not kill him. So he deliberately bit his master, tearing flesh from his thigh. His master, enraged, beat him to death with a staff. The King of Hell examined the case and, angered by his mad ferocity, had him caned several hundred times and made him a snake. He was confined in a dark chamber, where no light reached. In his suffocating boredom, he climbed the wall and bored a hole through the roof to escape. Looking at himself, he lay coiled in the thick grass—verily a snake now. So he vowed never to harm any living thing, and when hungry ate only nuts and fruit. Over a year passed, and he often thought that killing himself was impossible, and killing others to die was equally impossible; he sought a good way to die but could not find one. One day, lying in the grass, he heard a cart approach, so he suddenly darted out into the road; the cart sped over him and cut him in two. The King of Hell was surprised at his quick return, and so he prostrated himself and explained. The King, finding that he had been killed without offense, pardoned him and allowed him to complete his term and become human again—and this was Mr. Liu. He was born able to speak; and with prose, history, and books, once read, he could recite them. In the year Xin-you he passed the provincial examination. He often advised people: when riding a horse, one must pad the saddle-cloth thickly; the pain of the leg-clamp is worse than the lash. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Among those with fur and horns, there are kings and high ministers; and the reason is that among kings and high ministers, there may well be those with fur and horns too. Therefore, for the lowly to do good is like planting a tree to seek its flowers; for the noble to do good is like tending the root of a tree already in bloom: what is planted may grow great, and what is tended may last long. Otherwise, they will be yoked to the salt cart, bridled and bound, and be made horses; otherwise, they will eat excrement and be boiled and butchered, and be made dogs; otherwise, they will wear scales and shells and be buried in the bellies of cranes and storks, and be made snakes." The Fox in the Bottle A woman of the Shi family in Wan Village was plagued by a fox spirit and troubled by it, but could not drive it away. Behind the door there was a bottle, and whenever the woman's father-in-law came, the fox would flee and hide inside it. The woman had observed this many times, and secretly planned but said nothing. One day, it darted inside. The woman quickly stopped the mouth with wadding, put the bottle in a pot, and heated water until it boiled. The bottle grew hot, and the fox cried, "It's scorching! Don't play such a cruel trick!" The woman did not answer. Its cries grew more urgent, until after a long while there was no sound. She pulled out the stopper to check—there was a heap of fur and a few drops of blood. Ghost Crying During the Xie Qian rebellion, the mansions of officials all became lairs for bandits. The residence of Wang Qixiang, the Educational Commissioner, was where the rebels gathered most thickly. When the city fell and the soldiers entered, they swept away the mob; corpses filled the courtyard, and blood flowed out through the gate. When the Commissioner entered the city, he had the corpses carried away and the blood washed out, and took up residence there. Often in broad daylight ghosts were seen; at night, phosphorescence flew beneath the beds and ghostly wailing came from the corners. One day, a scholar named Bai Gaodi was lodging in the Commissioner's house, when he heard a small voice under the bed calling repeatedly, "Bai Gaodi! Bai Gaodi!" Then the voice grew louder, saying, "How bitter is my death!" And it wept, until the whole courtyard was weeping. The Commissioner heard this, entered with his sword, and said loudly, "Do you not know me, Commissioner Wang of the Academy?" But all he heard was a hundred hisses of derisive laughter through the nose. The Commissioner then set up a grand ceremony of land and water, ordering Buddhist and Daoist priests to chant and deliver them. That night, when the ghost-food was cast out, there appeared phosphorescent fires flitting about, springing up everywhere. Earlier, a gatekeeper named Wang had been gravely ill and unconscious for several days. At dusk, he suddenly stretched and seemed to wake. His wife brought him food. Wang said, "Just now the master, for some reason, distributed food in the courtyard; I too followed the crowd and ate. After eating, I returned, and so I am not hungry." From this time onward, the ghostly manifestations ceased. Could the clashing of cymbals, bells, and drums, and the ceremonies of the Flaming Mouth and Yoga, truly have had effect? The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Evil and monstrous things can only be quelled by virtue. When the city fell, Commissioner Wang's power was at its height, and those who heard his name trembled; yet the ghosts mocked him. May we suppose that the ghosts foresaw that he would not come to a good end? I say to all great and noble gentlemen: if even a human face cannot frighten ghosts, I hope you will not put on a ghost-face to frighten men!" A Maiden from Zhending In the region of Zhending, there was an orphan girl, just six or seven years old, who was taken in by her future husband's family to be raised. After living there a year or two, the boy seduced her and she became pregnant. Her belly swelled, and thinking it an illness, she told her mother-in-law. The mother-in-law asked, "Does it move?" She said, "It moves." And she was all the more astonished. Yet because she was so young, she dared not decide. Before long, she gave birth to a son. The mother-in-law sighed and said, "I never thought a fist-sized mother would give birth to an awl-sized son." The Mantis Dong Modu, a Hanlin compiler, had his house troubled by foxes. Tiles and bricks suddenly fell like hail. The whole family fled and hid, only daring to go about their work when there was a lull. The gentleman was vexed, and pretending that it was the residence of the Vice Minister of War, Sun, he moved there to escape. Yet the fox trouble continued as before. One day, while awaiting the morning audience at court, he happened to speak of this strange affair. Some high minister said: "The Daoist priest Jiao Ming from east of the Pass lives in the inner city and masters the arts of the Chi Le incantations; he is quite effective." The gentleman went to his hermitage and begged his help. The Daoist wrote a red talisman and told him to paste it on the wall. The fox was utterly unafraid and threw things with even greater vigor. The gentleman reported this back to the Daoist. The Daoist grew angry, went in person to the gentleman's house, erected an altar, and performed his rites. Soon a huge fox was seen crouching beneath the altar. The household, having long suffered abuse and nursed deep hatred, had a maidservant approach to strike it. The maidservant suddenly fell to the ground and stopped breathing. The Daoist said: "This creature is so truculent that I myself cannot subdue it at once—how could a young woman lightly provoke it thus?" Then he added: "Yet I may interrogate the fox through her and learn its words." He raised two fingers and chanted for a while, when the maidservant suddenly rose and knelt at length. The Daoist questioned her about her place of origin. The maidservant spoke in the fox's voice: "I was born in the Western Regions; eighteen of us came to the capital together." The Daoist said: "Here under the imperial wheels, how can your kind be permitted to lodge long? Depart at once!" The fox did not answer. The Daoist struck the table and angrily said: "Do you mean to defy my command? If you delay further, my arts will not spare you!" The fox then showed a cowering and frightened expression and said that it would reverently obey. The Daoist urged it to hurry. The maidservant again fell prostrate and lifeless, and only after a long while did she revive. Presently four or five white lumps, rolling like balls of fluff, were seen moving along the eaves, chasing one another in succession, and in an instant they were all gone. From then on the household was at peace. Ye Sheng There was a scholar named Ye in Huaiyang, but his given name is lost. In prose and poetry he surpassed all his contemporaries, yet his fortunes were unpropitious, and he failed in the examination arena. It happened that Ding Chenghe from east of the Pass came to be magistrate of this district, and seeing his essays, found them extraordinary; he summoned him for conversation and was greatly pleased. He had him stay in the official residence, provided him with lamp and fire for study, and from time to time gave money and grain to support his family. When the prefectural examinations came, the magistrate praised him to the education commissioner, and he took first place among the candidates. The magistrate's expectations for him were extremely high. After the provincial examinations, he asked for his papers and read them, pounding the table in admiration. But fate's numbers limited him, and literary talent was ill-starred; when the results were posted, he had again failed. The scholar returned in dejection, ashamed of having failed his patron, his body wasted away, his mind dazed as a wooden puppet. The magistrate, hearing of it, summoned him and consoled him. The scholar wept bitterly. The magistrate pitied him and agreed that when his term was complete and he went to the capital, he would take the scholar north with him. The scholar was deeply moved and grateful. He took his leave and went home, shutting his gate and seeing no one. Before long, he fell ill. The magistrate sent inquiries without cease; but though he took hundreds of doses of medicine, none had any effect. It happened that the magistrate offended a superior and was dismissed, about to leave office. He sent a letter to the scholar, saying in substance: "My return east has a fixed day; the reason I delay is that I await you. If you arrive in the morning, I shall set out that very evening." The letter was brought to his sickbed. The scholar held it and wept. He sent word back with the messenger: "My illness is critical and cannot be quickly cured—please set out first." The messenger returned and told this, but the magistrate could not bear to leave and waited slowly for him. After several days, the gatekeeper suddenly announced that Ye Sheng had arrived. The magistrate was overjoyed and went out to greet him, asking after him. The scholar said: "With my dog-horse illness, I have kept my master waiting long, and my heart is full of anxiety. Now, happily, I can follow at your heels." The magistrate then packed his things and prepared for the journey at dawn. When they reached his native place, the magistrate ordered his son to study under the scholar, staying with him day and night. The son was named Zaichang, then sixteen years old, and still could not write essays. Yet he was extremely intelligent—whatever he read two or three times, he never forgot. After a year in the scholar's company, he could already take up his brush and produce essays. With the magistrate's influence added, he entered the county school. The scholar took all the examination essays he had written in his life and recorded them for Zaichang to study. In the provincial examinations, the seven topics were all among them, and Zaichang took second place. One day the magistrate said to the scholar: "You gave only the surplus of your learning, yet made the lad win fame. But how is it that the great golden bell is left forever unused?" The scholar said: "This is surely fate. I have borrowed his good fortune to give my writings an outlet, so that the world may know that my half-life of failure was not due to lack of skill—that is enough for me. Moreover, a scholar who has found one true friend may have no regrets; why must he cast off his coarse gown before he can speak of success?" The magistrate, seeing that he had long been away from home, feared he would miss the annual examination and urged him to return for a visit. The scholar looked sorrowful and displeased. The magistrate could not bear to press him, and instructed his son, when he went to the capital, to purchase a degree for the scholar. The son then passed the metropolitan examination and was appointed a secretary in a ministry. He took the scholar with him to the National Academy, and they shared each other's company day and night. After a year, the scholar took the northern provincial examination and actually passed the prefectural recommendation. It happened that the son was commissioned as an inspector of river works in the south, and he said to the scholar: "This journey takes us not far from your native place. Sir, now that you have risen to the clouds, it will be a pleasure to return in glory." The scholar was also pleased, and they chose an auspicious day and set out. When he reached the Huaiyang border, he ordered his servants and horses to escort the scholar home. On arriving, he saw that his household was desolate, and his heart was filled with grief. He paced hesitantly into the courtyard. His wife came out carrying winnowing tools, and when she saw him, she dropped them and fled in terror. The scholar said sorrowfully: "I am honored now. We have not seen each other for three or four years—how can you have so utterly forgotten me?" His wife called from a distance: "You have been dead for a long time—what is this talk of honor? The reason your coffin has remained so long unburied is that the family was poor and our son was young. Now the eldest has grown up and we are about to choose a burial site. Do not make these strange apparitions to frighten the living." Hearing this, the scholar was disconsolate and lost. He paced into the room and saw his own coffin there, distinct and real. He fell to the ground and vanished. His wife, startled, looked—his clothes, cap, and shoes lay shed like a cast-off shell. She wailed bitterly and embraced his garments, weeping. When her son came home from school and saw the fine carriage at the gate, he asked where it had come from, then ran in terror to tell his mother. His mother wept as she told him. They questioned the attendants closely and at last learned the whole story. When the attendants returned and the son heard of it, tears fell upon his breast. He immediately ordered his carriage and went to weep at the scholar's house; he took money from his own purse to arrange the funeral and buried him with the rites of a licentiate. He also gave generously to the scholar's son, hired a tutor for him, and spoke to the education commissioner, so that the next year the son entered the county school. The Different Historian says: "The soul followed its true friend—could it have forgotten death itself? Listeners may doubt this, but I deeply believe it. The faithful maiden of old sent her soul from her pillow; the distant friend of a thousand li still knew the path in a dream. How much more so when silk-threads and fly-tracks exhaust the scholar's very heart, and the towering mountains and flowing waters connect the very lives of us kindred spirits! Alas! Meeting and union are hard to foresee; encounters do not always come in season. One's steps are lonely, one faces one's shadow and ever grieves; one's proud bones stand stark, one scratches one's head in self-regard. One laments the sourness of one's countenance, and invites the mockery of ghosts. Long dwelling among the defeated, every hair of one's beard is an ugly sight; once fallen beyond Sun Shan's name, every turn of one's prose is a flaw. Among all who have wept through the ages, Bian He was surely the only one; and who is the Bo Le who can overturn the common judgment of the extraordinary? One holds a letter of introduction in one's breast till after three years the characters are worn away; one turns sideways and looks out, and under heaven there is no home. In this life one has only to close one's eyes and walk on, letting the Creator raise or lower as He will. Yet the world has no lack of men of lofty spirit and fallen fortune like Ye Sheng. Where shall one find Ling Wei to return again, that one might follow him in life and death? Ah!" Forty Thousand The Grand Sima Wang of Xincheng had a chief steward who kept his accounts; the family was reckoned well-to-do. Suddenly he dreamed of a man rushing in, saying: "You owe forty thousand cash—now you must repay." He asked who he was, but received no answer, and the man went straight into the inner chambers. When he awoke, his wife had given birth to a son. Knowing that this was a karmic debt from a former life, he set aside forty thousand cash tied up in bundles in a single room; and all expenses for the child's clothing, food, illness, and medicine were drawn from it. After three or four years passed, he saw that only seven hundred cash remained in the room. Just then the wet nurse brought the child in and played with him by the side. The steward called to the boy and said: "The forty thousand are nearly spent—you should be going now." No sooner had he spoken than the child's expression suddenly changed, his neck bent and his eyes stared wide. When he touched him again, his breath was already gone. He then used the remaining money to buy burial things and interred him. This may serve as a warning to those who owe debts. Once there was an old man without a son, and he asked a high monk about it. The monk said: "If you owe nothing to others, and others owe nothing to you, how could you have a son?" For the birth of a good son is a return for the good fortune one has given; the birth of a wayward son is a collection of one's debts. Let those who have sons not rejoice, and those who have lost sons not grieve. Cheng Xian Wen-deng Zhou Sheng and Cheng Sheng had studied together from childhood, and so formed a friendship as close as mortar and pestle. But Cheng was poor, so throughout the year he often depended on Zhou. In age Zhou was the elder, and he called Zhou's wife "elder sister-in-law." At holidays he would come to their hall, just like one of the family. Zhou's wife gave birth to a son, but died suddenly after childbirth. He then married a second wife, Wang; because Cheng was still young, he had never asked to see her. One day, Wang's younger brother came to visit his sister, and a feast was held in the inner chamber. Cheng happened to arrive. The household announced him, and Zhou ordered him invited in while seated. Cheng would not enter and took his leave. Zhou moved the banquet to the outer hall and pursued him to bring him back. They had just sat down when someone reported that a servant from the country estate had been severely flogged by the county magistrate. Earlier, a herdsman of Minister Huang's household had let cattle trample Zhou's fields, and for this they had cursed each other. The herdsman fled and told his master, who had the servant seized and sent to the magistrate, where he was flogged. Zhou questioned the matter and learned the cause, then flew into a rage, saying, "That swineherd of the Huang household—how dare he! His forebears served my grandfather; now that he has gained power, is he no longer human?" Anger choked his throat and chest; he rose furiously, intending to go seek out Huang. Cheng held him back and stopped him, saying, "In this violent world, right and wrong are not distinguished. Besides, today's magistrates are mostly bandits who do not even carry bows and spears!" Zhou would not listen. Cheng advised and stopped him again and again, even to the point of tears, and only then did Zhou desist. But his anger would not subside; he tossed and turned till dawn. He said to his household, "The Huangs have insulted me—they are my enemies. I will put it aside for now. The county magistrate is an official of the court, not a servant of powerful families. Even if there is a dispute, both parties must be heard—why should he act like a dog that follows whoever whistles? I too will file a charge against their servant and see where they will stand." All his household urged him on, and so the plan was settled. He drew up a plaint and went to the magistrate, who tore it up and threw it back. Zhou grew angry and spoke insultingly to the magistrate. The magistrate, ashamed and enraged, had him arrested and imprisoned. After the hour of Chen, Cheng went to visit Zhou and only then learned that he had gone to the city to plead his case. He rushed to dissuade him, but Zhou was already in prison. He stamped his foot, at a loss for what to do. At that time three coastal pirates had been captured, and the magistrate, bribed by Huang, instructed them to falsely incriminate Zhou as their confederate. Based on their depositions, Zhou was stripped of his official cap and robes, and subjected to cruel torture. Cheng entered the prison; they looked at each other in grief and bitterness. They plotted to appeal to the imperial court. Zhou said, "I am confined in these heavy chains, like a bird in a cage. Though I have a younger brother, he is only enough to provide my prison meals." Cheng took the responsibility upon himself and said, "This is my duty. If a friend does not rush to help in difficulty, of what use is friendship?" So he set out. Zhou's younger brother tried to give him travel money, but he had already been gone for some time. He reached the capital but had no way to present his grievance. It was rumored that the emperor would go out hunting; Cheng hid in the marketplace among the trees. Soon the imperial procession passed; he prostrated himself, weeping and wailing, and thus obtained approval. The case was sent down by relay post, with orders for the ministerial court to investigate and report. By then more than ten months had passed, and Zhou had already been forced to confess and was sentenced to execution. When the court received the imperial rescript, they were greatly shocked and summoned him for a personal retrial. Huang was also alarmed and plotted to kill Zhou. He bribed the jailers to cut off his food and drink; when his younger brother came to bring provisions, they strictly forbade and refused him. Cheng again went to the court to plead his injustice, and only then was he summoned for questioning, but by then Zhou was already too starved to rise. The court president was furious and had the jailers beaten to death. Huang, greatly frightened, paid several thousand gold pieces and secretly arranged for a mitigation, so that the matter was obscurely reported and pardoned. The magistrate was sentenced to exile for perverting the law. Zhou was released and became even more devoted to Cheng. Since his experience of litigation and imprisonment, Cheng was utterly disillusioned with the ways of the world. He urged Zhou to retire with him into seclusion. Zhou, however, was infatuated with his young wife and would laugh at the idea. Cheng said nothing, but his resolve was firm. After they parted, he did not come for several days. Zhou sent someone to inquire at Cheng's home; his family were wondering if he was at Zhou's place. Neither knew where he was, and they began to worry. Zhou knew in his heart that something strange had happened, so he sent men to search for him—in temples, monasteries, valleys, and ravines—nearly everywhere. Meanwhile he gave money and silk to support Cheng's son. After another eight or nine years, Cheng suddenly appeared on his own, wearing a yellow turban and a Daoist robe, with an aloof and immortal bearing. Zhou joyfully took his arm and said, "Where have you been, so that I have searched for you everywhere?" Cheng laughed and said, "A lonely cloud and a wild crane—they have no fixed dwelling. Since we parted, I have fortunately remained hale." Zhou ordered wine and briefly spoke of the long separation; he wanted to have Cheng change out of his Daoist attire. Cheng only smiled and said nothing. Zhou said, "How foolish! Why do you cast away your wife and children like worn-out sandals?" Cheng laughed and said, "Not so. Others will cast me away—how can I cast anyone away?" When asked where he dwelt, he answered that it was at the Shangqing Palace on Mount Lao. That night they slept together, and Zhou dreamed that Cheng lay naked upon his chest, making him unable to breathe. Startled, he asked what he was doing, but Cheng gave no answer. Suddenly he awoke with a start; he called for Cheng but got no reply. He sat up and felt for him—he had vanished without a trace. After a while, he realized he was lying on Cheng's bed. Alarmed, he said, "I was not drunk last night—why am I so turned about?" He called for his household. They brought a light, and there he was—clearly Cheng. Zhou had always had a thick beard; he stroked his own chin, but found only sparse strands. He took a mirror and looked at himself, exclaiming in astonishment, "Cheng Sheng is here—where have I gone?" Then he suddenly understood: Cheng had used illusion magic to summon him into seclusion. He wanted to go back inside to his wife, but his younger brother, seeing his altered appearance, would not let him pass. Zhou could not explain himself. He ordered a horse and servant to go seek Cheng. After several days, he entered Mount Lao. The horse went swiftly, and the servant could not keep up. He rested under a tree and saw many Daoist priests coming and going. Among them one Daoist looked at Zhou; Zhou then asked about Cheng. The Daoist smiled and said, "I have heard his name—he seems to be at Shangqing." Having said that, he walked off. Zhou watched him go; at about a hundred paces, he spoke with another man, also only a few words before leaving. The man he had spoken with gradually approached—he was a former schoolmate. Seeing Zhou, he said in surprise, "We have not met for several years. People say you have gone to study the Dao in famous mountains—are you still roaming the human world now?" Zhou related his strange experience. The schoolmate exclaimed, "I just met him, and took him for you. He left not long ago; he cannot be far." Zhou was greatly amazed, saying, "How strange! Why was I face to face with my own self and did not recognize it?" The servant then caught up; Zhou galloped ahead, but found no trace. The vast landscape stretched empty, and he could not decide whether to advance or retreat. He reflected that he had no home to return to, so he resolved to pursue to the end. But the terrain was too rugged and perilous for riding, so he gave the horse to his servant to take back and continued on foot. He saw a young boy sitting alone; he hurried over to ask the way and told him his story. The boy said he was Cheng's disciple, and he offered to carry Zhou's clothes and provisions, leading him along. They ate by starlight and slept in the open, traveling a very long distance; after three days they arrived—and it was not the Shangqing of the ordinary world. It was the tenth month, yet mountain flowers filled the road, unlike early winter. The boy went in to announce the guest, and Cheng came out at once—now Zhou recognized his own form. He took his hand and led him inside, where wine was set out and they talked. He saw exotic colorful birds, tame and unafraid, with voices like panpipes, often coming to sing beside their seats. Zhou was deeply amazed. Yet his worldly attachments were strong, and he felt no desire to linger. On the ground were two rush mats; Cheng pulled him to sit together. After the second watch, all thoughts fell silent, and suddenly he seemed to doze off for an instant—and felt that he and Cheng had exchanged places. Puzzled, he stroked his own chin, and found the thick beard was back as before. At dawn, he was filled with a longing to return. Cheng tried to keep him. After three days, Cheng said, "Please rest a little, and I will see you off early." No sooner had he closed his eyes than he heard Cheng call, "Your traveling things are ready." So he rose and followed him. The path he now took was quite different from the old one, and before he realized it, his home was already in sight. Cheng sat waiting by the roadside, letting him return alone. Zhou tried to insist that he come along, but could not prevail, and so trudged alone to his own gate. He knocked but received no answer. Thinking to climb over the wall, he found his body floating as light as a leaf, and with one leap he was over. After crossing several walls in succession, he at last reached the bedchamber, where lamps and candles still flickered. His wife had not yet retired and was murmuring with someone. Peering through the window, he saw his wife drinking from the same cup with a male servant, in a manner most indecent. His rage blazed like fire; he planned to rush in and seize them, but feared he would not prevail alone. So he slipped out, withdrew the bolt, and ran to tell Cheng, begging his help. Cheng readily agreed and went straight to the inner chamber. Zhou lifted a stone and pounded at the door; within, there was great panic. The more urgently he pounded, the more firmly the door was barred from inside. Cheng thrust his sword into the crack, and with a single stroke the door sprang open. Zhou rushed in; the servant dashed for the door and fled. Cheng, standing outside, struck him with the sword, severing his shoulder and arm. Zhou seized his wife and interrogated her under torture; he learned that from the time he had been taken into custody she had been carrying on with the servant. Zhou borrowed the sword and cut off her head, hanging her entrails on the trees in the courtyard. Then he followed Cheng out and sought the way back. Suddenly he awoke with a start, finding himself lying on his own bed. In alarm he cried, "What strange tangled dreams—they make one dread!" Cheng laughed and said, "Brother takes the dream for real, but takes the real for a dream." Zhou stared in astonishment and asked what he meant. Cheng drew out his sword and showed it to him; the bloodstains were still fresh. Zhou was struck with utter terror, and secretly suspected that Cheng was playing tricks with phantoms. Cheng understood his thoughts, and so packed his things and escorted him home. After a long while they reached his village gate, and Cheng said, "Was it not here that I leaned on my sword and waited for you that night? I am weary of seeing foulness and filth; please let me wait for you here. If you have not returned by after noon, I shall go on my own." Zhou went to his house; the gate and door were desolate, as if no one lived there. He went on to his younger brother's home. When his brother saw him, tears at once fell, saying, "After you left, bandits came by night and killed my sister-in-law, cutting out her bowels—a brutal and pitiful atrocity. The authorities have not yet caught the culprit." Zhou, as if waking from a dream, told him the whole truth and warned him not to pursue the matter further. His brother was dumbfounded for a long time. Zhou asked about his son, and his brother had an old nursemaid bring him. Zhou said, "This babe in swaddling clothes is the very thread of our ancestral line. Take good care of him, brother. I am about to take leave of this world." So he rose and went straight out. His brother, weeping and pleading, chased after him, but he only smiled and walked on without looking back. When he reached the open country, he saw Cheng and went off with him. From afar he looked back and said, "To endure things is the greatest joy." His brother tried to speak, but Cheng raised his wide sleeve—and they were gone. He stood there in sorrow for some time, then wept bitterly and returned home. Zhou's younger brother was simple and clumsy, not skilled at managing household affairs. After several years, the family grew poorer. Zhou's son gradually grew up; unable to engage a tutor, the brother taught him himself. One morning, arriving early at the study, he saw a sealed letter on the desk, tightly wrapped, with the inscription "For the younger brother to open." On examination, he found it was his elder brother's handwriting; opening it, there was nothing inside but a single fingernail, about two inches long. Wondering at this, he placed the nail on the inkstone and went out to ask the household where it had come from, but no one knew. When he returned and looked, the inkstone was gleaming and had turned into pure gold. Greatly astonished, he tried it on copper and iron—they too turned to gold. From this he became enormously wealthy. He gave a thousand taels of silver to Cheng's son, and it was thus passed down that the two families possessed the art of touching stone to gold. The Newlywed Mei Liánzhǎng, a scholar from Jiangnan, related that a certain Mr. Sun, a native of his district, served as magistrate of Dezhou and there investigated a strange case. At first, a villager had taken a wife for his son. When the bride entered the household, all relatives and neighbors came to offer congratulations. The feasting continued past the second watch, when the groom went out and saw the bride, splendidly adorned, turn and hurry behind the house. Suspicious, he followed her. Behind the house was a long stream, crossed by a small bridge. He saw the bride cross the bridge and walk away, and grew even more suspicious. He called out, but she did not answer. From a distance, she beckoned to him with her hand; the groom hurried after her, and though he was within a foot of her, he could never quite catch up. They walked several li and entered a village. There the woman stopped and said to the groom, "Your house is lonely; I am not used to staying there. Please let us stay for a few days at my family's home, and then we will return together." With these words, she drew a hairpin and tapped at the door, which creaked open; a young maid came to answer. The woman entered first. Having no choice, he followed her. Once inside, his father- and mother-in-law were both in the hall. They said to the groom, "Our daughter has been spoiled since childhood and has never left our side for a moment. To leave her old home all at once, her heart is full of sorrow. Now that she has come with you, our hearts are greatly eased. Stay a few days, and we will send you both back." Thereupon they prepared a room for them, with hemp mats and bedding all complete, and so they lodged there. The guests at home, seeing that the groom did not return for a long time, searched for him everywhere. Only the bride remained in the chamber; no one knew where the groom had gone. From then on, inquiries were made far and wide, but there was no news. The old father and mother wept bitterly, saying he must surely be dead. After about half a year, the bride's family, grieving that their daughter was left without a husband, petitioned the groom's father and proposed to marry their daughter to another. The groom's father grew even more sorrowful and said, "There are no bones or garments to verify his death—how can we know that my son has become a ghost? Even if he has perished, to marry her off after a full year would still not be too late—why such haste?" The bride's father, resentful, brought the case to court. Magistrate Sun, perplexed and at a loss, ordered that they wait three years, recorded the judgment, and dismissed them. The villager's son, staying at the woman's house, was treated with great hospitality. Whenever he discussed returning home with his wife, she agreed, but kept putting it off. After more than half a year, his mind was filled with restless anxiety. He wished to return alone, but his wife insisted on keeping him. One day the whole household was in a flurry, as if faced with some sudden calamity. They said hastily to the groom, "We had originally planned to send the two of you back together in a few days. But unexpectedly, before the dowry could be prepared, a great misfortune befell us; we have no choice but to send you home first." So they saw him out the door and then hurried back; their words and movements were all very hurried and careless. He was just about to find his way onward when he looked back and saw that the buildings were gone—only a tall burial mound remained. Greatly alarmed, he quickly found the road home. On reaching his house, he recounted everything from beginning to end, and together with his family went to the authorities to state his case. Magistrate Sun summoned the bride's father and instructed him, then sent the daughter back to her rightful husband, and at last the wedding cup was drunk. The Spirit Official A Daoist priest of the Chaotian Temple was fond of the art of breath cultivation. An old man lodged in the temple and happened to share the same practice, so they became fellow adepts of the Mysterious Art. After several years, whenever the time of the suburban sacrifice approached, the old man would always leave ten days in advance and only return after the sacrifice. The priest grew suspicious and asked him about it. The old man said, "We two are of one mind, so I may tell you the truth: I am a fox. When the sacrifice draws near, all the spirits cleanse the world of impurity; I have nowhere to hide, so I flee." Another year passed, and when the time came he left, but did not return for a long while. The priest wondered. One day he suddenly arrived. The priest asked the reason. He replied, "I nearly never saw you again! I intended to flee far away, but my heart grew lazy; I saw that a drain was very secluded, so I hid curled under a rolled-up jar. Unexpectedly, the Spirit Official, in his cleansing, came to that very spot and caught sight of me. Enraged, he raised his whip. In terror, I fled. The Spirit Official pursued me fiercely. By the time we reached the Yellow River, he was almost upon me. In great desperation, with no plan left, I dived into a latrine. The god, abhorring the filth, turned and left. When I came out, I was so stained with stench that I could no longer walk among the living. So I plunged into the water to wash myself clean, then hid in a cave for nearly a hundred days before the filth was fully gone. Now I have come to bid you farewell, and also to give you this warning: you too should go into hiding elsewhere. A great calamity is coming; this is no place of blessing." With these words, he took his leave. The priest followed his advice and parted from his disciples. Before long, the Jiashen Rebellion occurred. Wang Lan Wang Lan of Lijin died suddenly of a violent illness. When King Yama re-examined his case, it turned out that a ghostly underling had summoned him in error. He was ordered to be sent back to life, but his corpse had already decayed. The ghost, fearing punishment, said to Wang, "For a man to be a ghost is bitter; for a ghost to become an immortal is joyful. If there is joy, why insist on life?" Wang agreed. The ghost said, "There is a fox nearby who has perfected a golden elixir. Steal that elixir and swallow it, and your soul will not scatter; you may endure forever. Wherever you wish to go, nothing will thwart you. Do you desire this?" Wang followed him. The ghost led him into a great mansion, where he saw lofty towers and pavilions, but not a single person. A fox was in the moonlight, facing upward and gazing into the void. With each exhalation, a pellet emerged from its mouth and rose straight into the moon; with each inhalation, it fell back again and was caught in its mouth, whereupon it exhaled again—so it continued without cease. The ghost crouched in hiding nearby, waiting for it to exhale, then snatched the pellet and gave it to Wang to swallow. The fox started in alarm and turned fiercely toward them. Seeing the two men there, it feared it could not overcome them, and withdrew in hatred and rage. Wang parted from the ghost and went to his own home. When his wife and children saw him, they all fled in terror. Wang told them the whole story, and gradually they gathered around. From then on, he lived and slept at home as before. His friend surnamed Zhang, hearing of this, came to visit him. When they met, they exchanged greetings about their well-being. He then said to Zhang, "My family and yours have long been poor. Now I have a skill that can bring wealth. Are you willing to follow me?" Zhang assented. He said, "I can heal without medicine and divine without casting lots. I wish to appear in person, but I fear that those who know me will be startled and think it strange. If I attach myself to you and go along, would that be acceptable?" Zhang again assented. So that very day they packed and set out, reaching the border of Shanxi. A wealthy family had a daughter who had been taken with a sudden illness, dizzy and unconscious. After all remedies and rituals had been exhausted, Zhang called at their house and vaunted his skill. The rich man had only this daughter and cherished her greatly; he promised a thousand taels of silver to anyone who could cure her. Zhang asked to see her. He followed the old man into the chamber and saw the girl lying unconscious; he lifted her coverlet and felt her body, but she remained insensible. Wang privately told Zhang, "This is a loss of her soul; I must go find it." Zhang then told the old man, "Though the illness is grave, it can be saved." When asked what medicine was needed, he said none was required, "The young lady's soul has wandered elsewhere; I have already sent a spirit to seek it." After about the time of a meal, Wang suddenly came back and reported that he had found it. Zhang then asked the old man to enter again and again felt her. Shortly after, the girl stretched and suddenly opened her eyes. The old man was overjoyed and bent over to ask her. The girl said, "Earlier, in the garden, I saw a young man with a slingshot shooting at sparrows; several people led a fine horse and followed behind him. I tried to flee, but was blocked. The young man handed me his bow and taught me to shoot. While I was shyly scolding him, he took me up on his horse and we rode double. He laughed, saying, 'I enjoy playing with you; do not be shy.' After several li we entered the mountains; I shouted and cursed from the horse. The young man grew angry and pushed me off by the roadside. I wanted to return but had no way. Just then a man arrived, took my arm, and sped as if flying; in an instant I was home, and suddenly it was like waking from a dream." The old man was awed by this and indeed gave the thousand taels. That night Wang plotted with Zhang, keeping two hundred taels for travel expenses, and took the rest away, then knocked at the door and gave it to his son; he also ordered three hundred to be given to Zhang's household, and then returned. The next day, when they took leave of the old man, he could not see where the gold was hidden, and was all the more amazed, giving them generous gifts and seeing them off. A few days later, Zhang met a fellow townsman named He Cai in the outskirts. He Cai was given to drink and gambling, did not work, and was desperately poor as a beggar. Hearing that Zhang had obtained extraordinary arts and countless gold, he came seeking him out. Wang advised giving him a small amount and sending him away. But He Cai did not change his ways; within ten days he had squandered it all and came looking for Zhang again. Wang already knew of this and said, "He Cai is reckless and unruly; you cannot stay with him. The best is to bribe him to go away; even then the trouble will be slight." After a day, He Cai indeed arrived and insisted on staying with them. Zhang said, "I knew you would come again. You spend your days drinking and gambling—how can a thousand taels fill a bottomless pit? If you truly mend your ways, I will give you a hundred taels." He Cai agreed. Zhang emptied his purse and gave it to him. He Cai left, but with a hundred taels in his pouch, he gambled all the more wildly, and added debauched pleasures to his pursuits, spending money like dirt. The constables of the county suspected him and arrested him, brought him before the magistrate, and tortured him cruelly. He Cai told the truth about where the gold came from. So they sent bailiffs to arrest Zhang. After a few days, He Cai's wounds became severe and he died on the road. His soul did not forget Zhang and went back to attach itself to him, thus meeting Wang. One day they were drinking together at Yandun, when He Cai, drunk, raved loudly. Wang tried to stop him but failed. Just then the imperial censor passed by; hearing the shouting, he searched and seized Zhang. Zhang, terrified, told the truth. The censor was angry, had him caned, and sent a written complaint to the gods. That night he dreamed of a golden-armored man who told him: "We have investigated: Wang Lan died innocently and is now a ghost immortal. Healing is also a benevolent art; he cannot be punished as a demon. By the Emperor's decree, he is now appointed as the Clear-Way Envoy. He Cai, wicked and dissolute, has been sentenced to exile in the Iron-Walled Mountain. Zhang is without guilt and should be pardoned." The censor awoke, found it strange, and released Zhang. Zhang packed and returned home. He had several hundred taels left in his purse; he respectfully sent half to his family. The descendants of the Wang family thereby became wealthy. **The Eagle-Tiger God** In the prefectural city, the Eastern Peak Temple was in the southern suburb. Flanking the main gate were two gods over a zhang tall, commonly called "Eagle-Tiger Gods," fearsome and terrifying to behold. There was a Daoist priest named Ren in the temple; every day at cockcrow he would rise to burn incense and chant. A thief had hidden in the corridor beforehand, waiting for the priest to rise, then slipped into his sleeping quarters and ransacked his belongings. But there was nothing of value in the room; only under the mat did he find three hundred coppers, which he tucked into his waistband, unlatched the door, and left, heading for Mount Qianfo. He had fled south for some time and had just reached the foot of the mountain when he saw a huge man coming down from the mountain, with a goshawk on his left arm, and they met face to face. Drawing nearer, he saw that the man's face was bronze-green, vaguely resembling the one he often saw in the temple gate. Terrified, he crouched and trembled. The god said in surprise, "Where are you taking that stolen money?" The thief grew even more frightened and kowtowed without cease. The god pulled him up and made him return to the temple, then made him pour out the stolen coins and kneel there guarding them. When the priest finished his devotions and turned back, he was shocked. The thief confessed everything in detail. The priest took back the money and let him go. **Wang Cheng** Wang Cheng was the son of a once-distinguished family in Pingyuan, but he was extremely lazy. His livelihood dwindled day by day until only a few broken rooms remained, and he and his wife slept in ragged bedding, reproaching each other endlessly. At that time it was fiercely hot in midsummer. Outside the village there had been a garden belonging to the Zhou family; the walls and buildings had all collapsed, leaving only a pavilion. Many villagers lodged there overnight, and Wang was among them. At daybreak, all the sleepers had left; the sun was three poles high before Wang got up and hesitantly started home. He spotted a golden hairpin in the grass; picking it up, he saw fine characters engraved on it: "Made by the House of the Imperial Consort's Son-in-Law." Wang's grandfather had been an imperial consort's son-in-law in the Heng Prince's household, and many of the family's old items bore that inscription, so he held the hairpin in hesitation. Suddenly an old woman came looking for the hairpin. Though Wang had long been poor, he was by nature upright, so he promptly returned it to her. The old woman was delighted and praised his virtue greatly, saying, "The hairpin is not worth much, but it is a relic of my late husband." Wang asked, "Who was your husband?" She replied, "The late imperial consort's son-in-law, Wang Jiezhi." Wang started and said, "That is my grandfather. How is it that we meet?" The old woman was also startled and said, "Are you Wang Jiezhi's grandson? I am a fox spirit. A hundred years ago I was deeply attached to your grandfather. After he passed away, I withdrew into seclusion. Passing by here, I dropped the hairpin, and it fell into your hands—is this not fate?" Wang had indeed heard that his grandfather had a fox wife, and believing her words, he invited her to visit. The old woman followed him. Wang called his wife out to meet her; she was clad in tattered rags and had a sallow, hungry look. The old woman sighed and said, "Alas! That Wang Jiezhi's grandson should be reduced to such poverty!" Then she looked at the broken stove with no smoke and said, "With your household in such a state, how do you manage to live?" The wife then recounted their poverty in detail, sobbing. The old woman gave the hairpin to the wife and told her to pawn it for money to buy rice, and that she would come again in three days. Wang tried to detain her. The old woman said, "You cannot even support your own wife; if I stay, living under the same roof, what help would that be?" And she went straight off. Wang told his wife about the old woman's background, and the wife was greatly frightened. Wang praised her righteousness and asked his wife to serve her as an aunt; the wife agreed. After three days, she indeed came. She produced several taels of silver and bought a shi each of millet and wheat. That night she shared a short bed with the wife. The wife was at first afraid of her, but seeing that her intentions were very sincere, she no longer suspected her. The next day, she said to Wang, "Do not be lazy, Sun. You should manage some small livelihood. How can you go on living idly on your keep?" Wang told her he had no capital. She said, "When your grandfather was alive, gold and silk were his to take as he pleased. I, being a person of the world beyond, had no need for such things, so I never took much. I accumulated forty taels from the money for flowers and powder, and it remains to this day. Stored long, it is of no use either. You may take it all to buy grasscloth, set a date for the capital, and you can get a small profit." Wang followed her advice and purchased over fifty bolts of it to bring back. The old woman ordered him to hurry his packing, calculating that it would take six or seven days to reach the Yan capital. She instructed, "Be diligent, not lazy; be quick, not slow. If you delay by a single day, regret will come too late." Wang respectfully agreed, packed his goods and set out on the road. En route, he encountered rain, and his clothes and shoes were soaked through. Wang had never in his life endured wind and frost; he was utterly exhausted and therefore rested briefly at an inn. Unexpectedly, the rain poured down all evening, with eaveswater like ropes. After a night's stay, the mud was even worse. He saw travellers coming and going, their shins submerged in the mire, and his heart was pained and bitter. He waited until midday, when it began to dry somewhat, but the overcast clouds gathered again and the rain came down heavily once more. After two more nights, he finally set out again. Nearing the capital, he heard that the price of grasscloth had soared, and he secretly rejoiced. Entering the city, he unloaded his luggage at an inn; the host deeply regretted that he had come too late. Earlier, when the southern route had just opened, grasscloth had been extremely scarce. The Prince's mansion had been urgently purchasing it, and the price had suddenly shot up, to about three times the usual rate. The day before, they had just purchased enough, and those who came later were all disappointed. The host told Wang this. Wang was dejected and discontented. The next day, even more grasscloth arrived, and the price fell further. Wang, seeing no profit, refused to sell. After more than ten days, calculating that his food expenses had been many, his worry doubled. The host advised him to sell cheaply and try something else. He followed this advice. Losing more than ten taels, he disposed of it all. Rising early, he planned to return home, but when he opened his bag to look, the gold was gone. Alarmed, he told the host. The host had no plan to offer. Some advised him to report it to the officials and hold the host responsible for compensation. Wang sighed and said, "This is my fate; what blame does the host bear?" The host, hearing this, regarded him with virtue and gave him five taels of gold, consoling him and urging him to go home. Wang thought to himself that he had no way to face his grandmother, and paced back and forth, inside and outside, at his wit's end. Just then he saw some people fighting quails; one bet would often be several thousand. Each quail bought at market always cost no less than a hundred coins. An idea suddenly struck him. Calculating that the funds he had left were barely enough to deal in quails, he consulted the host. The host eagerly encouraged him and also agreed to let him stay and eat at the inn without charge. Wang was pleased and set out. He bought a full load of quails and returned to the capital. The host was delighted and congratulated him on a quick sale. That night, heavy rain fell until dawn. At daybreak, the streets were like rivers, and the dripping had not yet ceased. He waited for clear skies, but it rained continuously for several days without stopping. Rising to look at the cages, he saw that the quails were gradually dying. Wang was terrified and did not know what to do. The next day, more died; only a few heads remained, and he put them all in one cage to feed. Overnight, when he went to look, only one quail remained. He told the host, and could not help shedding tears. The host also wrung his hands in sympathy. Wang reckoned that his money was spent and he had no way to return; he only wished to find death. The host consoled him. They went together to look at the quail, and after examining it closely, the host said, "This seems a fine creature. The deaths of the other quails may well have been due to this one fighting and killing them. You have nothing to do in your spare time; please try training it. If it is good, gambling can also earn a living." Wang followed his advice. Once it was tamed, the host had him take it to the streets to gamble for wine and food. The quail was very fierce and always won. The host was delighted and gave Wang gold, telling him to go and gamble again with the young men; he won three bouts in three matches. In about half a year, he had accumulated twenty taels of gold. His heart grew more at ease, and he treasured the quail as his very life. Earlier, the Grand Prince was fond of quails. Every Lantern Festival, he would allow the common quail-keepers to enter his mansion and compete. The host said to Wang, "Now great wealth should be attainable at once; the only unknown is your fate." He then told him the story and led him to go along. He instructed, "If you lose, just leave with a deflated spirit. But if by a ten-thousand-to-one chance the quail wins, and the Prince wishes to buy it, do not agree. If he insists, watch only me—wait until I nod, and then respond." Wang said, "Understood." Arriving at the mansion, the quail-keepers were packed shoulder to shoulder below the steps. After a while, the Prince came out and took his seat in the hall. His attendants announced, "Whoever wishes to fight, step forward." Immediately one man brought his quail and advanced quickly. The Prince ordered his quail released, and the visitor released his; after one brief leap, the visitor's quail was already defeated. The Prince laughed heartily. In a short while, several more came up and were defeated. The host said, "Now is the time." They went up together. The Prince looked at it and said, "There is a vein of anger in its eyes—this is a strong bird. Do not take it lightly." He ordered the iron-beaked one to face it. After one or two exchanges, the Prince's quail lost its feathers. He chose another fine one, changed again, and it was defeated again. The Prince hurriedly ordered the Jade Quail from the palace brought out. In a moment it was brought forth; its white feathers like an egret, it was divinely handsome and extraordinary. Wang Cheng's courage faltered. He knelt and begged to stop, saying, "Your Highness's quail is a divine creature; I fear it will injure my bird and ruin my livelihood." The Prince laughed and said, "Let it go. If it dies in the fight, I will compensate you handsomely." Cheng then released his quail. The Jade Quail rushed straight at it. But when the Jade Quail came, his quail crouched low like an angry chicken, waiting; when the Jade Quail pecked fiercely, it rose like a soaring crane to strike back. Advancing and retreating, rising and falling, they held each other for about the time of one meal. The Jade Quail gradually grew weary, but the other's fury grew fiercer and its fighting quicker. Before long, its snowy feathers were battered down, and it drooped its wings and fled. The thousand onlookers all sighed in admiration. The Prince then took the quail and held it himself, inspecting it from beak to claws, passing over it once thoroughly, and asked Cheng, "Is the quail for sale?" He answered, "Your humble servant has no fixed property, and it is my life companion—I am unwilling to sell it." The Prince said, "I will give you a heavy price, enough for a middle-class estate. Are you willing?" Cheng bowed his head in thought for a long while, then said, "I am not truly happy to part with it; but since Your Highness is so fond of it, if it can provide my livelihood, what more could I ask?" The Prince asked the price; he answered a thousand taels. The Prince laughed and said, "Foolish man! What rarity is this, that it should be worth a thousand taels?" Cheng said, "If Your Highness does not regard it as a treasure, your servant regards it as no less than a jade disc worth a whole city." The Prince said, "How so?" He replied, "Your servant takes it to the market and earns several taels a day, enough for a measure of grain, supporting more than ten mouths in my family without fear of hunger or cold—what treasure could match that?" The Prince said, "I will not cheat you; I will give you two hundred taels." Cheng shook his head. The Prince added another hundred. Cheng looked at the host, whose expression did not change. He then said, "By Your Highness's command, I beg to reduce the price by a hundred." The Prince said, "Enough! Who would trade nine hundred for a single quail?" Cheng bagged his quail and prepared to leave. The Prince called out, "Quail-keeper! Quail-keeper! I will actually give six hundred. If you agree, sell; if not, let it be." Cheng again looked at the host, who remained as before. Cheng's heart was already full to overflowing, but he feared losing the chance, and said, "To sell at this price leaves me truly discontented; but if we do not close the deal, I will incur even greater offense. I have no choice but to accept Your Highness's command." The Prince was pleased and immediately weighed out the payment. Cheng bagged the gold, bowed in thanks for the favor, and went out. The host reproached him, saying, "What did I tell you? And you rushed to sell it yourself! If you had held out a little longer, eight hundred taels would have been in your hand." Cheng returned home, tossed the gold on the table, and asked the host to take what he would, but the host would not accept. After he pressed the host to take it, the host calculated the cost of his meals and accepted that much. Wang prepared his things and returned home. When he arrived, he recounted everything he had done and brought out the gold in celebration. The old woman ordered the purchase of three hundred acres of good farmland, built a house and made furnishings, so that they were a veritable established family. The old woman rose early and had Wang supervise the ploughing and his wife supervise the weaving; if they were even slightly lazy, she would scold them. The husband and wife lived in peace and dared not complain. After three years, the family grew even wealthier. The old woman then took her leave and wished to go. The husband and wife together tried to hold her back, even weeping. The old woman then desisted. But when they waited on her at dawn the next day, she had already vanished. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Wealth is usually gained through diligence; this alone was gained through laziness—truly a novel thing to hear. Yet to be penniless to the bone and yet unwavering in one's essential nature—this is why Heaven at first abandoned him but finally pitied him. Can there truly be wealth and honor in laziness?" Qingfeng The Geng family of Taiyuan had been great in former times, with broad and spacious mansions. Later they fell into decline, and the row upon row of buildings and chambers were more than half left deserted and unused. Because of this, strange things began to occur: the hall doors would open and close of their own accord, and the household was often startled and clamoring in the middle of the night. Geng was troubled by this and moved to a country villa, leaving an old servant to guard the gate. From this, the desolation grew even worse. Sometimes the sounds of laughter, singing, and flutes and pipes could be heard. Geng had a nephew named Qubing, who was wild and unrestrained. He instructed the old servant that if he saw or heard anything, he should run and tell him. When night came, the servant saw lights flickering in the upper story and ran to report it to the young master. The young master wanted to go in and observe the strangeness. The servant tried to stop him, but he would not listen. He was familiar with the doors and gates, and so he pushed through the brambles and undergrowth, winding his way in. He climbed the tower but found nothing at all out of the ordinary. Passing through the building, he heard voices murmuring. He peeked in secretly and saw a pair of huge candles burning, their light as bright as day. An old man in a scholar's cap sat facing south, with an old woman opposite him, both about forty-something. To the east was a young man of about twenty; to the right, a young girl just at the age of fifteen, when the hairpin is first worn. Meat dishes filled the table, and they sat together laughing and chatting. The young master suddenly burst in, laughing and calling out, "An uninvited guest has come!" The group fled in alarm and hid. Only the old man came out and scolded, "Who are you, to enter another's inner chambers?" The young master said, "These are my family's inner chambers, which you have occupied. You drink fine wine by yourselves and do not invite the master—is that not rather stingy?" The old man looked at him carefully and said, "You are not the master." The young master said, "I am the wild youngster Geng Qubing, the master's nephew." The old man saluted respectfully and said, "I have long admired your fame!" Thereupon he bowed and invited the young master in, and called to the family to change the feast. The young master stopped him. The old man then poured wine for the guest. The young master said, "Our families are connected; there is no need for the guests at the table to avoid me. I beg you to call them back to drink." The old man called, "Xiaoyi!" Soon the young man came in from outside. The old man said, "This is my foolish son." He bowed and sat down, and they briefly exchanged inquiries about their lineages. The old man introduced himself, saying, "My surname is Hu." The young master had always been bold, and his conversation was spirited; Xiaoyi was also dashing and unconventional. As they talked, they found great mutual pleasure in each other's company. The young master was twenty-one, two years older than Xiaoyi, and so he addressed him as a younger brother. The old man said, "I have heard that your grandfather compiled the 'Supplementary Biography of Mount Tu'. Do you know of it?" He answered, "I know of it." The old man said, "I am a descendant of the Lady of Mount Tu. From the Tang dynasty onward, I can still recall the genealogical records; but before the Five Dynasties, there are no transmissions. I am fortunate that you, young master, might enlighten me." The young master gave a brief account of the Lady of Mount Tu's assistance to Yu the Great, embellishing with many words, and his brilliant ideas flowed like a spring. The old man was greatly pleased and said to his son, "Now we are fortunate to hear what we have never heard before. The young master is no outsider; may we invite your mother and Qingfeng to come and listen as well, so that they too may know of our ancestral virtues." Xiaoyi went into the curtained chamber. After a little while, the old woman came out with the young girl. When the young master looked at her carefully, her delicate form was full of charm, her autumn-bright eyes flashed with intelligence—there was no one so beautiful in the human world. The old man pointed to the woman and said, "This is my old wife." Then he pointed to the girl: "This is Qingfeng, my niece by a younger brother. She is quite clever, and what she sees and hears she never forgets, so I called her to listen." The young master finished his tale and drank, gazing at the girl without turning his eyes away. The girl noticed and lowered her head. The young master secretly stepped on her lotus-shaped foot; she quickly withdrew her foot, but showed no anger. The young master's spirit soared, and he could not control himself. He slapped the table and said, "To obtain a wife like this, I would not exchange it for the throne of a king facing south!" The old woman, seeing the young master growing drunk and more unruly, rose with the girl and quickly lifted the curtain and left. The young master, disappointed, then took his leave of the old man and went out. But his heart was restless, and he could not forget Qingfeng. When night came, he went again. The scent of orchids and musk still lingered, but he waited through the whole night in stillness, with not a sound or a cough. He returned and discussed with his wife, wanting to move his household and live there, hoping to encounter her again. His wife did not agree, so the young master went alone and took up residence, reading downstairs. At night, as he was leaning on his desk, a ghost with disheveled hair entered, its face black as lacquer, staring at him with wide eyes. The young master laughed, dipped his finger in ink and smeared it on his own face, and stared back with blazing eyes. The ghost, ashamed, retreated. The next night, when the night was deep, he blew out the candle and was about to sleep when he heard the lock being opened behind the building, and the door was pushed open with a bang. He quickly rose to peer out, and saw the door half open. Soon he heard the light sound of footsteps and a candlelight coming out of the room. Looking, it was Qingfeng. She suddenly saw the young master, started back in fright, and quickly closed the double doors. The young master knelt at length and spoke: "I do not avoid dangers and evils, truly for your sake. Fortunately there is no one else; if I could but have one clasp of your hand as a token of joy, I would die without regret." The girl said from a distance, "Your deep and unwavering affection—how could I not know it? But my uncle's household discipline is strict, and I dare not obey your command." The young master pleaded with her earnestly, saying, "I dare not hope for the touch of skin, but only to see your face once more—that would be enough." The girl seemed willing, and opened the door and came out, taking his arm and pulling him along. The young master was wild with joy, and together they went downstairs; he embraced her and set her on his knee. The girl said, "Luckily there is a bond from former lives; but after this one night, even longing will be useless." He asked, "Why?" She said, "My uncle fears your wildness, so he transformed into a fierce ghost to frighten you, but you were not moved. Now he has chosen another dwelling place, and the whole family has moved their belongings to the new home, while I remain to guard this place. Tomorrow I will depart as well." Having said this, she wanted to leave, saying, "I fear my uncle may return." The young master forcibly stopped her, wanting to be intimate with her. While they were still arguing, the old man suddenly entered stealthily. The girl was ashamed and frightened, with nowhere to hide herself; she hung her head and leaned against the bed, twisting her sash in silence. The old man angrily said, "You shameless maid, you disgrace my household! If you do not leave quickly, the whip will follow!" The girl lowered her head and hurried away, and the old man also went out. The young master followed and listened; there was endless scolding and abuse. He heard Qingfeng sobbing softly, and his heart was torn as if with a knife. He called out loudly, "The fault is mine, this young man's—what has it to do with Qingfeng? If you will pardon Feng, then let me, this young man, bear the knife, the saw, the axe, and the halberd!" After a long while, all was silent, and the young master returned to his bed. From this time on, there was no further sound or breath in the mansion. The young master's uncle heard of it and thought it strange, and was willing to sell the dwelling to him, not haggling over the price. The young master was delighted and moved his family in. After living there for over a year, he was quite comfortable, but never for a moment forgot Qingfeng. It was during the Qingming festival, when he had gone to sweep the ancestral graves, that he saw two little foxes being fiercely pursued by dogs. One of them fled into the wilds and escaped, but the other, frantic with fear, ran onto the road. Catching sight of Sheng, it clung to him with piteous cries, drooping its ears and bowing its head, as if begging for his help. Sheng took pity on it, opened his robe, picked it up, and carried it home. He closed the door and placed it on the bed—it was Qing Feng. Overjoyed, he comforted her and asked how she was. She said, "I was just playing with my maidservant when we met with this great calamity. Had it not been for you, sir, I would surely have perished in a dog's belly. I hope you will not despise me for being of a different kind." Sheng said, "I have thought of you day and night, and you have haunted my very dreams. Seeing you now is like obtaining a rare treasure—how could I speak of despising?" She said, "This is fate. Had it not been for this mishap, how could I have come to you? But it is fortunate indeed; my maidservant will surely think me dead, so I can now pledge myself to you for good." Sheng was delighted and gave her a separate room to live in. Over two years passed. One night, as Sheng was reading, Xiao'er suddenly entered. Sheng put down his book and asked in surprise what brought him there. Xiao'er prostrated himself on the ground and said mournfully, "My father is in dire peril, and none but you can save him. He would have come to beg you himself, but he feared you would not receive him, so he sent me instead." Sheng asked, "What is the matter?" Xiao'er said, "Do you know Mo Sanlang, sir?" Sheng said, "He is the son of my father's friend—we are of the same generation." Xiao'er said, "He will pass by here tomorrow. If he happens to have a hunted fox with him, I beg you to keep it." Sheng said, "The humiliation I suffered that day at your house still rankles in my mind. For other matters, I dare not interfere. If you must have me render any small service, then Qing Feng must come in person!" Xiao'er wept and said, "My younger sister Feng has been dead in the wilds for three years now!" Sheng flung his sleeves and said, "If that is so, then my resentment is all the deeper!" He took up his book and read aloud, paying him no further heed. Xiao'er rose, sobbed aloud, covered his face, and left. Sheng went to Qing Feng's quarters and told her what had happened. She turned pale and said, "Will you save him after all?" Sheng said, "Save him? Yes, I will save him. I did not agree just now only to repay him for his former rudeness." Qing Feng was pleased and said, "I was orphaned young, and it was my uncle who raised me. Although he once offended you, that was only according to family rules." Sheng said, "That may be true, but it still leaves one feeling somewhat resentful. If you had truly been dead, I would certainly not have helped." Qing Feng laughed and said, "How cruel you are!" The next day, Mo Sanlang indeed arrived, with a carved bow case and a tiger-skin quiver, and a grand retinue of servants. Sheng went out to greet him. He saw that the game bag contained many animals, among them a black fox, its fur stained with blood; he felt it, and the flesh was still warm. He then pretended that his own fur coat was worn out and begged to have that one for patching. Mo generously untied it and gave it to him. Sheng immediately handed it over to Qing Feng, then went back to entertain his guest. After the guest had left, Qing Feng cradled the fox in her arms, and within three days it revived. It turned over and transformed back into the old man. He looked at her with joy and said, "I always said you were not dead—and now it is indeed so." Qing Feng then said to Sheng, "If you still care for me, I beg you to lend us that tower and house, so that I may repay my nursing care to him in private." Sheng agreed. The old man, shamefaced, thanked him and took his leave. That night, the whole family indeed moved in. From then on, they were like one family, father and sons, without any further suspicion. Sheng lived in his study, and Xiao'er would often come to converse and feast with him. As Sheng's son by his first wife grew up, he made Xiao'er his tutor; and indeed Xiao'er was gentle and taught well, having the qualities of a fine teacher. --- **Painted Skin** Wang Sheng of Taiyuan was out early one morning when he met a young woman carrying a bundle and walking alone, with great difficulty. He hurried after her and saw she was a beautiful girl of about sixteen. His heart was drawn to her, and he asked, "Why are you walking all alone so early in the morning?" The girl said, "A traveler on the road cannot relieve his own sorrows—why trouble yourself to ask?" Sheng said, "What sorrows do you have? Perhaps I can be of some help, and I will not refuse." The girl said gloomily, "My parents, greedy for money, sold me into a rich man's household. The first wife is terribly jealous; she scolds me by morning and beats and humiliates me by evening. I could not bear it, so I have fled far away." He asked, "Where are you going?" She said, "One who is on the run has no fixed destination." Sheng said, "My humble home is not far; I would be honored if you would deign to call there." The girl was pleased and followed him. Sheng carried her bundle for her and led her back with him. She looked around the room and saw no one, so she asked, "Why do you have no family here?" He answered, "This is only my study." She said, "This place is very good. If you pity me and wish to keep me alive, you must keep it secret and not tell anyone." Sheng agreed, and then he slept with her, hiding her in a secret chamber, and for several days no one knew. Sheng told his wife in private. His wife, Chen, suspected she was a concubine or maidservant from some great household and urged him to send her away, but Sheng would not listen. One day he happened to go to the market, where he met a Daoist priest. The priest looked at him in astonishment and asked, "What have you encountered?" Sheng replied, "Nothing." The priest said, "You are surrounded by evil vapors—how can you say nothing?" Sheng vigorously denied it. The priest then left, saying, "How deluded! There are indeed those in this world who are about to die and do not realize it." Sheng found his words strange and began to doubt the girl; but then he thought again—she was clearly a beautiful woman, how could she be a demon? He supposed the priest was merely using spells and incantations to trick people out of food. Before long, he reached his study door, but it was barred from inside so he could not enter. Suspecting something was amiss, he climbed over the broken wall, and then saw that the chamber door was also shut. He crept close and peered through the window, and there he saw a hideous ghost, with a green face and jagged teeth like saws. It had spread a human skin on the bed and was holding a colored brush to paint it. Then it threw down the brush, lifted the skin as if shaking out a garment, draped it over itself, and transformed into the girl. At this sight, Sheng was terrified and crawled out on all fours. He hurried after the priest but could not find him. He searched everywhere and at last encountered him in the fields, where he threw himself on his knees and begged for help. The priest said, "I will banish it. This creature has also suffered much; it has only just found a substitute, and I am loath to destroy its life." He then gave Sheng a fly-whisk and told him to hang it over the bedroom door. Before parting, he arranged to meet at the Qingdi Temple. Sheng returned home, not daring to enter his study, so he slept in the inner chamber and hung up the whisk. At about the first watch, he heard a rustling sound outside the door. He did not dare to look himself, so he had his wife look. They saw the girl come, but when she saw the whisk she dared not enter. She stood there gnashing her teeth, and after a long while she went away. But soon she returned and cursed, "The priest tries to frighten me. After all, would I spit out what I have already taken into my mouth?" She then seized the whisk and tore it to pieces, broke through the bedroom door, and rushed in. She went straight to Sheng's bed, tore open his belly, clutched out his heart, and departed. The wife cried out; the maidservant entered and lit a lamp to look—the scholar was already dead, his chest cavity a bloody mess. Chen shrieked in terror and dared not make a sound. The next day, she sent her younger brother Erlang to inform the Daoist priest. The Daoist priest angrily said: "I had pity on him, but that fiend dares to act thus!" He then came with the younger brother. The woman had already vanished. Then he raised his head and looked in all four directions, saying: "Fortunately, she has not fled far." He asked: "Whose house is that to the south?" Erlang said: "That is where this humble one dwells." The Daoist priest said: "She is now at your place." Erlang was startled and thought this impossible. The Daoist priest asked: "Has any stranger come?" Erlang replied: "I went early to the Green Emperor Temple, so I do not know. I will return and ask." He left, and after a short while returned, saying: "Indeed there was one. This morning an old woman came, wishing to be hired to work in my household. My wife stopped her, and she is still there." The Daoist priest said: "That is the creature." They went there together. Grasping his wooden sword, he stood in the center of the courtyard and called out: "Wretched fiend! Return my horsetail whisk!" The old woman, in the room, was terrified and pale; she rushed out the door to flee, but the Daoist priest pursued and struck her. The old woman fell, her human skin came off with a ripping sound, and she transformed into a ferocious ghost, lying on the ground and grunting like a pig. The Daoist priest beheaded it with his wooden sword; its body turned into thick smoke, coiling on the ground in a heap. The Daoist priest produced a gourd, removed its stopper, and placed it within the smoke, which was drawn in with a whistling sound as if breathing through the mouth—in an instant, the smoke was gone. The Daoist priest replaced the stopper and put it into his bag. They all examined the human skin—eyebrows, eyes, hands, and feet were all complete. The Daoist priest rolled it up, making a sound like rolling up a painting scroll, also put it into his bag, and then took his leave. Lady Chen welcomed him at the gate, weeping and begging for a method to restore the dead to life. The Daoist priest declined, saying he could not. Chen wept even more bitterly and prostrated herself on the ground without rising. The Daoist priest pondered and said: "My arts are shallow; truly I cannot raise the dead. I can name one person who may be able to do so. If you go and beg him, it will surely be effective." She asked: "Who is he?" He said: "There is a madman in the marketplace, who often lies in filth. Try appealing to him with your grief. If he insults you, do not be angry." Erlang also knew of him, so he took leave of the Daoist priest and went with his sister-in-law. They saw a beggar singing wildly in the street, with nasal discharge three feet long, filthy and impossible to approach. Chen crawled forward on her knees. The beggar laughed and said: "Does the beauty love me?" Chen told him the reason. He laughed again and said: "Any man can be a husband—why bring him back to life?" Chen pleaded with him earnestly. Then he said: "Strange! A person dies and comes to me begging for life—am I Yama?" Angrily he struck Chen with his staff. Chen endured the pain. The townspeople gathered like a wall. The beggar coughed up a handful of phlegm and spittle, raised it toward Chen's mouth, and said: "Eat it!" Chen's face flushed red with difficulty; but then she remembered the Daoist priest's instruction, and forced herself to swallow it. She felt it in her throat, hard as a wad of cotton, stuck and descended with difficulty, coming to rest in her chest. The beggar laughed heartily and said: "The beauty loves me indeed!" Then he rose and walked away without looking back. She followed him, and he entered a temple. She pursued him further, but did not know where he had gone; searching high and low, she found no trace. Ashamed and resentful, she returned home. She grieved over the tragedy of her husband's death and regretted the humiliation of having eaten spittle. Lying prostrate and weeping bitterly, she wished only to die. She was about to wipe the blood and prepare the corpse for encoffining, but the household servants stood waiting and none dared approach. Chen embraced the corpse and gathered the entrails, arranging them while weeping. She wept until her voice was hoarse, and suddenly felt nauseous; the object lodged in her chest burst forth violently, and before she could turn her head, it had fallen into the chest cavity. Startled, she looked—it was a human heart. It was still throbbing vigorously in the cavity, steaming with heat like smoke. Greatly astonished, she quickly pressed both hands over the cavity and held it together with all her strength. At the slightest slackening, the vital breath would escape through the seams; so she tore strips of silk and bound it tightly. She felt the corpse with her hands—it gradually grew warm. She covered it with quilts. At midnight she lifted the covers to look—there was breath. By dawn, he was alive. He said: "It was all hazy, like a dream; I only felt a dull pain in my abdomen." Looking at the wound, a scab had formed the size of a coin; soon he recovered. The Historian of the Strange says: "How foolish are the people of this world! Clearly an apparition, yet they take it for beauty. How deluded are the foolish! Clearly a warning, yet they take it for nonsense. Yet those who covet another's beauty and prey upon it—their wife will also swallow another's spittle and find it sweet. Heaven's retribution is ever just; but the foolish and deluded do not awaken. How pitiable!" [Jia'er] An old man of the Chu family was trading abroad. His wife lived alone, and dreamed she was having intercourse with someone; upon waking she felt him, and he was a small man. Examining his condition, it was different from a human's, and she knew it was a fox. Before long, he got off the bed and left, though the door had not opened and he was already gone. As evening fell, she invited the cook woman to keep her company. She had a son of ten, who ordinarily slept on a separate couch, and she called him to join them as well. When the night had grown deep, the woman and the boy were both asleep, and the fox came again. The woman murmured as if in a dream. The woman awoke and called out to her, and the fox then left. From then on, she felt listless, as if she had lost something. When night came, she dared not put out the candle, and warned her son not to sleep too soundly. In the dead of night, the boy and the woman leaned against the wall and dozed off. When they awoke, the wife was gone; they thought she had gone out to relieve herself. They waited a long time but she did not return, and they began to suspect something. The woman was afraid and dared not go to look. The boy took a torch and lit everywhere, and when he reached another room, there was his mother lying naked inside. He went near to help her up, but she showed no shame or shrinking. From then on she became mad, singing, weeping, shouting, and cursing, a myriad of states each day. At night she disliked being with others, so she had her son sleep on a separate couch and sent the cook woman away as well. Whenever the son heard his mother laughing and talking, he would light a fire. The mother would instead become angry and scold him, but the boy paid it no mind, and so everyone came to admire the boy's courage. Yet his play was without restraint; daily he imitated masons and piled bricks and stones on the windows, and when they tried to stop him he would not listen. If one stone was removed, he would roll on the ground and cry sweetly, and no one dared to cross him. After several days, both windows were completely blocked, leaving no light at all. Then he mixed mud and sealed up the holes in the walls, busying himself all day long, not sparing his labor. When the sealing was done, having nothing else to do, he took the kitchen knife and honed it with a grating sound. All who saw him detested his naughtiness and did not count him as one to be reckoned with. At midnight the boy hid the knife in his bosom and covered the lamp with a gourd. He waited for his mother's sleep-talking, then quickly lit the lamp, shut the door, and shouted. For a long while nothing unusual happened, so he left the door and spoke aloud, pretending as if he were about to search. Suddenly a creature, like a civet, dashed toward the crack in the door. He struck at it hastily but only cut off its tail, about two inches long, with wet blood still dripping. At first, when he had lit the lamp and risen, his mother had begun to curse and rail at him, but the boy acted as if he had not heard. Having failed to strike it down, he went to bed vexed. He thought to himself that though he had not killed it, he could at least hope it would not come again. Come daylight, he saw bloodstains leading over the wall and away. He followed the trail and it went into the He family's garden. That night it indeed did not come, and the boy was secretly pleased. But his mother lay foolishly as if dead. Before long, the merchant returned, and went to the bedside to ask after her. The wife cursed him in a shrill voice, regarding him as an enemy. The boy told him the situation. The old man was startled and called a physician to treat her. The wife vomited up the medicine and cursed. Secretly they put the medicine into soup and water and mixed it in her drink; after several days she gradually became calm. Both father and son were delighted. One night they woke from sleep and found the wife gone; father and son searched and found her again in another room. From then on she became deranged again and did not wish to share a room with her husband. Toward evening she would actually run to another room, and when they tried to pull her back, she cursed all the more. The old man had no recourse and locked all the other doors. When the wife ran off, the doors would open by themselves. The old man was troubled by this and tried every means of exorcism, but none had the least effect. At dusk the boy slipped into the He family garden and hid in the brush, intending to spy out where the fox was. The moon had just risen when he suddenly heard voices. He stealthily parted the weeds and saw two men drinking, with a long-whiskered servant holding a flagon, dressed in old brown. Their talk was low and indistinct, not very clear. After some time he heard one say, "Tomorrow we can bring a pitcher of white liquor." Presently they both left, only the long-whiskered one remaining, who took off his clothes and lay down on a rock in the courtyard. Looking closely, his limbs were all like a man's, but he had a tail hanging behind. The boy wanted to go home but feared the fox would notice, so he lay hidden all night. Before dawn, he again heard the two men come back one after another, murmuring as they entered the bamboo grove. The boy then returned home. His father asked where he had been, and he answered, "I stayed at Uncle's house." It happened that he accompanied his father to the market and saw a fox tail hanging in a hat shop; he begged his father to buy it. His father took no notice. The boy tugged at his father's clothes and whined insistently. His father could not bear to refuse him entirely, so he bought it. While his father was trading in the market, the boy played beside him, and when his father was looking elsewhere, he stole some money and went to buy white liquor, which he left in the shop's corridor. He had an uncle in the city who was a hunter by trade. The boy ran to his house. His uncle was out. His aunt inquired about his mother's illness, and he replied, "She has been a little better these past days, but then a rat gnawed her clothes and she is so angry and tearful she cannot be comforted, so she sent me to beg for some hunting medicine." His aunt opened a box, took out about a coin's worth, wrapped it up, and gave it to him. The boy thought it too little. His aunt wanted to make some soup cakes for him to eat. The boy, seeing no one else in the room, opened the medicine packet himself and secretly took a full handful, hiding it in his bosom. Then he went and told his aunt not to light the fire, saying, "Father is waiting for me in the market; there's no time to eat." He then went straight out and secretly put the medicine into the wine. He wandered about the market and did not return until dusk. His father asked where he had been, and he made the excuse that he had been at his uncle's. From then on, the boy went daily to the market streets. One day he saw the long-whiskered man also among the crowd. The boy recognized him for certain and secretly followed him. Gradually he engaged him in conversation and asked where he lived. The man answered, "North Village." He also asked the boy, who falsely said, "A mountain cave." The long-whiskered man found it strange that he lived in a cave. The boy laughed and said, "My family has lived in a cave for generations—are you not the same?" The man was even more astonished and asked his surname. The boy said, "I am a son of the Hu clan. I once saw you following those two young gentlemen somewhere—have you forgotten?" The man looked at him carefully, half believing and half doubting. The boy slightly lifted his lower garment and briefly showed his fake tail, saying, "We folk mingle among men, but as long as this thing remains, it is a nuisance." The man asked, "What are you doing in the market?" The boy said, "My father sent me to buy liquor." The man also said he had come to buy liquor. The boy asked, "Have you bought it yet?" The man said, "We poor folk often have to steal it." The boy said, "That task is quite hard, with all the fear and worry." The man said, "I am ordered by my master and have no choice." The boy then asked, "Who is your master?" The man said, "The two young gentlemen brothers you saw before. One has illicit relations with the Wang family's wife in the northern suburb, and the other lodges at the home of some old man in the eastern village. That old man's son is extremely vicious—he cut off my tail, and it took ten days to heal; now he has gone there again." Having said this, he was about to leave, saying, "Do not delay my business." The boy said, "Stealing is hard; buying is easier. I have already bought some and left it in the corridor, and I respectfully offer it to you. I still have money left in my pouch, so I do not worry about buying more." The man was embarrassed that he had nothing to give in return. The boy said, "We are of the same kind—why begrudge a trifle? In my spare time, I should still drink deeply with you." So he went with him, took out the wine and gave it to him, and then returned home. That night, his mother actually slept peacefully and did not run about anymore. Knowing something was amiss, he told his father and went with him to check, and there they found two foxes dead in the pavilion, and one dead in the grass, with blood still oozing from its mouth. The wine bottle was still there; they picked it up and shook it, and there was still some left. His father asked in surprise, "Why did you not tell me sooner?" He said, "These creatures are most clever; if it were leaked, they would know." The old man rejoiced and said, "My son, you are the Chen Ping of fox-hunting." So father and son carried the foxes home. Among them they saw one fox with a bald tail and a clear knife scar. From then on they were at peace. But the wife was emaciated and weak; gradually her mind became clearer, though she developed a cough, and each time she vomited phlegm it came by the pint, but she soon recovered. The Wang family's wife in the northern suburb had long been haunted by a fox; when they asked about it now, the fox was gone and her illness was also cured. The old man thus thought his son extraordinary and taught him riding and archery. Later he rose to become a General-in-Chief. The Snake Appetite My townsman Wang Puling's servant Lü Fengning had a great fondness for snakes. Whenever he caught a small snake, he would swallow it whole, as if eating a scallion. For larger ones, he would cut them into inch-long pieces with a knife and then scoop them up and eat them. He would chew them with a crunching sound, blood and juice smearing his chin. Moreover, he had a keen sense of smell; once, from the other side of a wall, he smelled the scent of a snake, and dashed outside, where he indeed found a snake over a foot long. At the time he had no knife on him, so he first bit off its head, while its tail still writhed at the corner of his mouth. <End of Volume 1> Notes ↑ A taboo name is one's given name. Supplement In life it is called a name; in death it is called a taboo (this was before the Qin dynasty; after the Qin they could be used interchangeably). ↑ A scholar receiving public grain. ↑ A person in service to the government. ↑ Documents. ↑ A horse with a white forehead. ↑ An examiner. ↑ The meaning of urging. ↑ Official lodgings. ↑ Guan Yu's posthumous title was Zhuangmiao. ↑ Seating place. ↑ Name of a deity. ↑ The meaning of being suitable. ↑ After awaiting the end of one's allotted lifespan. ↑ To inspect. ↑ To report. ↑ One's allotted lifespan. ↑ Acting in place of. ↑ To be relieved after completing one's term. ↑ To kowtow. ↑ As if waking from a dream. ↑ A cry of pain. ↑ Decorative trappings for a horse. ↑ To ask. ↑ Now the provincial capital of Shaanxi. ↑ Frivolous. I see the glossary annotations you have provided, but the classical Chinese source text for Part 22 of 22 is missing from your message. 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