Chapter 5

Volume 2 Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume 3 — Author: Pu Songling Volume 4 → In the River Wang Shengyu was traveling southward and moored his boat in the middle of the river. After he had lain down, seeing the moonlight bright as white silk, he could not fall asleep, so he had his servant boy massage him. Suddenly he heard atop the boat a sound like a child walking — the reed mat rustling — coming from far off at the stern, gradually approaching the cabin door. Fearing it might be a bandit, he rose quickly and questioned the boy. The boy too had heard it. While they were still questioning each other, they saw a man crouching on the boat's roof, lowering his head to peer into the cabin. Greatly startled, he grasped his sword and called out to all his servants, and the whole boat awoke. He told them what he had seen. Some doubted it was real, but soon the sound came again. All rose and looked in every direction — there was not a person in sight, only scattered stars and a bright moon over the vast river waves. As they sat in the boat, they soon saw a green fire like a lantern suddenly emerge from the water's surface, floating and drifting with the current. As it neared the boat, the fire abruptly went out. Then a black figure rose up suddenly, standing firm upon the water, and came climbing along the boat, gripping it with its hands. The crowd shouted, "It must be this thing!" They were about to shoot it with arrows, but as they drew their bows, it at once plunged into the water and vanished from sight. They asked the boatman, and the boatman said, "This is an ancient battlefield; ghosts often appear here — there is nothing strange about it." The Magistrate's Daughter Zhang Yudan of Zhaoyuan was wild and unrestrained by nature. He was studying at a temple. At that time the county magistrate, Magistrate Lu, was a man from the Three Han. He had a daughter who loved hunting. Zhang happened to encounter her in the wilds and saw that her bearing was delicate and lovely; she wore a fine sable fur coat and rode a small black pony, graceful as a painted figure. After returning, he recalled her beauty and was filled with deep admiration. Later he heard that the girl had died suddenly, and he grieved with utter despair. Since Magistrate Lu's home was far away, he placed her spirit coffin in the temple — in the very place where Zhang was studying. Zhang honored her as if she were a deity: every morning he burned incense, and every meal he made an offering. Each time he poured out a libation, he would pray: "I saw but half your face, yet it has long haunted my dreams; I never expected that a jade-like beauty would so suddenly pass away. Now you are near at hand, yet as distant as mountains and rivers — how great my regret! But in life there are restraints; in death there are no taboos. If your spirit in the Nine Springs has awareness, may you come softly to console my longing." He prayed day and night for nearly half a month. One evening, as he trimmed his lamp and read by night, he suddenly raised his head — and there was the girl standing beneath the lamplight, smiling. Zhang rose in surprise and asked her. She said, "Moved by your feelings, I could not contain myself, and so I did not avoid the suspicion of an illicit tryst." Zhang was overjoyed, and they shared their pleasures together. From then on, there was not a night she did not come. She said to Zhang, "In life I loved archery and horseback riding, and took delight in shooting roe deer and killing deer — my sins are deep and heavy, so in death I have no place to rest. If you truly love me, I beg you to recite the Diamond Sutra for me in full a number of times, and I will remember it through life after life, never forgetting." Zhang respectfully accepted her instruction. Every night he rose, and she was already at his bedside. Zhang asked to carry her as he walked, and she smiled and agreed. Holding her was like carrying an infant — not heavy at all. So this became their custom. Even when he went for examinations, he took her with him. But they always traveled by night. When Zhang was about to go for the autumn provincial examination, she said, "Your fortune is thin — you would only wear yourself out in vain." So he heeded her words and stayed. After four or five years had passed, Magistrate Lu was dismissed from office. Too poor to transport his daughter's coffin, he was about to inter it in a shallow grave but bitterly lacked burial ground. Zhang then stepped forward and said, "I have a small plot of land near the temple; I am willing to bury the young lady there." Magistrate Lu was pleased. Zhang also exerted himself greatly to manage the burial. Lu was grateful to him, though he could not understand the reason. When Lu departed, the two of them continued their intimacy as usual. One night, she leaned against Zhang's bosom, her tears falling like beans, and said, "Five years of love — now we must part! The kindness and righteousness I have received from you cannot be repaid in many lifetimes!" Zhang asked in alarm what she meant. She said, "Thanks to your favor to one beneath the earth, the full number of sutra recitations has been completed. Now I am to be reborn into the household of Minister Lu of Hebei. If you do not forget today, fifteen years from now, on the sixteenth day of the eighth month, I beg you to come and meet me." Zhang wept and said, "I am already over thirty years old; in another fifteen years, I will be near my end — what use would a meeting be?" She too wept and said, "I would willingly serve you as a slave to repay you." After a moment she said, "See me off for six or seven li — the way ahead is full of thorns, and my robes are too long to cross them." She then put her arms around his neck. Zhang escorted her to the main road, where he saw a cluster of carriages and horses by the roadside — some with one rider, some with two; carriages with three, four, or even a dozen people; only one small carriage with embroidered tassels and a crimson canopy held a single old woman. When she saw the girl approaching, she called out, "You have come?" The girl answered, "I have come." She then turned to Zhang and said, "This is as far as it goes; go now — do not forget what I have said." Zhang promised. The girl walked up to the carriage, the old woman took her hand and helped her in, and urged the carriage to start at once; the carriages and horses rumbled off in a crowd. Zhang returned despondently and marked the date on the wall. Reflecting on the efficacy of the sutras and incantations, he recited and upheld them with even greater devotion. A spirit appeared to him in a dream and said, "Your intention is very good. But you must go to the Southern Sea." Zhang asked, "How far is the Southern Sea?" The spirit replied, "It is near — within the square inch of your own heart." Upon waking, he understood its meaning. With deep mindfulness of Bodhi, he cultivated himself with double the purity. Three years later, his second son Ming and his eldest son Zheng successively passed the highest imperial examinations. Though Zhang had suddenly risen in status, he did not abandon his good deeds. One night he dreamed that a person in blue garments invited him away. He saw someone seated in a palace, in the likeness of a Bodhisattva, who greeted him and said, "Your good deeds are commendable. It is a pity that your allotted years are short; fortunately, I have petitioned the Heavenly Emperor on your behalf." Zhang prostrated himself and knocked his head to the ground. He was called to rise and given a seat; he was served tea, whose fragrance was like that of orchids. The Bodhisattva then had a boy attendant lead him away to bathe in a pool. The pool water was clear and pure, with fish in plain view; it was warm to enter, and when scooped up it bore the scent of lotus leaves. After a while, as he gradually walked into deeper water, he lost his footing and sank, and as he waded further, the water went over his head. He woke in fright and found it strange. From then on, his body grew stronger and his eyesight sharper. When he stroked his own beard, all the white hairs fell out with a rustling sound; after more time, the black ones also fell. The wrinkles on his face gradually smoothed. After several months, his chin was bare and his face was youthful, like that of a boy of fifteen or sixteen. He also took to playful activities, just like a child. He became overly particular about his appearance; his two sons often tried to correct him. Before long, his wife died of old age and illness. His sons wished to find him a new wife from a prominent family. Zhang said, "Wait until I go to Hebei — I will marry after I return." Counting on his fingers, he saw that the appointed time was near, so he ordered his horse and carriage and went to the north of the River. He made inquiries and indeed found a Household Department official named Lu. Now this Lord Lu had earlier fathered a daughter who could speak from birth, and as she grew she became ever more intelligent and beautiful, and her parents doted on her most dearly. When noble families sent marriage proposals, the girl would always refuse them. They asked her in surprise, and she fully recounted her former life's engagement. They calculated the years together and laughed greatly, saying: "Silly girl! By our reckoning, young master Zhang must now be nearly fifty. People's circumstances change—his bones must have decayed long ago. Even if he still lives, his hair is thinning and his teeth are falling out." The girl would not listen. When her mother saw that her resolve would not waver, she consulted with Lord Lu and instructed the gatekeeper not to admit any visitors, so that when the appointed time passed, her hopes would be cut off. Before long, the young man arrived, but the gatekeeper barred his way. He withdrew and returned to his inn, despondent and resentful, with no plan in mind. He wandered idly through the outskirts and byways, and by following clues he secretly made inquiries about her. The girl, believing that the young man had broken his promise, wept and refused to eat. Her mother said: "If he does not come, he must surely have died. Even if that is not so, the fault of breaking the vow is not yours." The girl said nothing, but lay in bed all day long. Lord Lu, troubled by this, also wished to see what the young man was like. So he pretended to go out for a stroll and encountered the young man in the countryside. When he looked at him, he was a youth—he was astonished. He spread some branches on the ground and briefly conversed with him, finding him very free and elegant. The lord was pleased and invited him to his home. He was just about to make inquiries when Lord Lu abruptly rose, asked the guest to sit alone for a moment, and hurried inside to tell his daughter. The girl was delighted and forced herself to rise. But when she peeked and saw that his appearance did not match, she wept and returned to her room, blaming her father for deceiving her. Lord Lu earnestly insisted that this was indeed the man. The girl said nothing but only wept without stopping. The lord came out, feeling dejected and disheartened, and towards his guest he was utterly inattentive. The young man asked: "In your prefecture, is there anyone who serves as a Household Department official?" Lord Lu answered vaguely, turning his head away as if not concerned with the guest. The young man, sensing his coldness, took his leave and departed. The girl wept for several days and then died. That night, the young man dreamed that the girl came to him and said: "Was the one who came to call on me truly you? Your age and appearance are so different that when we met face to face, we were kept apart. I have died of grief and anger. Quickly go to the Earth God's shrine and summon my soul back, and I may live again. If you delay, it will be too late." When he awoke, he made haste to inquire at the Lu household and learned that the girl had indeed been dead for two days. Greatly grieved, he went in and offered condolences in her chamber. Then he told Lord Lu of his dream. Lord Lu followed his words and summoned the soul back. He opened her coverlet, stroked her corpse, and called out to her in prayer. Soon they heard a gurgling sound in her throat, and suddenly her vermilion lips parted slightly and she spat out a lump of phlegm like ice. They helped her onto a couch, and gradually she began to moan. Lord Lu was overjoyed, bowed his guest out, and arranged a banquet in his honor. When he learned in detail of his official rank and lineage, he realized he came from a great family and was all the more pleased. He chose an auspicious day and performed the wedding rites. After living there for half a month, the young man took his wife home. Lord Lu escorted them to their home and stayed for half a year before leaving. The couple lived together, exactly like a young pair. Those who did not know often mistook the daughter-in-law for the mother-in-law. Lord Lu died the following year. His youngest son was the most vulnerable and was slandered by powerful and violent men, so that the family property was nearly exhausted. The young man brought him to his own home and supported him, and thus he settled there. --- **The Taoist Priest** There was a young man named Han, from an old and distinguished family, who was fond of hosting guests. A certain Xu from the same village often came to drink at his table. On one occasion when a banquet was held, a Taoist priest came to the gate with his begging bowl. The servants gave him money and grain, but he accepted nothing, nor did he leave. The servants grew angry and went back inside, ignoring him. Han heard the knocking and tapping at the door continuing for a long time and inquired about it; the servants told him what had happened. Before they had finished speaking, the Taoist priest entered directly. Han invited him to sit. The Taoist raised his hand in greeting to the host and the guests, then sat down. After a brief exchange of questions, they learned that he had first taken up residence in a dilapidated temple east of the village. Han said: "When did you come to perch your crane in the Eastern Abbey? I had no knowledge of it—I have truly failed in my duties as a host." The priest replied: "I am a rustic newly arrived and have no acquaintances. I heard that you, sir, are a generous spender, and I deeply wished to come and beg a drink." Han ordered wine to be brought. The Taoist priest could drink prodigiously. Xu, seeing that his clothes were soiled and ragged, was rather supercilious and did not treat him with much courtesy. Han also received him as he would any ordinary traveler. The priest drank more than twenty cups, then took his leave. From then on, whenever there was a feast, the Taoist priest would appear. When there was food, he ate; when there was drink, he drank. Han gradually grew weary of his frequency. During one drinking bout, Xu mocked him, saying: "You, Reverend Sir, are a guest every day—why not play host for once?" The Taoist laughed and said: "The Taoist is the same as you gentlemen—he has only two shoulders and one mouth." Xu was left without a retort. The Taoist said: "That said, I have long cherished a sincere intention, and one day I shall certainly do my utmost to offer a cup of water in return." After they had drunk, he instructed them: "Tomorrow at noon, I pray you will honor me with your presence." The next day, they invited each other to go together, doubting that he would make any preparations. As they went along, the Taoist priest was already waiting for them on the road. Talking as they walked, they soon arrived at the temple gate. Once inside, they found the courtyard entirely renewed, with pavilions and galleries rising in layers like trailing clouds. Greatly astonished, they said: "We have not been here for a long time—when was this built?" The Taoist answered: "The work was just completed recently." When they entered the hall, the furnishings were splendid, beyond what even the wealthiest households possessed. The two men were filled with awe and respect. No sooner had they taken their seats than wine was served and dishes brought by comely lads of fifteen or sixteen, clad in embroidered robes and vermilion slippers. The wine and delicacies were fragrant and exquisite, and the abundance was lavish. After the meal, small refreshments were served. There were rare fruits, most of them unnameable, stored in vessels of crystal and jade, their light gleaming over tables and couches. Wine was poured into glass cups a full span in circumference. The Taoist said: "Summon the sisters Shi." The lad went and soon two beauties entered. One was tall and slender as a weak willow; the other was short and very young, yet both were enchantingly graceful. The Taoist bade them sing to accompany the wine. The younger one clapped her clappers and sang, while the elder accompanied her on the vertical flute, their voices clear and delicate. When the piece ended, the Taoist raised his cup and urged them to drink, then ordered that everyone be served in turn. He turned to the beauties and asked: "It has been long since you danced—can you still do it?" At that, servants spread a carpet beneath the banquet table, and the two girls danced opposite each other, their long sleeves brushing about and fragrant dust scattering in all directions. When the dance ended, they leaned languidly against the painted screen. The two guests were so transported that they became quite drunk without realizing it. The Taoist priest, paying no attention to his guests, raised his cup, drained it, rose, and said to them: "Pray help yourselves for a while; I shall rest briefly and return shortly." Then he left. Against the wall of the south chamber stood a bed inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the girls spread embroidered cushions upon it and helped the Taoist lie down. The Taoist then drew the taller one to share the bed with him and ordered the younger to stand by the bed and scratch his back. The two guests, seeing this, were quite indignant. Xu shouted loudly: "Taoist priest, this is improper!" and went over to interfere. The Taoist priest leaped up and fled. Seeing that the young girl still stood by the bed, Xu, in his drunkenness, pulled her onto the north couch and blatantly lay down with her in his arms. Looking at the beauty on the bed, still lying on the embroidered couch, he turned to Han and said: "Why are you so overly modest?" Han then went directly to the south couch, intending to dally with her, but the beauty was fast asleep and would not stir when he nudged her. So he took her in his arms and lay down with her. At dawn, both their drunkenness and dreams faded, and they felt something cold as ice in their arms. When they looked, they saw that each was embracing a long stone while lying on the blue stone steps. They hurriedly looked at Xu, who was still not awake; he was using a slab of excrement-covered stone as a pillow, sound asleep in a dilapidated latrine. They kicked him awake, and they were mutually horrified. Looking around, they saw only a courtyard overgrown with wild weeds and two broken-down huts. --- **The Hu Clan** In Zhili there was a great household that wished to engage a tutor. Suddenly a young scholar presented himself at the gate, recommending himself. The master of the house invited him in. His speech was clear and spirited, and they took a liking to each other. The scholar said his surname was Hu, and so the master accepted his pledge and installed him as tutor. Hu taught his lessons very diligently, and his learning was broad and deep, far beyond that of ordinary scholars. Yet he would often go out and not return until nightfall, and though the doors and windows remained tightly shut, he would already be inside the room without any knock being heard. They therefore suspected him of being a fox spirit. But observing that Hu's intentions were by no means ill, they treated him with great respect and did not let his strangeness lead them to neglect proper courtesy. Hu learned that the master had a daughter and sought a marriage alliance, repeatedly hinting at this, but the master pretended not to understand. One day, Hu excused himself and left. The next day, a visitor came to call, tethering a black donkey at the gate. The master welcomed him in. The visitor was over fifty, with clean and elegant clothing, and a very placid, refined bearing. Once seated, he introduced himself, and they learned that he had come as a matchmaker for Hu. The master was silent for a long time, then said: "My friendship with Mr. Hu is already of the deepest intimacy—why should we need marriage? Besides, my daughter has already been betrothed to another. Please convey my thanks to Mr. Hu." The visitor said: "I am quite certain that your daughter is still awaiting a proposal—why reject him so firmly?" He pressed the matter again and again, but the master would not consent. The visitor looked abashed and said: "The Hu are also a distinguished clan—how are they suddenly inferior to you, sir?" The master replied directly: "It is not that I have any other objection; I simply dislike their being of a different kind." When the visitor heard this, he grew angry; the master also grew angry, and their recriminations grew ever sharper. The visitor rose and seized the master. The master ordered his servants to beat him out with sticks, and the visitor fled. He left his donkey behind. Looking at it, its fur was black, with long ears and a long tail—a large creature. They pulled it but it would not move; they drove it, and it collapsed at the slightest touch, turning out to be nothing but a chirping grasshopper. The master, angered by his words, knew that they would surely become enemies, so he prepared against it. The next day, fox soldiers indeed arrived in great force: some on horseback, some on foot, some with halberds, some with crossbows; horses neighed and men clamored, the momentum formidable. The master dared not go out. The foxes loudly declared they would burn the house, and the master grew even more afraid. A brave man among them led the household out with a great shout, hurling stones and shooting arrows; the two sides clashed, and there were injuries on both sides. The foxes gradually weakened and scattered away in confusion. They left a knife on the ground, gleaming like frost and snow; when someone picked it up, it was a sorghum leaf. Everyone laughed and said, "Their skill ends here." Yet they feared they would return, so they prepared even more. The next day, as they were gathered talking, suddenly a giant descended from the sky: over ten feet tall, several feet wide across; he brandished a great knife like a door, chasing people and killing them. The crowd shot arrows and threw stones at him randomly; he stumbled and fell dead, but it was only a straw effigy. The crowd grew even more contemptuous. The foxes did not come for three days, and the crowd also slackened somewhat. Just as the master went to the privy, he suddenly saw fox soldiers arriving with bows drawn and arrows nocked, shooting wildly at him; arrows clustered on his buttocks. Terrified, he urgently shouted for the crowd to come and fight, and the foxes then left. He pulled out the arrows and looked at them—all were artemisia stalks. For over a month like this, they came and went erratically; though not greatly harmful, they had to be on guard every day, and the master was plagued by it. One day, Hu Sheng led his followers and arrived. The master went out in person; Hu Sheng saw him and hid among the crowd. The master called him; having no choice, he came out. The master said, "I consider that I have never been discourteous to you, sir; why do you raise troops against me?" The group of foxes wanted to shoot, but Hu Sheng stopped them. The master drew near, took his hand, and invited him into his former study, setting out wine to entertain him. Leisurely he said, "You are an enlightened man, sir, and should be understanding. Given our friendship, would I not be happy to form a marriage alliance? But your carriages, horses, and palaces are mostly unlike those of humans; if a weak daughter were to follow you, even you must know it would not be proper. Moreover, the proverb says: 'Fruit and melons plucked unripe are not agreeable to the mouth.' What do you seek in her?" Hu Sheng was deeply ashamed. The master said, "No harm—our old friendship remains. If you do not reject me for being worldly and base, I have a young son of the household, fifteen years old, who would be willing to present himself as your son-in-law. I wonder if you have a suitable match?" Hu Sheng was delighted and said, "I have a young sister, one year younger than your son, and she is not at all ugly or mean. To serve with broom and dustpan—how would that be?" The master rose and bowed; Hu Sheng returned the bow. So they exchanged toasts most merrily, and all former grievances were forgotten. Wine and refreshments were ordered and distributed to all the followers; high and low were comforted and pleased. Then he asked in detail where his dwelling was, so that he might send the betrothal geese. Hu Sheng declined. They continued with candles after dusk, and only after being happily drunk did he leave. From then on, they were at peace. After more than a year, Hu Sheng did not come. Some suspected his promise was false, but the master waited firmly. Another half year passed, and Hu Sheng suddenly arrived. After exchanging greetings, he said, "My sister has come of age. Please choose an auspicious day and send her to serve her parents-in-law." The master was delighted, and they set a date together, then he left. That night, indeed, a carriage and horsemen brought the bride. The trousseau was rich and abundant, filling the room nearly to overflowing. When the bride met her parents-in-law, she was gentle and lovely beyond the ordinary. The master was overjoyed. Hu Sheng and a younger brother came to see the bride off; their conversation was refined and elegant, and they were good drinkers. They left at dawn. The bride could also foretell good and bad harvests of the year, so all plans for livelihood were guided by her. Hu Sheng, his brothers, and old Mrs. Hu often came to visit the bride, and everyone saw them. **The Trick of the Bucket** There was a man who performed the bucket trick; his bucket could hold a sheng. It had no bottom and was hollow inside, like the usual street performance. The performer spread two mats on the street, took a sheng of grain and put it into the bucket; in a moment he took it out, and there was white rice filling the sheng, which he poured onto the mat; he took again and poured again, and in a short while both mats were full. Then he measured it all back in one by one, and when finished, lifted the bucket—it was still empty. The marvel lay in the abundance. Li Jiantian of Lijin, while strolling through the pottery yards in Yan Town, wanted to buy a large urn. He haggled with the potter over the price, could not agree, and left. That night, the more than sixty urns that had not yet been taken from the kiln were found empty when inspected. The potter was astounded, suspected Li, and went to his door to beg for them. Li pleaded ignorance. When he persistently begged, Li said, "I took them out of the kiln for you; not one urn was damaged. Are they not under the Kui Xing Tower?" They went as he said and looked, and indeed every one was there. The tower was on the southern hill of the town, over three li from the kiln. Hired laborers carried them back, and it took three days to finish. **The Beggar Monk** There was a monk in Jinan, of unknown origin. Barefoot and clad in a patched robe, he daily went to the various inns at Furong and Minghu, chanting sutras and begging. When offered wine, food, money, or grain, he would not accept; when asked what he needed, he would not answer. All day he was never seen eating. Some advised him, "Master, since you eat neither meat nor wine, you should beg in remote villages and byways—why do you daily come and go in these crowded, rank places?" The monk closed his eyes and recited, his eyelashes over an inch long, as if not hearing. After a moment, they spoke to him again. The monk suddenly opened his eyes and said sharply, "I must beg in this way!" And he went on reciting without cease. After a long while, he got up and left. Someone followed behind, insistently asking why he must do so, but he walked on without answering. After being asked several times more, he again said sharply, "It is not for you to know! This old monk must beg in this way!" After several months, he suddenly went out of the south city and lay by the roadside as if dead, not moving for three days. The townspeople, fearing he would starve to death and bring trouble to the suburbs, gathered to urge him to move elsewhere; they offered him food if he wanted food, money if he wanted money. The monk lay with closed eyes, unmoving. They shook him and spoke to him. The monk grew angry, pulled a short knife from his robe, cut open his own belly, reached in with his hand, laid out his intestines on the road, and then his breath ceased. The crowd, alarmed, reported it to the prefecture, and he was buried in a straw mat. Later, dogs burrowed into the grave and the mat was exposed. When stepped on, it felt empty; when opened, the mat was sealed as before, like an empty cocoon. **Subduing the Fox** A certain Grand Historian was afflicted by a fox spirit and became emaciated from illness. Having exhausted all talismanic remedies, he begged for leave to return home, hoping to escape. The Grand Historian set out, but the fox followed him. Greatly frightened, he could think of no plan. One day, he stopped at Zhuo. Outside the gate was a traveling doctor who claimed he could subdue foxes. The Grand Historian invited him in. He administered a medicine, which was a sexual technique. He urged him to take it, then go and couple with the fox; his vigor was irresistible. The fox retreated, wailed, and begged to stop; he would not heed, and pressed on even more fiercely. The fox twisted and turned trying to escape, bitterly unable to get free. After a while, there was no sound; when he looked, it had assumed its fox form and was dead. Formerly, there was a certain scholar in my village who was reputed to be extraordinarily potent, and claimed he had never in his life had a truly satisfying encounter. One night he lodged in a lonely inn with no neighbors around. Suddenly a woman came running; the door had not been opened but she entered. He knew in his heart she was a fox, but he gladly and willingly entertained her. He had barely undone his robe when he penetrated straight through. The fox, startled and pained, let out a shrill squeak, like a hawk slipping its tether, and shot out through the window. The scholar still called out to the window with amorous words, piteously calling her back, hoping she would return, but all was silent. Truly, this was a fierce general for hunting foxes! He should hang up a sign "Fox Expeller" and make it his profession. **The Hibernating Dragon** Mr. Qu Yintai of Yuling was reading in his upper story. It was a dark and overcast rainy day when he saw a small creature, with a light like a firefly, wriggling along. Where it passed, it left black marks like snail trails. Gradually it coiled up onto a scroll, and the scroll also became scorched. He thought it was a dragon, so he held the scroll and carried it out. At the door, he stood holding it for a long time, but the curled creature did not move at all. The master said, "Could it be that you think I am not respectful?" He took the scroll back, returned it to the table, put on his cap and sash, and made a deep bow to see it off. Just as he reached the eaves, he saw it suddenly raise its head and stretch out, flying off the scroll with a whoosh, a thread of light; a few paces away, it turned its head toward him, and its head was larger than a wine vat, and its body dozens of spans around; then it bent back again, and with a thunderous crash, it soared into the clouds and vanished. Looking back at the place it had passed, it had emerged in a winding path from the bookcase. **Su Xian** When Gao Gongming was appointed governor of Chenzhou, there was a commoner's daughter surnamed Su who washed clothes in the river. In the river there was a great stone, and the woman sat upon it. A strand of moss, green and slippery and lovely, floated on the water and rippled, circling the stone three times. The woman watched it and felt her heart stir. After she returned home she became pregnant, and her belly gradually swelled. Her mother privately questioned her, and the woman told her what had happened. Her mother could not understand it. After several months, she actually gave birth to a son. She wanted to abandon him in a narrow alley, but the woman could not bear it. She hid him in a cabinet and raised him. Thereupon she vowed never to marry, to show that she would not take a second husband. Yet to be with child without a husband she still considered shameful. When the boy reached seven years, he had never been brought out for people to see. The boy suddenly said to his mother: "I am growing up—how can I remain confined forever? Let me go, and I will not be a burden to you." She asked where he was going. He said: "I am not of human stock; I am about to soar through the clouds and mount the ravines." The woman wept and asked when he would return. He answered: "Not until mother's last breath shall I come back. After I leave, if you ever need anything, you may open the cabinet where you hid me and seek from it, and you will surely get what you wish." Having said this, he bowed to his mother and departed. She went out and gazed after him, but he had already vanished. The woman told her mother, and her mother was greatly astonished. The woman held firmly to her original resolve, relying on her mother, but their household fell ever lower. Once, when morning provisions were lacking, she looked up at the roof with no plan. Suddenly she remembered her son's words, went and opened the cabinet, and indeed found rice, by which she was able to light the fire. From then on, whenever she sought something, she was answered. After three years, her mother fell ill and died; all the funeral goods were supplied from the cabinet. After the burial, the woman lived alone for thirty years, never once peering outside her door. One day, a neighbor woman who came to borrow fire saw her sitting upright alone in her empty chamber; they talked for a while before she left. Before long, suddenly a rainbow-colored cloud was seen circling the woman's dwelling, spreading out like a canopy, and within it stood a person in splendid robes. When they looked closely, it was the Su woman herself. She wheeled about for a long time, then gradually rose high and disappeared. The neighbors all wondered at this. They peered into her chamber and saw the woman sitting still in elegant dress and cosmetics, but her breath had already ceased. Since she had no family to claim her, they discussed burying her. Suddenly a young man entered, handsome and imposing, and thanked them all. The neighbors had also secretly known that the woman had a son, so they did not suspect anything. The young man produced gold to bury his mother, planted two peach trees by the grave, and then took his leave. A few steps away, clouds rose beneath his feet, and he could no longer be seen. Later the peaches bore fruit, sweet and fragrant, and the local people called them "Su Immortal Peaches." The trees flourished year after year and never withered. Officials stationed there would often take the fruit to present to friends and relatives. Li Boyan A certain scholar named Li Boyan, a man of Yishui, was upright and courageous, with a bold spirit. He suddenly fell violently ill. When his family brought him medicine, he refused it, saying: "My illness cannot be cured by drugs. The King of Hell in the underworld is vacant, and they wish me to temporarily fill that office. Do not bury me when I die; you should wait." That day he indeed died. Riders and attendants led him away, and he entered a palace where they presented him with coronet and robes; the clerks and attendants stood in solemn deference. On the desk, documents were piled in confusion. In one case, a man from south of the Yangtze was investigated for having seduced eighty-two respectable women in his lifetime. He was interrogated, and the evidence was not false. According to the underworld law, he should be subjected to branding. Below the hall stood a bronze pillar, eight or nine feet high and as thick as one man's embrace; it was hollow inside and filled with blazing charcoal, so that inside and out it glowed red. The ghosts drove him up with iron caltrops, and he moved his hands and feet to climb it. Just as he reached the top, smoke and flame burst forth with a sound like a firecracker, and the man fell; he curled up for a while before reviving. They flogged him again, and he burst and fell as before. After the third fall, he dissolved into smoke upon the ground and scattered, unable to take form again. Another case involved a fellow townsman named Wang, who was sued by the father of a maidservant for having stolen and kept his daughter. Wang was a relative by marriage of Li. Earlier, a man had sold a maidservant, and Wang knew the source was improper, but because the price was cheap, he purchased her. Now Wang suddenly died. The next day, his friend Mr. Zhou encountered him on the road, and knowing he was a ghost, fled into his study. Wang followed him in. Zhou, terrified, prayed and asked what he wanted. Wang said: "I merely ask you to bear witness for me in the underworld." Zhou asked in alarm: "About what?" Wang said: "I truly bought that maidservant for money; now I have been falsely accused. You witnessed this matter with your own eyes—I only ask for a word from you, as Zilu would give, and nothing else." Zhou firmly refused. Wang left, saying: "I fear it may not be up to you." Before long, Zhou indeed died and both went together to the underworld for cross-examination. When Li saw Wang, he secretly inclined to favor him. Suddenly he saw fire break out in the hall, flames licking the beams. Li was greatly terrified and stood on tiptoe. A clerk quickly said: "The underworld is not like the human world; the least selfish thought cannot be tolerated. Quickly banish that thought, and the fire will go out." Li composed his spirit and stilled his mind, and the fire immediately died. Then the interrogation was concluded, and Wang and the maidservant's father wrangled back and forth. They questioned Zhou, and Zhou told the truth. Wang was sentenced to flogging for having knowingly transgressed. After the flogging, they were all sent back to life. Zhou and Wang both revived after three days. When Li had finished his duties, he returned by carriage. On the way he saw several hundred ghosts missing heads and feet, lying on the ground and wailing. He stopped his carriage and questioned them; they were ghosts from other places who wished to return to their native soil but feared the passes would bar them, and begged for a travel pass. Li said: "I have only held this post for three days, and I am already relieved of office. What power have I?" They all said: "There is a Mr. Hu in the southern village who will conduct a Daoist rite—if you would convey our request, it can be accomplished." Li promised them. When he reached home, all his attendants departed, and Li revived. Hu, whose style name was Shuixin, was close to Li. Hearing that Li had come back to life, he went to visit him. Li immediately asked: "When will you hold the purification rite?" Hu said in surprise: "After the war, my family survived intact, and I made this vow with my wife, but I never told a single soul. How did you know?" Li told him everything. Hu sighed: "A single word in the women's chambers is thus spread to the underworld—how fearsome!" Then he respectfully agreed and left. The next day, Li went to Wang's house; Wang was still lying exhausted. Seeing Li, he respectfully rose and thanked him for his protection. Li said: "The law cannot be bent. Are you well now?" Wang said: "I have no other symptoms, but the welts from the flogging have festered." He recovered only after more than twenty days. The flesh of his buttocks had rotted away, and the scars remained like those from a staff. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "The punishments in the underworld are more cruel than those in the mortal world, and the judgments are also harsher. Yet because no influence-peddling can prevail, those who suffer cruelty bear no resentment. Who says that the night-realm has no sun or sky? I only regret that there is no fire to burn down the courtrooms of those who govern the living!" Huang Jiulang He Shican, styled Zixiao, had his study east of the Tiaoxi River, with his gate facing an open field. At dusk he happened to step out and saw a woman riding a donkey, with a youth following behind her. The woman was about fifty, with a refined and clear bearing. Turning to look at the youth, he was about fifteen or sixteen, with a charm that surpassed any beauty. He had always had a taste for male companions, and at the sight his spirit left his body; he craned his neck and gazed until their figures vanished before returning inside. The next day he waited for them early. As the sun set dimly, the youth finally passed by. He fawned on him, smiling and asking where he was coming from. The youth replied, "From my grandmother's house." He invited the youth to rest briefly in his study, but he declined, saying he had no time; but he persisted in pulling him in, and so he entered. After sitting a little while he rose to take leave, and could not be persuaded to stay. He took the youth by the hand to see him off, earnestly urging him to stop by whenever he passed that way. The youth assented and left. From then on he pined in longing, pacing and gazing, his feet never still. One day, when the sun was half a circle in the sky, the youth suddenly arrived. Overjoyed, he invited him in and ordered the studio boy to serve wine. He asked his surname and given name; he replied, "My surname is Huang, and I am the ninth. As a youth, I have no style name." He asked, "Why do you come so often?" He replied, "My mother is at my maternal grandmother's house and is often ill, so I visit her frequently." After several rounds of wine, he wished to take his leave. The scholar seized his arm and detained him, locking the door. Ninth Lad had no recourse; his face flushed red and he sat down again. They lit the lamp and talked together; he was as gentle as a virgin; but when the conversation touched on levity, he would become shy and turn his face to the wall. Before long, he led him to share the same quilt. Ninth Lad would not permit it, firmly pleading that he slept poorly. After being pressed again and again, he took off his upper and lower garments, wearing only trousers, and lay down on the bed. He extinguished the candle, and after a moment, moved to share the same pillow, bent his arm over and embraced him lewdly, urgently begging for intimate relations. Ninth Lad angrily said, "Because I took you for a refined gentleman, I lingered with you; but to do this—it is to dwell like beasts and love like animals!" Before long, the morning stars glimmered, and Ninth Lad went straight away. The scholar feared he would break off entirely, and again lay in wait for him, pacing and gazing fixedly until his eyes pierced the Northern Dipper. After several days, Ninth Lad finally arrived. Delighted, he went to meet him and apologized; he forcibly dragged him into the study, pressed close, laughed and chatted, secretly relieved that he did not hold a grudge. Before long, he removed his shoes and climbed onto the bed, again caressing and pleading. Ninth Lad said, "Your affectionate intent has already been engraved in my heart, but why must intimacy be in this manner?" The scholar coaxed him with sweet words, only begging to touch his jade-like skin. Ninth Lad yielded. The scholar waited until he fell asleep, then stealthily made advances. Ninth Lad awoke, gathered his clothes, rose abruptly, and fled in the night. The scholar was dejected, as if he had lost something, forgetting to eat and forsaking sleep, gradually growing haggard. He only had the studio boy keep watch day and night. One day, Ninth Lad passed the gate and was about to go straight on. The boy tugged at his clothes and brought him in. Seeing the scholar gaunt and thin, he was greatly startled and offered condolences. The scholar told him the truth, tears streaming down with his words. Ninth Lad said softly, "My humble intention was truly that loving you would not benefit me, but would harm you, so I refrained. Since you take pleasure in it, what would I begrudge?" The scholar was greatly pleased. After Ninth Lad left, his illness suddenly lessened, and in a few days he recovered. Ninth Lad indeed came, and they were intimately entwined. He said, "Now I reluctantly comply with your wishes; I hope you will not make this a regular thing." Then he added, "I have something to ask; would you be willing to exert yourself for me?" When asked, he replied, "My mother suffers from heart pain; only the Xiantian Dan of the imperial physician Qi Yewang can cure it. You are on good terms with him; you should be able to obtain it." The scholar agreed. As he left, he again entreated him. The scholar went into the city to seek the medicine and gave it to him at dusk. Ninth Lad was delighted and thanked him with clasped hands. Again he pressed him for union. Ninth Lad said, "Do not pester me; I will carefully procure for you a beautiful woman, a million times better than me." The scholar asked who. Ninth Lad said, "I have a younger cousin, peerlessly beautiful. If you would deign to incline your heart, I will act as matchmaker." The scholar smiled and did not reply. Ninth Lad took the medicine and left. He came back after three days and asked for more medicine. The scholar resented his lateness and reproached him harshly. Ninth Lad said, "I originally could not bear to bring disaster upon you, so I kept distant; since you will not forgive me, do not regret it." From then on they had trysts every night without fail. Every three days he would beg for medicine. Qi found it strange that he came so often and said, "This medicine has never been taken more than three doses; why has it not healed for so long?" So he wrapped up three doses and gave them all to him. He also looked at the scholar and said, "Your complexion is dull; are you ill?" He said, "No." Taking his pulse, he exclaimed in surprise, "You have a ghostly pulse; the illness is in the Shaoyin channel. If you are not careful, you are in danger!" He returned and told Ninth Lad. Ninth Lad sighed and said, "A good physician! I am indeed a fox; if it continues long, it will not be a blessing for you." The scholar suspected he was deceiving him, so he hid the medicine and did not give all of it, fearing he would not come. Before long, he indeed fell ill. He summoned Qi for diagnosis and treatment. Qi said, "Previously you did not tell the truth; now your ethereal soul is already wandering among the wilds—even Qin Huan could do nothing." Ninth Lad came daily to attend to him and said, "You did not listen to my words, and indeed it has come to this!" The scholar soon died. Ninth Lad wept bitterly and left. Before this, there was in the county a certain Grand Historian who had studied with the scholar in youth; at seventeen he was selected for the Hanlin Academy. At that time, the Prince of Qin was rapacious and cruel, and he bribed the court officials, so none spoke out. The Grand Historian submitted a memorial impeaching his misdeeds and was dismissed for overstepping his office. The Prince was promoted to the Censor-in-Chief of the province and daily watched for the Grand Historian's failings. The Grand Historian had a reputation for brilliance in his youth and had once been favored by a rebellious prince, so the Prince procured old correspondence between them and threatened him. The Grand Historian, in fear, hanged himself. His wife also hanged herself. The Grand Historian, after a night, suddenly revived and said, "I am He Zixiao." When questioned, everything he said pertained to the He family, so they realized he had borrowed the body and returned his soul. They tried to detain him but could not; he fled to his old house. The Censor-in-Chief, suspecting fraud, was determined to ruin him and sent men to demand a thousand pieces of gold from him. He pretended to agree, but was deeply worried and desperate. Suddenly, news came that Ninth Lad had arrived; he was overjoyed and they talked together, mixing grief and joy. He then wished to be intimate again. Ninth Lad said, "Do you have three lives?" He said, "I regret that living is toil; it is better to die in peace." Ninth Lad pondered thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, "Fortunately we are reunited in life. You are single and without a mate; the cousin I mentioned before is intelligent, beautiful, and resourceful—she will surely share your worries." He wished to see her appearance. He said, "It is not difficult. Tomorrow I will accompany my mother on a visit; this road is the way. You pretend to be my elder brother; I will feign thirst and ask for a drink. If you say, 'The donkey has run away,' that means yes." Having planned this, they parted. The next day at noon, Ninth Lad indeed passed by the gate with the young lady. He greeted her with clasped hands and chatted at length. Glancing at the young lady, her eyebrows were delicate and her features elegant—truly a celestial being. Ninth Lad asked for tea, and he invited them in to drink. Ninth Lad said, "Third Sister, do not be alarmed; this brother is a sworn friend; it is all right to rest a while." He helped her down, tied the donkey at the gate, and entered. He personally rose to brew tea and offer it. He then looked at Ninth Lad and said, "Your previous words did not fully describe her; now I have found the place to die for her." The young lady seemed to realize that his words referred to her; she rose from the couch, stood up, and said in a soft, murmuring voice, "Let us go!" He looked outside and said, "The donkey has run away!" Ninth Lad rushed out in a flurry, and he embraced the young lady, seeking union. Her face turned purple with shame; she was as distressed as a prisoner and called out loudly for Ninth Brother, but there was no answer. She said, "You have a wife of your own—why destroy another's sense of honor?" He confessed he had no wife, and she said, "If you can swear by the mountains and rivers that you will not cast me aside like an autumn fan, then I will obey your commands." He then swore an oath by the bright sun. She no longer resisted. After it was done, Ninth Lad arrived. The young lady, flushed with anger, reproached him. Ninth Lad said, "This is He Zixiao, a famous scholar of old and now a Grand Historian. He is on the best of terms with me, and he is a reliable man. Even if my aunt hears of it, she should not take offense." As dusk fell, he blocked her way and would not let her go. The young lady feared her aunt would be alarmed. Ninth Lad boldly took responsibility, mounted the donkey, and went straight off. After a few days, a woman with a maid passed by, about forty years old; her bearing and manner were elegant, much like the Third Lady. He called the young lady out to peek, and it was indeed her mother. She caught sight of her daughter and asked in surprise, "Why are you here?" The young lady, ashamed, could not answer. He invited her in, bowed, and told her everything. The mother laughed and said, "Ninth Lad is so childish—why did he not consult me again?" The young lady herself went into the kitchen, prepared food, and served her mother; after eating, she left. The gentleman obtained a fair mate and was quite pleased with his hopes fulfilled; yet evil thoughts lingered in his heart, and he constantly wore a worried frown. The lady asked him why, and he recounted the whole matter from beginning to end. The lady laughed and said, "This is something that Ninth Brother alone can resolve; why should you worry?" The gentleman asked the reason. She said, "I hear that the Governor is addicted to music and singing and fond of catamites; these are all Ninth Brother's special skills. If you offer him what he likes, your grievance may be dispelled and your revenge may also be accomplished." The gentleman feared that Jiu Lang would not consent. The lady said, "Only beg him earnestly." The next day, when the gentleman saw Jiu Lang coming, he crawled on his elbows to meet him. Jiu Lang startled, said, "With our friendship spanning two lives, I would willingly devote myself, not sparing even my heels or crown. Why do you suddenly adopt this posture toward me?" The gentleman told him the whole plan. Jiu Lang showed reluctance. The lady said, "I lost my virtue to you—who was really responsible? If he should perish midway, where would that leave me?" Jiu Lang had no choice but to agree. The gentleman secretly plotted with him, sent a swift letter to his friend Wang the Historiographer, and delivered Jiu Lang to him. Wang understood his intent, held a great feast, and invited the Governor to drink. He ordered Jiu Lang to dress as a young woman and perform the Heavenly Demon Dance, looking exactly like a beautiful maiden. The Governor was entranced and urgently asked Wang to sell Jiu Lang to him for a large sum, fearing only that he might not succeed. Wang deliberately pondered to make it difficult. After a long delay, he finally presented the gentleman's offer. The Governor was delighted, and his previous enmity was instantly dispelled. From the time he obtained Jiu Lang, he would not be separated from him even in movement or rest; his more than ten concubines he regarded as dust. Jiu Lang's food and drink and furnishings were like those of a prince; he was given tens of thousands in gold. After half a year, the Governor fell ill. Jiu Lang knew that his road to the underworld was near, so he loaded up gold and silk, pretending to return to the gentleman's home. Soon after, the Governor died. Jiu Lang used his wealth to build houses, procure utensils, keep maids and servants, and the mother, son, and aunt all made their home there. When Jiu Lang went out, his carriage and horses were very splendid, and no one knew he was a fox. I have a "humorous judgment," and I record it here: Men and women cohabiting is the great bond of husband and wife; the interflow of moisture and dryness is the proper orifice of yin and yang. Greeting the wind and awaiting the moon may yet incur censure for licentiousness; cutting sleeves and sharing peaches cannot escape the stench of shame. Only a strong man dares to open the bird-path; if the cave is not Peach Blossom Spring, would a fishing pole permit one to enter by mistake? Now this man goes downstream and forgets to return, abandoning the straight path and not following it. Before clouds and rain have risen, he already puts his hands up and down; with yin and yang reversed, they actually collude inside and out. The Flowery Pond is placed in a useless region, falsely claiming the old monk sits in meditation; the Barbarian Cave is a barren land, thus making the one-eyed general brandish his spear. Tethering the Red Hare at the camp gate, as if about to shoot the halberd; probing for the great bow in the state treasury, directly wishing to break through the pass. Or perhaps it is the yellow eel within the granary, seeking an old friend from last night; clearly it is the Wang family's red plums, demanding a diamond in return in the next life. When the troops suddenly come from the Black Pine Forest, they may be at peace with that; but if the tidal waters suddenly arrive at Yellow Dragon Prefecture, how will they defend against it? One should cut off the root of their boring and pricking, and also block the path of their coming and going. The Woman of Jinling A resident of Yishui named Zhao, for some reason returning from the city, saw a woman in white weeping by the roadside, very sorrowfully. He glanced at her; she was beautiful. Delighted, he stared fixedly and would not leave. The woman wept and said, "Good sir, you do not walk the road but look at me!" Zhao said, "Because in this desolate wilderness there is no one, and you weep so bitterly, it truly grieves my heart." The woman said, "My husband is dead and I have nowhere to go, hence my grief." Zhao urged her to choose another good match. She said, "A lone body like this—how can I choose? If I find someone to rely on, I could even be a concubine." Zhao gladly offered himself, and the woman agreed. Since Zhao's home was far, he was about to find some means of transport. The woman said, "No need." She then went ahead, floating as if flying like an immortal. When they reached home, she worked very diligently at drawing water and pounding grain. After more than two years, she said to Zhao, "I am grateful for your attachment; I have unworthily followed you, and suddenly three years have passed. Now I should leave for a while." Zhao said, "You said before you had no home—where are you going now?" She said, "I was speaking casually at that time. How could I have no home? My father sells medicines in Jinling. If you wish to meet again, you may carry medicines there, which can also help your traveling expenses." Zhao made arrangements and hired a carriage and horses for her. She declined, went out the door and went straight off; he could not catch up, and in an instant she was gone. After a long time, he was quite stirred by thoughts of her, so he bought medicines and went to Jinling. He lodged his goods in an inn and inquired about her in the streets and markets. Suddenly an old man in a medicine shop saw him and said, "My son-in-law has come!" He invited him in. The woman was washing clothes in the courtyard; when she saw him she neither spoke nor smiled, and did not stop washing. Zhao, feeling aggrieved, went out abruptly. The old man again pulled him back. The woman still ignored him as before. The old man ordered refreshments and a meal to be prepared, and planned to give him generous gifts, but the woman stopped him, saying, "He has little fortune; he could not bear much. You should give him some small comfort for his hardships, and then select a dozen or so medical prescriptions for him, and he will have enough to live on." The old man asked about the medicines he had brought, and the woman said, "They have already been sold; the money is here." The old man then produced the prescriptions and gave him the money, and saw Zhao off home. When he tried the prescriptions, they had remarkable effects. There are still people in Yishui who know those prescriptions. Using a garlic mortar to catch rain water from the eaves of a thatched hut and washing warts and excrescences with it—that is one of the prescriptions, and it works well. Tang Gong Tang Gong named Pin, a jinshi of the Xinchou year, was ill and near death. Suddenly he felt a warm vapor rise from his lower body, gradually moving upward: when it reached his thighs, his feet died; when it reached his abdomen, his thighs died; when it reached his heart, the death of the heart was the most difficult. All the events from childhood down to trivial long-forgotten things surged one by one with his heart's blood. If it was a good deed, his mind felt pure and tranquil; if it was an evil deed, he felt vexed and restless, as if oil were boiling in a cauldron—the unbearable state could not be described by words. He still remembered that at seven or eight years old he had once taken a nestling and killed it; just this one deed made hot blood surge in his heart for the space of a meal before it passed. Only after all the deeds of his life had surged through one by one did he feel the warm vapor thread by thread pierce his throat and enter his brain, emerging through the crown of his head and rising like steam. After more than several double-hours, his soul left its aperture and forgot its bodily shell. Then, vague and without destination, he drifted along the roads of the countryside. A giant came, nearly eight feet tall, picked him up and put him into his sleeve. Inside the sleeve, shoulders pressed upon hips and there were many people packed together, causing such stifling distress that it was almost unbearable. Tang suddenly thought that only the Buddha could relieve his suffering, so he recited the Buddha's name. After only three or four recitations, he floated and fell out of the sleeve. The giant put him back in again. After three insertions and three falls, the giant left him. Tang stood alone, wandering hesitantly, not knowing where it was best to go. Remembering that the Buddha was in the Western Land, he went west. Before long, he saw a monk sitting in meditation by the roadside; he hurried to him, bowed, and asked the way. The monk said, "The registers of life and death for scholars are kept by Wenchang and Confucius; you must have your name erased at both places before you can go elsewhere." Tang asked where they lived, and the monk showed him the way; he hastened there. Soon he arrived at the Temple of Confucius and saw the Sage facing south. He prayed as before. The Sage said, "For the removal of your name from the register, you must still see the Lord Emperor." He then pointed out the way. Tang hurried there again. He saw a palace hall like that of a king. Bending down, he entered, and indeed there was a deity in the likeness of the Lord Emperor as commonly depicted. He prostrated himself and prayed. The Lord Emperor examined the register and said, "Your heart is sincere and upright; you ought to have a chance to return to life. But your mortal casing has rotted; without the Bodhisattva no one can help." He then directed him to go there quickly. Tang followed his instructions. Soon he saw a lush grove of tall bamboos and splendid halls. Entering, he saw a coiled topknot, solemn and majestic, a golden face like the full moon; a vase with willow branches in water, emerald green and trailing like smoke. Tang reverently bowed his head and prostrated himself, relating the Lord Emperor's words. The Bodhisattva hesitated. Tang continued to pray piteously. A venerable one beside them said, "If the Bodhisattva exercises great supernatural power, a pinch of earth can become flesh, and a broken willow branch can become bone." The Bodhisattva then granted the request, broke a willow branch with his hand, poured out water from the vase, mixed pure earth into mud, and patted it onto Tang's body. He then had a boy attendant take it to the place of his corpse, push it in and join it. The coffin gave a groan and a movement, and suddenly the illness was cured. The family gathered in alarm and helped him out; by calculation, he had been dead for seven times seven days. (There is a translation by Giles: Raising the Dead) Yanluo Li Zhizhong, a scholar of Laiwu, was of an upright and honest nature, not given to flattery. Every few days, he would die, lying stiff as a corpse, and only revive after three or four days. When asked what he had seen, he would keep it secret and not reveal. At that time, there was a scholar named Zhang in the same county, who also died every few days. He told people: "Li Zhizhong is King Yanluo. When I go to the netherworld, I am also one of his subordinate officials." He could recite the couplets on the gates and halls of that place. Someone asked: "What business did Li have in the netherworld yesterday?" Zhang said: "I cannot give a full account. Only that he summoned Cao Cao for interrogation and gave him twenty strokes of the bamboo." Yi Shi Shi said: "In the case of A-Man, I think it has passed through several dozen Yanluos. The ways of beasts, the mountain of swords—all kinds of punishments are there; what crime he deserves need not be fetched from elsewhere—yet why has it not been decided for thousands of years? Could it be that a criminal awaiting execution prefers a quick cut, so they make him seek death but cannot obtain it? Strange indeed!" Lian Suo Yang Yuwai moved to dwell by the banks of the Si River. His study faced open wilderness, beyond the wall many ancient tombs. At night he heard the white poplars rustling, their sound like surging waves. Late at night, as he lit his candle, he was again overcome with desolation. Suddenly someone beyond the wall intoned: "In the dark night the chilly wind blows backward, fireflies stir the grass and again brush the curtain." The chanting repeated over and over, its voice mournful and piercing. Listening, it was slender and gentle, like a woman's. He wondered. The next day, he looked beyond the wall and saw no trace of anyone. Only a purple sash was found abandoned among the brambles; he picked it up and placed it on his window. Toward the second watch of the night, the chanting resumed as before. Yang moved a stool to mount the wall and look, whereupon the chanting abruptly stopped. He realized it was a ghost, yet his heart yearned for her. The following night, he crouched and waited by the wall. As the first watch was about to end, a woman came rustling out from the grass, supporting herself on a small tree, her head bowed in mournful chant. Yang gave a slight cough, and the woman suddenly vanished into the wild grass. From then on, Yang waited beneath the wall, and after listening to her finish her chant, he continued from the other side of the wall: "Who sees these hidden feelings and bitter sorrows? On the moonlit hour, green sleeves thin and cold." After a long while, all was silent. Yang then entered his room. Just as he sat down, suddenly a beautiful woman came in from outside, made a curtsey, and said: "You are indeed a refined and cultivated gentleman, but I have been overly timid and evasive." Yang was delighted and drew her to sit beside him. She was slender, fragile, and chill to the touch, as if she could barely bear her clothes. He asked: "Where are you from, and why have you long lodged here?" She replied: "I am from Longxi; I followed my father in his wanderings. At seventeen I died suddenly of illness, and now more than twenty years have passed. In the wilderness of the Nine Springs, I am lonely as a wild duck. The lines I chant were composed by myself, to express my hidden anguish. I had long been unable to finish them; thanks to your kind continuation, joy has sprung up even in the underworld." Yang wished to be intimate with her. She frowned and said: "The bones of the night terraces are not like those of the living; if we have secret pleasures, it will shorten your lifespan. I cannot bear to bring calamity upon you, my gentleman." Yang then desisted. Playfully he reached his hand to her breast, and found that the flesh like a chicken's head was still that of a maiden. He also wished to see her slippers beneath her skirt. She lowered her head and laughed: "You reckless scholar are too importunate!" Yang toyed with them, and saw that on her moon-colored brocade stockings a strand of colored thread was tied. Looking at the other, he saw it was bound with a purple sash. He asked: "Why are they not both tied with sashes?" She said: "Last night I fled from you in fear, and I do not know where I lost the other." Yang said: "I will change it for you." He then took the sash from the window and gave it to her. She asked in surprise where it had come from, and he told her the truth. She then removed the thread and tied the sash. Turning over the books on his desk, she suddenly saw the "Lianchang Palace Ci" and sighed: "In my lifetime I loved reading this the most; now looking at it, it is like a dream!" When he discussed poetry and prose with her, she was clever and endearing. Trimming the candle by the western window, it was as if he had gained a good friend. Thereafter every night, as soon as he heard the faint chant, she would shortly arrive. She would always admonish: "Keep it secret and do not tell others. I was timid when young, and fear that evil guests might intrude upon me." Yang promised. The two were happy as fish in water; though they did not go to excess, yet within the inner chamber, there was truly more than the painting of eyebrows. She would often write for Yang by lamplight, her calligraphy graceful and charming. She also selected a hundred palace poems, copied them, and recited them. She had Yang prepare a go board and buy a pipa. Every night she taught Yang to play go, or else plucked the strings. She played the tune "Rain on the Banana Window at Dusk," which pierced the heart; Yang could not bear to hear it to the end, so she played "Morning Orioles in the Garden," and at once he felt his spirits lifted and his heart eased. They amused themselves by lamplight, and their joy often made them forget the dawn. When she saw the light of daybreak at the window, she would rush away in a fluster. One day, Xue came to visit, finding Yang asleep during the day. Looking at his room, he saw the pipa and go board both present, and knew they were not things Yang was skilled in. He also turned over the books and found the palace poems; seeing the fine calligraphy, his suspicions deepened. When Yang woke, Xue asked: "Where did these playthings come from?" He answered: "I wish to learn them." He further questioned about the poetry volume, and Yang excused it as borrowed from a friend. Xue examined it repeatedly, and at the last page saw a line of small characters: "On such-and-such a day, written by Lian Suo." He laughed and said: "This is a lady's personal name—why are you deceiving me so?" Yang was greatly embarrassed and could not find words. Xue pressed him all the more harshly, but Yang would not tell him. Xue took the volume away, and Yang grew even more embarrassed, so he told him. Xue begged for an introduction. Yang then recounted the woman's injunction. Xue's admiration was earnest; Yang had no choice but to promise. At midnight, when the woman arrived, Yang conveyed Xue's wishes. The woman said angrily: "What did I say? And already you have been chattering to people!" Yang explained the truth of the matter. The woman said: "My fate with you is at an end!" Yang tried every word to comfort and appease her, but she remained displeased, rose and departed, saying: "I shall withdraw for a while." The next day, Xue came, and Yang conveyed that she would not see him. Xue suspected he was making excuses, and in the evening came with two of his classmates, lingering without leaving, deliberately causing disturbance; they made a racket all night long, drawing many a glare from Yang, but he could do nothing about it. When the others saw that for several nights no trace of her appeared, they gradually lost interest, and the noise subsided. Suddenly a chanting voice was heard; they all listened, and it was mournful and heartbreaking. Xue was straining his ears in rapt attention, when one of the company, a martial scholar named Wang, picked up a large stone and threw it, shouting loudly: "You put on airs and won't see guests—how can you produce good lines? Whining and moaning, you only make one sick with melancholy!" The chanting stopped at once. The others were all indignant at him. Yang's anger and resentment showed in his face and words. The next day, they finally left together. Yang stayed alone in the empty study, hoping the woman would come again, but there was no trace of her. After two days, the woman suddenly appeared, weeping and saying: "You brought those odious guests, and they nearly scared me to death!" Yang apologized profusely. The woman abruptly rose and said: "I always said our fate was at an end; from now on, farewell." He tried to detain her, but she had already vanished. For more than a month after that, she never came again. Yang pined for her until he wasted away to skin and bone, with no way to win her back. One evening, he was drinking alone when suddenly a woman parted the curtain and entered. Yang was overjoyed and said, "Have you forgiven me, then?" The woman's tears dripped down to her chest, and she remained silent without a word. He urgently questioned her; she seemed about to speak but held back, then said, "I left in anger, but now I am urgently seeking help—I cannot help but feel ashamed." Yang pressed her again and again with questions, and at last she said, "I do not know from where a vile underling has come, forcing me to become his concubine. Yet I am of a pure and honorable line—how could I stoop to become the ghost of a lowly servant? But I am but a frail wisp of a woman—how can I resist? If you, sir, would deign to count me among those who share your bed and lute, you surely would not let me fend for myself." Yang was furious and wished to go and kill the man, but he feared that the realms of man and ghost were separate, and he could do nothing. The woman said, "Come to bed early tomorrow night; I will invite you in a dream." Thereupon they talked together again, sitting until dawn. As she was leaving, she admonished him not to sleep by day, but to wait for the night's appointment. Yang agreed. So after noon he drank a little, and taking advantage of his tipsiness, he lay down on the bed, covered himself with his clothes, and lay still. Suddenly he saw the woman come, hand him a girdled knife, and take him by the hand. They arrived at a courtyard. They had just closed the door and were speaking when they heard someone pounding the gate with a stone. The woman cried in alarm, "My enemy is here!" Yang opened the door and rushed out, and saw a man in a red hat and green clothes, with coarse hair surrounding his mouth. Yang angrily shouted at him. The underling glared back with hostile eyes and spoke ferociously and abusively. Yang flew into a rage and ran at him. The underling grabbed stones to throw, which came like a sudden hailstorm; one struck Yang's wrist, so that he could not grip his knife. At this critical moment, Yang saw in the distance a man with arrows at his waist, out hunting in the wilds. Looking more closely, it was Wang Sheng. He called out loudly for help. Wang Sheng drew his bow and rushed over, shooting the underling in the thigh; with another shot, he killed him. Yang was overjoyed and thanked him. Wang asked what had happened, and Yang told him everything. Wang, pleased that his former offense might be redeemed, then entered the woman's chamber with him. The woman trembled in fear and shrank back, standing at a distance without uttering a word. On the table was a small knife, only a little over a foot long, but mounted with gold and jade; taken from its case, its gleam could mirror one's reflection. Wang sighed in admiration and could not put it down. He spoke briefly with Yang, then, seeing the woman's shame and fear—pitiable as she was—he withdrew and they parted. Yang also returned home on his own; he climbed over the wall and fell, and with that he woke with a start. He heard the village cocks already crowing in confusion. He felt a severe pain in his wrist; when morning came and he looked, the flesh was red and swollen. After a while, Wang Sheng came and spoke of the strangeness of his dream that night. Yang said, "Did you dream of shooting, or not?" Wang was surprised that he knew beforehand. Yang showed him his hand and told him the story. Wang recalled the appearance in his dream and regretted he had not truly seen her; he was glad that he had rendered service to the woman, and asked Yang to put in a good word for him again. That night, the woman came to thank Yang. Yang gave the credit to Wang Sheng and conveyed his sincere wish. The woman said, "The aid of a senior brother—I dare not forget that righteousness. But that man is so brawny and fierce; I am truly afraid of him." Then she added, "He loves my girdled knife. That knife was actually bought by my father when he was sent as envoy to Guangdong, for a hundred pieces of gold. I loved it and kept it, winding it with gold thread and adorning it with bright pearls. My father, pitying my untimely death, used it as a burial object for me. Now I am willing to part with this treasure and give it to him; when he sees the knife, it will be as if he sees me." The next day, Yang conveyed this intention. Wang was greatly delighted. That night, the woman indeed brought the knife and said, "Tell him to treasure it well—this is not an object from the Central Land." From then on, their intercourse resumed as before. After several months, she suddenly laughed under the lamp and looked at Yang, as if she wished to say something, but blushed and stopped, doing this three times. He drew her close and asked. She replied, "For a long time I have been favored with your affection. I have received the vital breath of a living man, and daily partaken of the smoke and fire of human food, so that my white bones have suddenly gained a spark of life. But I still need a living man's essence and blood, and then I can revive." Yang laughed and said, "It is you who have been unwilling—how could it be that I deliberately begrudged it?" The woman said, "After we join, you will surely fall gravely ill for more than ten days, but medicine can cure it." Thereupon they took their pleasure together. Afterward she dressed and rose, and said again, "I still need one drop of living blood—can you bear the pain to show your love?" Yang took a sharp blade and cut his arm, letting blood flow; she lay upon the bed and let it drip into her navel. Then she rose and said, "I will not come again. Remember this: count a hundred days, and watch before my grave mound. When green birds sing in the treetops, then open my tomb at once." Yang carefully accepted the instruction. As she went out the door, she admonished again, "Take care to remember—do not forget. Neither early nor late will do!" Then she departed. After more than ten days, Yang indeed fell ill, his abdomen so swollen that he felt like dying. The physician administered medicine, and he discharged a foul matter like mud; after twelve days he recovered. When he reckoned the hundred days, he had his family carry spades and wait. When evening came, sure enough, a pair of green birds appeared, singing. Yang said joyfully, "The time has come." So he cut away the brambles and opened the grave. He saw that the coffin wood had already rotted, but the woman's countenance was as if alive. He touched her—she was slightly warm. He wrapped her in clothes, carried her home, and placed her in a warm place. She breathed feebly, thinner than a drawn silk thread. Gradually he fed her thin gruel, and by midnight she revived. She would often say to Yang, "More than twenty years—it is like a dream." **Shan Daoist** The Han family's son came from a long-established local lineage. There was a Daoist named Shan who was skilled in theatrical arts, and the young master loved his skills, making him a guest at his table. When Shan walked or sat with people, he would suddenly vanish. The young master wished to learn his methods, but Shan would not agree. The young master pressed him persistently. Shan said, "It is not that I begrudge my art, but I fear it would ruin my Way. If it were transmitted to a gentleman, it would be acceptable; otherwise, there would be those who use it to steal. As for you, young master, I need not worry about that—but if you should go out, see a beauty, and be charmed, then hide yourself and enter women's inner chambers—that would be abetting evil and spreading licentiousness. I dare not obey your command." The young master could not force him, but in his heart he was angry, and secretly plotted with his servants to have him beaten and humiliated. Fearing that Shan might hide himself and flee, they spread fine ash and dust over the threshing floor, reasoning that although his devious arts could make him invisible, wherever his feet trod there would be traces; then they could follow the footprints and strike swiftly. So they lured Shan there and had men stand with ox-hide whips to beat him. Shan suddenly vanished, and indeed footprints appeared in the ash; the servants struck wildly left and right, but in a moment they lost the trail. When the young master returned home, Shan also arrived. He said to the servants, "I can no longer stay here! All this time I have troubled you with your service; now I shall take my leave, but I have something to repay you with." From his sleeve he produced a flagon of fine wine, and then brought out a covered dish of delicacies, setting them all upon the table. Having set them out, he reached again; after more than ten reaches, the table was completely full. Then he invited the company to drink, and they all became drunk; one by one he put everything back into his sleeve. When Han heard of this marvel, he asked Shan to perform again. Shan painted a city on the wall, then pushed and struck it with his hand, whereupon the city gate suddenly opened. He then took all his bagged clothes and boxed belongings and threw them into the gate. Then he bowed in farewell and said, "I am going." He leaped into the city, the gate closed, and the Daoist was instantly gone. Later it was heard that he was in the market town of Qingzhou, teaching children to draw ink circles on their palms and, when meeting people, playfully toss them; wherever they were tossed—on the face or on the clothes—the circle would detach and leave its mark there. It was also heard that he was skilled in the arts of the bedchamber, and could cause his lower parts to suck up burning wine until a whole vessel was drained. The young master once tested this in person. **Bai Yuyu** Wu Qing'an, styled Jun, was known from his youth. The Grand Historian Ge, upon seeing his writings, would always praise them. He asked a mutual friend to invite Wu to his home, so that he might observe his conversation and bearing. He said, "How could there be a talent like Wu Sheng who remains poor and lowly all his life?" Thereupon he had that friendly neighbor convey his proposal: "If Qing'an will set his mind on rising high, I shall give my daughter to him as his wife." At that time the Grand Historian had a daughter of surpassing beauty. Wu was overjoyed and full of confidence. But afterward he failed in the autumn provincial examinations. He sent word to the Grand Historian, saying, "Wealth and rank are inherent—what is unknown is only whether they come early or late. Please wait for me for three years; if I have not succeeded by then, she may marry another." From then on he applied himself even more bitterly. One night, under a bright moon, a scholar came to call. He was fair-skinned, with a short beard, a slender waist, and long fingernails. When asked whence he came, he said, "My family name is Bai, and my courtesy name is Yuyu." They chatted briefly, and the scholar's words were refreshing and enlightening. Delighted, the host kept him to share the night's lodging. At daybreak the visitor wished to leave, and the host urged him to stop by often. Grateful for such earnestness, Bai offered to take up temporary quarters there, and they parted after setting a date. On the appointed day, an old servant arrived first with cooking utensils. Shortly after, Bai came riding a prancing steed like a dragon. The host gave him a separate room. Bai ordered the servant to take the horse away. So they spent mornings and evenings together, happily enjoying each other's company. The host observed that the books Bai read were not of the usual sort he had seen or heard of, and they contained absolutely no examination essays. Surprised, he asked about them. Bai laughed and said, "Each scholar has his own ambition; I am not a man for fame and rank." At night he would often invite the host to drink, and produce a scroll to give him—all about the arts of inhalation and exhalation, most of which the host did not understand, and so he set them aside as too abstruse. Another day Bai said to him, "What I gave you before is the essential way of the Yellow Court, the ladder to immortality." The host laughed and said, "My urgent concern is not this. Besides, those who seek immortality must sever all emotional ties, so that the ten thousand thoughts are all stilled—that is a sickness I cannot cure." Bai asked, "Why?" The host cited anxiety over heirs. Bai said, "Then why have you not married long ago?" The host laughed and replied, "'The king has a malady—the king loves beauty.'" Bai also laughed and said, "'Your Majesty, pray do not love petty beauty.' What is it you love?" The host told him the whole story. Bai doubted that she was truly beautiful. The host said, "This is known far and wide—it is not merely my own eyes that judge so." Bai gave a slight smile and let the matter drop. The next day, Bai suddenly packed to leave. The host spoke to him mournfully, unable to stop talking. Bai then ordered a boy to carry the luggage ahead. The two clung to each other. Soon they saw a green cicada alight on the table with a buzz. Bai took his leave, saying, "My carriage is already hitched; let us part here. If you miss me, sweep my couch and lie down on it." Before the host could ask more, in an instant Bai shrank to the size of a finger, lightly stepped onto the cicada's back, and flew off with a chirring sound, vanishing into the clouds. Only then did the host realize he was no ordinary man; he stood stunned for a long time, disconsolate and at a loss. After a few days, a fine rain suddenly set in, and he missed Bai intensely. He looked at the couch where Bai had lain; it was covered in mouse tracks and debris. With a sigh he swept it clean, spread a mat, and lay down. Before long, he saw Bai's boy come to summon him, and gladly followed. Soon a phoenix of the wu-tong tree came flying down; the boy caught it and said to the host, "The dark path is hard to travel—you may ride this in its stead." The host worried it was too small to bear him. The boy said, "Try riding it." He did as told, and found there was plenty of room; the boy also clung to its tail. With a sharp cry they soared into the sky. Soon they saw a vermilion gate. The boy descended first and helped the host down. He asked, "What place is this?" The boy said, "This is the Heavenly Gate." Beside the gate crouched a huge tiger. The host was terrified, but the boy shielded him with his body. Everywhere the scenery was unlike the mortal world. The boy led him into the Guanghan Palace; inside, the steps were of crystal, and those who walked seemed to be in a mirror. Two cassia trees towered to the sky, their trunks too large for two arms to encircle; their fragrance rode the wind, never ceasing. All the pavilions had crimson windows, and now and then beauties came in and out, with alluring faces and ethereal bones, incomparable in any age. The boy said, "The ladies in the Queen Mother's palace are even more exquisite." But he feared that his master had been waiting too long, and so they did not linger; he guided the host out. After a while, they saw Bai waiting at the gate. They clasped hands and entered. Outside the eaves, clear water and white sand trickled and overflowed; jade balustrades and carved rails made one almost think it was the cassia palace. They had barely sat down when two graceful maids of about sixteen brought fragrant tea. Soon wine was ordered. Four lovely women, with folded hands and jingling ornaments, attended to them left and right. Just as the host felt a slight itch on his back, one of the beauties reached her slender fingers and long nails under his robe to scratch it for him. The host felt his spirit waver and he could not settle himself. After a little wine, he grew tipsy and gradually lost control; he smiled at the beauties and chatted them up. They only laughed and drew back. Bai ordered them to sing to accompany the wine. One wearing crimson gauze raised her goblet to the guest and began to sing in a clear voice right before the feast. The various lovely ones—with bamboo flutes and other instruments—included a woman in purple and another in pale white soft silk, who tittered in the shadows, each deferring to the other and refusing to go forward. Bai ordered that each take a turn pouring and singing. The purple-robed one then came to fill his cup. The host pretended to take the cup and playfully brushed her slender wrist. She laughed and lost hold of it, spilling the wine. Bai scolded her. She picked up the cup, still smiling, and bent her head to murmur softly: "Cold as a ghost's hand, yet it still grabs one's arm." Bai laughed heartily and ordered her to sing and dance as a penalty. When she had finished, the pale-robed one again offered a goblet. The host declined, saying he could not drink another. He took the wine with an embarrassed look, but forced himself to drink it. Observing the four women closely, each was graceful and elegant, every one a peerless beauty. He suddenly said to the host, "For a peerless charmer in the human world, I find it hard to get even one; but you have gathered a whole bevy—can you make me truly lose my soul?" Bai laughed and said, "In your heart there is already a fair one; why should these deserve the notice of a discerning eye?" The host said, "Only now do I realize how narrow my vision has been." Bai then summoned all the ladies and told him to choose for himself. The host was so confused he could not decide. Bai, recalling the purple-robed one's earlier intimacy with his arm, had her pack her bedclothes and attend the guest. Then the joys of the pillow and quilt were exhaustively tender. The host asked for a keepsake, and she took off her gold bracelet and gave it to him. Suddenly a boy entered and said, "The way of immortals and mortals is different; you should leave at once." A tiger's roar suddenly arose, and the host fled in terror. He looked ahead and saw no bottom, but his feet had already fallen. He awoke with a start—the morning sun was already red. As he was about to dress, he felt something greasy stuck to his mat; looking, it was the bracelet. He was even more astonished. From then on his former ambitions cooled, and he often wished to seek the way of the Red Pine immortal, but still worried about continuing his line. After more than ten months, as he was napping deeply in the daytime, he dreamed that the purple-robed lady came in from outside, holding an infant in her arms, and said, "This is your flesh and blood. In heaven it is hard to keep this thing, so I have brought it to you." She laid it on the bed, pulled his clothes to cover it, and hurriedly prepared to go. The host tried to hold her back for more pleasure. She said, "Once before was our bridal union; now this once is our eternal farewell. The hundred-year marriage of husband and wife ends here. If you have ambition, perhaps we may meet again." The host awoke and saw the infant lying on the bed; he wrapped it in a cloth and told his mother. His mother was delighted and hired a wet nurse to feed it, naming it Mengxian. The host then sent word to the Grand Secretary that he was about to retire into seclusion and asked him to choose another worthy match. The Grand Secretary refused. The host firmly declined. The Grand Secretary told his daughter, and she said, "Near and far, everyone knows that I was betrothed to Mr. Wu. To change now would be to serve two masters." She sent this message to the host. He said, "I have not only no ambition for fame and rank, but I have also renounced all conjugal affections. The only reason I do not immediately enter the mountains is that I have my old mother to care for." The Grand Secretary again consulted. The daughter said, "Mr. Wu is poor—I will gladly eat his coarse fare; if Mr. Wu leaves, I will serve his parents—I will certainly not marry another." Messengers were sent back and forth three or four times, but no agreement was reached; so they chose a day, prepared carriages, horses, and dowry, and she was married into the host's home. The host, moved by her virtue, treated her with utmost respect and affection. The wife served his mother filially, accommodating her in every way, even better than a poor country girl. After two years, his mother died, and the wife pawned her dowry to pay for the funeral rites, omitting no ceremony. The host said, "With a wife like you, what worry have I? But I recall that one who attains the Way lifts his whole household to ascend. I am about to go far away, and I leave everything to you." The wife was composed and made no effort to detain him. And so he departed. The woman managed the family’s livelihood externally and instructed the orphaned children internally, doing everything in orderly fashion. Mengxian grew up gradually, exceptionally intelligent. At fourteen, he was recommended as a child prodigy in the provincial examination; at fifteen, he entered the Hanlin Academy. Whenever he received honors and titles, he did not know his mother’s maiden surname, so only Mother Ge was ennobled. On days of frost and dew (ancestral sacrifices), he would ask where his father was, and his mother told him everything. He then wished to abandon his office and go search. His mother said: “When your father left home to become a monk, it has been over ten years now; he has likely become an immortal—where can you find him?” Later, he was sent on imperial orders to sacrifice to the Southern Marchmount, but encountered bandits on the way. In his distress, a Daoist priest with a sword charged in, and the bandits all scattered, lifting the siege. Grateful, he offered gold, but the priest refused. He produced a letter and handed it over, saying: “I have an old acquaintance who is from the same village as your excellency; may I trouble you to convey my greetings?” Asked his name, he replied: “Wang Lin.” Then he recalled that there was no such name in the village. The Daoist said: “A rustic and humble man—a high official naturally would not know him.” Before leaving, he brought out a gold bracelet and said: “This is a woman’s ornament; I, a Daoist, picked it up and have no use for it, so I offer it in return.” Examining it, the inlay and carving were exquisitely fine. He took it home and gave it to his wife. She cherished it and ordered skilled artisans to make a matching one according to its pattern, but they could never match its craftsmanship. He asked throughout the village, but there was no such person as Wang Lin. Privately opening the letter, it read: “Three years of lovebirds, parted to separate skies; Burying your mother and teaching our son—truly I rely on your virtue. With nothing to repay your kindness, I offer one elixir pill; Split and eat it, and you may become an immortal.” At the end was written: “To Lady Lin Niang, for her toilette.” After reading it, he did not know who it was from, so he took it to show his mother. His mother held the letter and wept, saying: “This is a letter from your father. Lin is my childhood name.” Only then did he suddenly realize that “Wang Lin” was a disassembled character riddle. He regretted it bitterly. He also showed the bracelet to his mother. She said: “This is your mother’s heirloom. When your father was at home, he once showed it to me.” She also looked at the pill, which was the size of a bean. Joyfully she said: “My father is an immortal—eating this will surely grant long life.” But his mother did not swallow it at once; she received it and stored it away. It happened that Grand Historian Ge came to visit his nephew, and the daughter recited Wu’s letter, then presented the elixir as a birthday offering. The Grand Historian split it and shared it with others. In an instant, his spirit and complexion glowed. At that time the Grand Historian was over seventy and quite decrepit; suddenly he felt strength flooding his skin and flesh, so he abandoned his sedan chair and walked; he moved vigorously and swiftly, and his servants could only catch up gasping for breath. A year later, a great fire broke out in the capital, and the flames did not die out all day. At night, no one dared to sleep; they all gathered in the courtyard. Seeing the fire spreading wildly and reaching the neighboring houses, the family paced about helplessly, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, the gold bracelet on the lady’s arm made a clinking sound and flew off her arm. Looking at it, it was as large as several acres; it spread in a circle over the house, shaped like a lunar enclosure, with the opening of the bracelet descending toward the southeast corner, clearly visible. All were greatly astonished. In a short while, the fire came from the west, but when it neared the enclosure it slanted away to the east. After the fire had moved far away, they privately thought the bracelet would never be recovered; but suddenly the red light contracted, and the bracelet fell at their feet with a clang. In the capital, tens of thousands of houses were burned; to the front, back, left, and right all were reduced to ashes, but only the Wu mansion was unharmed—except for a small pavilion in the southeast that vanished completely, which was exactly where the bracelet’s opening had failed to cover. Mother Ge was over fifty, yet those who saw her sometimes thought she looked like a woman of about twenty. --- **Yaksha Country** A certain Xu of Jiaozhou went to sea as a merchant. Suddenly he was blown far away by a great wind. When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a place of deep mountains and wild forests. Hoping to find inhabitants, he moored his boat, went ashore, and carried with him dried provisions and preserved meat. As he entered, he saw that the cliffs on both sides were full of cave mouths, as dense as a honeycomb; from within came faint human voices. Reaching a cave, he stopped and peered in—inside were two yakshas, their teeth standing like halberds, their eyes flashing like twin lamps, tearing raw deer apart with their claws and eating. His soul fled in terror, and he hurried to run back down, but the yakshas had already caught sight of him, stopped eating, and seized him to bring him in. The two creatures conversed in sounds like birds and beasts, and tore at Xu’s clothes as if to devour him. Xu, terrified, took out the dried grain and beef jerky from his bag and offered it to them. They found it quite delicious. They then rummaged through his bag, but Xu waved his hands to show there was nothing more. The yakshas grew angry and seized him again. Xu pleaded: “Release me. On my boat there are pots and steamers—I can cook.” The yakshas did not understand his words and remained angry. Xu used hand gestures again, and the yakshas seemed to understand slightly. They followed him to the boat, took the utensils into the cave, gathered firewood and lit a fire, boiled the remaining venison, and presented it cooked. The two creatures ate it with delight. At night they blocked the entrance with a great stone, as if afraid Xu might escape. Xu lay curled up at a distance, deeply fearing he would not escape. At dawn, the two creatures went out and blocked the entrance again. After a while, they brought back a deer and gave it to Xu. Xu skinned it, fetched water from a stream deep in the cave, and boiled several pots. Soon several more yakshas arrived, gathered together, and ate everything, then pointed at the pots, seeming to think them too small. After three or four days, a yaksha carried in a large pot, like those commonly used by humans. Then the yakshas each brought game—deer, wolves, and the like. When it was cooked, they called Xu to eat together. After several days, the yakshas gradually became familiar with Xu, and when they went out they no longer confined him; they lived together like family. Xu gradually learned to distinguish their sounds and understand their intent, and he began to imitate their sounds, speaking in yaksha language. The yakshas were even more pleased, and brought a female yaksha to be his wife. At first Xu was afraid and dared not approach; but the female opened her thighs to him, and Xu then coupled with her. She was greatly delighted. She would often keep meat to feed Xu, and their relations were like those of a loving couple. One day, the yakshas rose early, each wearing a string of bright pearls around the neck, and went out one after another, as if awaiting an honored guest. They ordered Xu to cook plenty of meat. Xu asked the female, and she said: “This is the Heavenly Longevity Festival.” She went out and told the assembled yakshas: “Xu has no bone-bead necklace.” Each of them took off five beads and gave them to her. She also took off ten of her own, making a total of fifty, and strung them on wild hemp cord to hang around Xu’s neck. Xu looked at them—each bead was worth a hundred or more taels of silver. Shortly after, they all went out. When Xu finished cooking, the female came to invite him out, saying: “We are going to receive the Heavenly King.” They reached a great cave, several acres wide. Inside was a stone table smooth and flat as a desk; around it were stone seats; the foremost seat was covered with leopard skin, the rest with deer hide. Twenty or thirty yakshas were seated in rows filling the place. After a while, a great wind raised dust, and all hurried out. They saw a huge creature approaching, also resembling a yaksha in form, which rushed straight into the cave, perched on the seat, and looked around like an owl. The others followed inside, standing in rows to the east and west, all raising their heads and crossing their arms in a cross. The great yaksha pressed heads and counted, then asked: “Are all the people of Mount Womei here?” They all answered in a chorus. He then looked at Xu and said: “Where does this one come from?” The female answered that he was her husband. The others praised his cooking. Then two or three yakshas ran to fetch the cooked meat and set it on the stone table. The great yaksha scooped it up and ate his fill, highly praising its excellence, and ordered that it be provided regularly. He also said to Xu: “Why is your bone-bead necklace so short?” They replied: “He is newly come and has not yet prepared it.” The creature then took off a string of beads from his own neck and gave ten of them to Xu; they were all as large as finger-tips and round as pellets. The female quickly took them and strung them for Xu. Xu also crossed his arms and spoke in yaksha language to thank him. The creature then departed, treading the wind and moving as swiftly as flying. Only then did the others share the remaining food and disperse. After more than four years, the female suddenly gave birth to a litter of two males and one female, all in human form, unlike their mother. All the yakshas were delighted with the children and would often fondle them. One day, all went out to hunt for food, leaving Xu alone sitting. Suddenly a female from another cave came and wanted to have illicit relations with Xu, but Xu refused. The yaksha female grew angry and threw Xu to the ground. Xu’s wife arrived from outside, flew into a rage, and fought with her, biting off her ear. After a while, the other’s mate also came back, and they intervened and sent her away. From then on, the female kept close watch over Xu, never leaving him day or night. After another three years, the children could all walk. Xu taught them human speech, and they gradually learned to talk; amid their chirping there was a human quality. Though still children, they could run over the mountains as if on level ground; they were affectionate and had a father-son bond. One day, the female went out with one son and one daughter, and they did not return for half a day. Meanwhile, a great north wind arose. Xu, moved with sadness, thought of his native land. He took his son to the seashore and saw his old boat still there, so he planned to return home with him. The son wanted to tell his mother, but Xu stopped him. Father and son boarded the boat and reached Jiaozhou in a day and night. When he reached home, his wife had already remarried. He produced two pearls, sold them for a million in gold, and his household became quite prosperous. He named his son Biao. At fourteen or fifteen, the boy could lift a hundred jun, and was rough and pugnacious. The governor of Jiaozhou, finding him remarkable, made him a lieutenant of a thousand. When border troubles arose, he was victorious wherever he went, and at eighteen he became a deputy general. At that time a merchant was crossing the sea, and was also blown by the wind to Womei. Just as he came ashore, he saw a young man, looked at him and was startled. Knowing he was a Chinese, he asked where he lived. The merchant told him. The young man drew him into a small stone cave in a secluded valley; outside the cave were all brambles; and he cautioned him not to go out. After a while he went away and came back carrying venison for the merchant to eat. He said of himself: "My father was also a Jiaozhou man." The merchant asked about it and learned he was a Xu. The merchant had known him during his travels. He therefore said: "He is an old acquaintance of mine. Now his son is a deputy general." The young man did not understand what title that was. The merchant said: "That is a Chinese official rank." He again asked: "What is it to be an official?" He said: "When he goes out there are carriages and horses; when he enters, a lofty hall; above, one call and below a hundred answer; those who see him look at him sideways and stand tiptoe; this is called being an official." The young man was much moved. The merchant said: "Since your honored father is in Jiaozhou, why have you stayed here so long?" The young man told him the circumstances. The merchant urged him to return south. He said: "I also often think of that. But my mother is not Chinese, her speech and appearance are utterly different; and if my kind should notice it, they would surely do me harm; for that reason I am torn." He then went out and said: "When the north wind rises, I will come to see you off. I must trouble you to take a message to my father and brothers." The merchant lay hidden in the cave for nearly half a year. At times he would peep out through the brambles and see night-raccoons coming and going in the mountains; he was greatly afraid and dared not move at all. One day, the north wind rustled, and the young man suddenly arrived, leading him to hurry away in flight. He cautioned him: "Do not forget what I told you." The merchant assented. He also placed meat on the table, and then the merchant returned home. As soon as he arrived at Jiaozhou, he went to the deputy general's residence and related everything he had seen. When Biao heard it he grieved and wished to go seek them. His father feared the sea waves and the lair of monsters, dangerous and perilous to approach, and strongly opposed him. Biao beat his breast and wept bitterly, and his father could not stop him. He then informed the Jiaozhou commander, took two soldiers and went to sea. Headwinds blocked the boat, and they were tossed and heaved on the sea for half a month. Looking all around there was no horizon; within arm's reach all was lost and confused, and they could not distinguish north from south. Suddenly surging waves reached the Milky Way, and the boat was overturned. Biao fell into the sea and drifted up and down with the waves. After a long time, he was dragged by something to a place where there were actually houses. Biao looked at it; it was a creature in the form of a night-raccoon. Biao then spoke in night-raccoon language. The night-raccoon was startled and questioned him, and Biao told him where he was going. The night-raccoon said happily: "Womei is my native place. I have been rude and offended! You have strayed eight thousand li from the proper course. From here it is the Land of the Poison Dragon; Womei is not on the way." He then found a boat to escort Biao. The night-raccoon propelled it through the water like an arrow, covering thousands of li in an instant; after one night they had reached the northern shore. He saw a young man, facing the stream and gazing into the distance. Biao knew there were no humans in the mountains and suspected it was his brother; when he drew near, it was indeed his brother. They took each other's hands and wept, then he asked about his mother and sister, and was told they were both well. Biao wished to go together with him, but his brother stopped him and hurried away. He turned back to thank the night-raccoon, but he was already gone. Before long, his mother and sister both arrived; when they saw Biao they all wept. Biao told them his intention. His mother said: "I fear that if we go, we will be bullied by people." Biao said: "I am very honored and noble in China; people dare not bully us." The decision to return was already made, but they were bitterly troubled by the headwinds that made it difficult to cross. While the mother and son were hesitating, suddenly they saw a sail stir southward, rustling in the wind. Biao said joyfully: "Heaven is helping us!" They boarded one after another; the waves sped like arrow shots; in three days they reached the shore. Those who saw them all fled. Biao took off some of his robes and trousers and gave them to the three. When they reached home, the mother night-raccoon saw the old man and cursed him angrily, resenting that he had not made plans. Xu apologized profusely. When the household servants came to pay respects to the mistress, they all trembled with fear. Biao urged his mother to learn Chinese speech, to wear brocade, and to grow tired of rich food, and she was greatly pleased. The mother and daughter both dressed in men's clothing, of the Manchu style. In a few months they began to understand the language somewhat, and the younger brother and sister gradually became fair-skinned. The younger brother was named Bao, and the younger sister Ye'er; both were powerfully strong. Biao was ashamed of not being literate and taught his younger brother to read. Bao was extremely intelligent; once he had gone through the classics and histories, he understood them completely. He did not wish to pursue the Confucian path either; so Biao still had him practice the strong bow and gallop fierce horses. He passed the military jinshi examination. He married the daughter of an assistant regional commander. Ye'er, because of her strange origin, had no one to marry. It happened that the garrison commander Yuan under Biao's command had lost his spouse, so he forced him to marry her. Ye'er could draw a hundred-catty bow and shoot small birds at over a hundred paces without missing. Whenever Yuan went on campaign, his wife always accompanied him. In successive posts as subprefect and general, half of his extraordinary achievements came from his wife. Bao was made a commander-in-chief at thirty-four. His mother often accompanied him on southern expeditions; whenever she faced a great enemy, she would don armor and wield weapons, acting as reinforcement for her son; those who saw her all fled. An imperial edict conferred on her the title of baroness. Bao submitted a memorial on his mother's behalf declining it, and she was instead enfeoffed as Madam. The Historian of the Strange says: "A night-raccoon lady—that is indeed rarely heard of; but on careful thought it is not rare: every household has a night-raccoon at the head of the bed." **The Small Chignon** A certain resident of Changshan, being at leisure, was often visited by a short guest who would come for long conversations. He had never known his background and was filled with doubts. The guest said: "In three or four days I will move my dwelling and become your neighbor." After four or five days he said again: "Now we are in the same village, and morning and evening I can receive your instruction." He asked: "Where have you moved to?" He did not give a detailed answer, but only pointed north with his hand. From then on, he came once every day. At times he would borrow implements from people; if someone was stingy and did not lend them, he would lose them of his own accord. Everyone suspected he was a fox. To the north of the village was an old grave, sunken and unfathomable; they thought he must dwell there. They all took weapons and went there. They lay in ambush and listened; for a long time there was nothing unusual. When the first watch was nearly over, they heard a rustling sound in the hole, as if dozens or hundreds of people were whispering. The group remained still and silent; soon small people the height of a foot came out in a continuous stream, too many to count. The crowd raised a shout and attacked them all at once. Every blow struck sparks, and in an instant they scattered in all directions. Only a small chignon was left behind, like a walnut shell, adorned with gauze and gold thread. When they smelled it, it was unendurably foul and rank. **The Western Monks** Two monks came from the Western Regions, one going to Wutai Mountain, the other settling at Mount Tai. Their clothing, speech, and appearance were all different from those of China. They said of themselves: "We passed through the Flame Mountain, where the mountains are layered and the air blazes like a furnace. We could only travel after rain, concentrating our minds and fixing our eyes, stepping lightly and carefully; if we accidentally kicked a mountain stone, flames would burst forth and scorch us. We also crossed the Flowing Sands River, where there is a Crystal Mountain with sheer cliffs piercing the sky, crystal clear on all sides as if nothing were between. There is also a defile wide enough for a single cart; two dragons with crossed horns and facing mouths guard it. Those who pass must first bow to the dragons; if the dragons permit passage, their mouths and horns open of themselves. The dragons are white, and their scales and manes are all like crystal." The monks said: "We have been on the road for eighteen summers and winters. Of the twelve who left the Western Regions, only two have reached China. In the Western Regions it is said that China has four famous mountains: Mount Tai, Mount Hua, Wutai, and Potala. It is said that all over these mountains the ground is covered with gold, and Guanyin and Manjushri still live there. If one can reach those places, his very body will become a Buddha and he will live forever without dying." Hearing what they said, it was just like the common folk of this land admiring the Western Regions. If a traveler going west and one going east were to meet midway and each told the other what there was, they would surely look at each other and laugh, and both would be spared the toil of the journey. **Liancheng** Qiao Sheng was a man of Jinning. In his youth he was renowned for his talent. At over twenty, he was still unsuccessful. He was a man of chivalrous spirit. He was close friends with Gu; when Gu died, he often aided his wife and children. The county magistrate valued him for his literary talent; when the magistrate died in office, his family was stranded and could not return home, so Qiao spent his own fortune to escort the coffin back, a round trip of over two thousand li. For this the scholarly community esteemed him all the more, but his own family became all the poorer thereby. The xiaolian Shi had a daughter named Liancheng, skilled in embroidery and well-read. Her father doted on her. He displayed her embroidered "Weary Embroidery" picture and called for young men to compose verses on it, intending to choose a son-in-law. Qiao presented a poem: "Languid tresses and high chignon green and swaying, Early by the orchid window she embroiders blue lotus; Stitching the mandarin ducks, her very soul is like to break, In secret she stops her needle and thread, knitting her brows." He also praised her skill in embroidering: "Her needle-threads pick out as if from life, The flowers and birds in the scroll are nature's own work; Weaving brocade in those days was no great art, She was lucky to move the saintly age with a palindrome." When the girl received the poem she was delighted, and praised it to her father. Her father thought it poor. But the girl would praise it to everyone she met; she also sent an old woman on the pretext of her father's order to give him money to help with his lamp-oil for study. Qiao sighed and said: "Liancheng is my soulmate!" He poured out his heart in longing for her, like hunger craving food. Soon afterwards, Liancheng was betrothed to Wang Huacheng, son of a wealthy salt merchant, and Sheng at last despaired; yet in his dreams and waking thoughts he still cherished her. Before long, Liancheng fell ill with consumption, sunk deep and unable to rise. A Central Asian Buddhist mendicant appeared, claiming he could cure her; but he required one coin-weight of flesh from a man's breast, to be pounded and mixed with his medicine. Shi sent a messenger to the Wang household to inform the son-in-law. The son-in-law laughed and said, "The foolish old man—does he want me to cut out a piece of my heart's flesh?" The messenger returned. Shi then announced to all: "Whoever can cut out the flesh shall have her as his wife." Sheng heard of this and went, himself drawing a bright blade, cutting the flesh from his breast and giving it to the monk. Blood soaked through his padded trousers; the monk applied medicine and only then did it stop. He made three pills of the medicine. In three days they were all taken, and the illness vanished as if it had never been. Shi was about to keep his word, but first informed the Wangs. Wang was enraged and threatened to take the matter to court. Shi then set a banquet and invited Sheng, placing a thousand taels of silver on the table, saying, "I am deeply in your debt for your great virtue; pray allow me to repay you." He then explained in full the reasons for breaking the engagement. Sheng grew angry and said, "The reason I did not grudge my breast-flesh was simply to repay a friend who understood me—how could I be selling flesh for money?" He flicked his sleeves and left. When Liancheng heard of this, her heart could not bear it, and she sent an old matron to comfort and exhort him. She also said, "With his talents, he should not remain in obscurity for long. Why should he worry that there are no fair ladies in the world? My dreams are ill-omened—I shall die within three years. There is no need for him to contend with others over one who belongs to the Yellow Springs." Sheng told the matron, " 'A scholar dies for one who understands him'—it is not a matter of beauty. I only fear that Liancheng may not truly know me; if she does not, what harm is there in the match not being made?" The matron, on behalf of the young lady, swore her sincerity and laid bare her heart. Sheng said, "If that is so, when we meet, let her give me one smile, and I shall die without regret." After the matron had gone, several days passed. Sheng happened to go out and met Liancheng returning from her uncle's house; he gazed at her. Liancheng turned her autumn-bright eyes and gave a faint smile, baring her teeth. Sheng was overjoyed and said, "Liancheng truly understands me!" Just then the Wangs came to discuss the auspicious date for the wedding, and Liancheng's former illness returned; within a few months she died. Sheng went to pay his respects at her funeral, and with one cry of grief, he too expired. Shi had his body carried back to his home. Sheng knew he was dead and felt no sorrow. He left the village, still hoping to see Liancheng once more. Gazing into the distance, he saw a road running north and south, with a continuous stream of travellers like ants, so he mingled among them. Before long he entered a government office, where he encountered Gu Sheng, who asked in surprise, "How did you come here?" He took Sheng's hand to lead him back and send him home. Sheng sighed deeply and said, "My heart's business is not yet finished." Gu said, "I keep the documents here and am entrusted with considerable authority. If I can be of use, I will spare no effort." Sheng asked about Liancheng. Gu then led Sheng through many places until they saw Liancheng, together with a white-clad young lady, their tearful eyes and sorrowful brows, seated huddled on the corner of a veranda. When she saw Sheng approach, she rose abruptly as if pleased and briefly asked why he had come. Sheng said, "Since you are dead, how dare I go on living?" Liancheng wept and said, "Such an ungrateful man—and you still do not cast him off—why throw your life away for him? But I cannot promise you in this life; let me pledge the next." Sheng told Gu, "There is something I would ask of you. I am happy to be dead and have no wish to live. But please look up where Liancheng is to be reborn, and I shall go there with her." Gu consented and left. The white-clad young lady asked who Sheng was, and Liancheng recounted everything about him. When the young lady heard it, she seemed unable to bear her grief. Liancheng said to Sheng, "This is my namesake, her childhood name Bin-niang, daughter of the Prefect Shi of Changsha. We came here together along the road and have grown fond of one another." Sheng looked at her—her bearing was touching. He was about to inquire further when Gu returned and congratulated Sheng, saying, "I have settled matters for you—I will have the young lady return to life with you. Would that do?" Both were delighted. As they were about to take leave, Bin-niang burst into loud weeping, saying, "If you go, where am I to return? I beg you to pity and save me—let me be your handmaid, Sister, to hold your handkerchief." Liancheng was grief-stricken and could think of no plan; she turned to Sheng for advice. Sheng again pleaded with Gu. Gu found it difficult and firmly refused, saying it could not be done. Sheng pressed him insistently. At last Gu said, "I shall try, though it may be reckless." He went away for the space of a meal and returned, shaking his hand, saying, "What did I tell you! Truly there is no way at all." When Bin-niang heard this, she wept in a plaintive, coquettish way, clinging only to Liancheng's elbow, afraid she would leave at once. There was no remedy for their pitiable state; they sat facing each other in silence, and seeing her sorrowful face and grieving countenance made one's very heart and lungs ache with tenderness. Gu grew indignant and said, "Take Bin-niang with you. If there is any blame, I will risk bearing it myself!" Bin-niang was overjoyed and followed Sheng out. Sheng worried that the road was long and she had no companion. Bin-niang said, "I shall go with you and do not wish to return." Sheng said, "You are very foolish. If you do not return, how can you live? Another day, when I reach Hunan, do not avoid me—that will be blessing enough." Just then two old women came with documents to take to Changsha; Sheng entrusted Bin-niang to them, and she parted from them with tears and went on her way. On the road, Liancheng walked slowly and with difficulty, resting every half mile or so; after more than ten rests, they at last saw the gate of their village. Liancheng said, "After I am reborn, I fear there may be further reversals. Please ask for my corpse and bring it here. If I am reborn in your household, there should be no more regret." Sheng agreed. They returned together to Sheng's home. Liancheng seemed timid and could hardly walk; Sheng waited for her. Liancheng said, "Now that I am here, my limbs feel weak and unsteady, as if I have no will of my own. I fear my wish may not be fulfilled; we should still plan carefully—otherwise, once I am alive, how shall I be free?" They went together into a side chamber. After sitting quietly for a while, Liancheng smiled and said, "Do you dislike me?" Startled, Sheng asked why. She blushed and said, "I fear things may not work out and I shall fail you again. Let me first repay you as a ghost." Sheng was overjoyed, and they shared the utmost love and delight. Thus they lingered, not daring to be reborn at once, and stayed in the side chamber for three days. Liancheng said, "There is a saying: 'No matter how ugly a bride, she must at last meet her parents-in-law.' To remain here in anxiety is no lasting plan." She urged Sheng to go in. No sooner had he reached the spirit-chamber than he suddenly revived with a start. His family were astonished and gave him broth. Sheng then sent someone to invite Shi, asking for Liancheng's corpse and saying he could bring her back to life. Shi was delighted and followed his advice. Just as the corpse was brought into the room, they saw her already awake. She told her father, "I have already given myself to Qiao Lang and cannot return. If any change is made, I will simply die again!" Shi returned home and sent a maidservant to wait upon her. When Wang heard of this, he submitted a complaint to the authorities. The magistrate accepted a bribe and ruled that she should be returned to Wang. Sheng was so angry and distressed he wished to die, but there was nothing he could do. When Liancheng arrived at the Wang household, she refused food and drink in fury, only begging for a swift death. When the room was empty, she hung herself from a beam. The next day she grew weaker and was on the verge of death. Wang was alarmed and sent her back to Shi. Shi again had her carried to Sheng's home. When Wang learned of this, he could do nothing, and so matters settled. After Liancheng recovered, she often thought of Bin-niang and wished to send word to inquire about her, but the road was long and travel was difficult. One day, a servant announced, "There are carriages and horses at the gate." The couple went out to look, and there was Bin-niang, already arrived in the courtyard. They met with joy and sorrow. The Prefect himself had accompanied his daughter; Sheng invited him in. The Prefect said, "My little daughter, thanks to you, was brought back to life, and she has sworn she will marry no other. Now I follow her wish." Sheng bowed and thanked him in due ceremony. The Filial and Honest man also arrived, and they exchanged family courtesies. Sheng's given name was Nian, his courtesy name Danian. The Historian of the Strange says: "For the sake of a smile that brought understanding, she gave herself to him—worldly people may call this folly; but were the five hundred men of Tian Heng all fools? This is the preciousness of a rare friend, for which worthy heroes are moved to gratitude and cannot contain themselves. Yet in all the vast seas of the realm, it has come to this—that a man of embroidered talent should set his heart only on a single smile from a fair brow. How sad!" **Huo Sheng** In Wenden, Huo Sheng and Yan Sheng had been close playmates as children and sharp-tongued jokers as they grew older. Their repartee and witty exchanges were such that each feared only that the other might be better at it. Huo had an elderly neighbor woman who had once assisted at Yan's wife's childbirth. She happened to speak to Huo's wife, remarking that the lady had a wart in her private parts. Huo's wife told this to Huo. Huo conspired with some cronies, and when Yan was about to arrive, they deliberately whispered, "So-and-so's wife is most intimate with me." The others pretended disbelief. Huo then fabricated an elaborate story, adding, "If you don't believe me, she has two warts on the side of her privates." Yan was standing just outside the window; having heard it all, he did not enter but went straight home. At home, he brutally tortured his wife; she refused to confess, and the beating grew ever more cruel. She could not endure the abuse and hanged herself. Only then did Huo feel great remorse, but he dared not go to Yan and confess the slander. After Yan's wife died, her ghost wept at night, and the entire household could not find peace. Before long, Yan died suddenly, and the ghost ceased weeping. Huo's wife dreamed of a woman with disheveled hair shouting loudly: "I died in great suffering—how can you husband and wife enjoy yourselves?" She woke and fell ill, and within days she too died. Huo also dreamed of the woman pointing at him and cursing, slapping his mouth. He started awake in fright, felt a dull pain at the corners of his lips, touched them and found them swollen; after three days they became a pair of warts. This became a chronic affliction. He dared not laugh or speak loudly; if he opened his mouth too abruptly, the pain was unbearable. The Historian of the Strange says: "When the dead can become a vengeful spirit, it is because their qi is steeped in grievance. When a private affliction is visited upon the lips and mouth, the divine touches upon the playful." In the same district there was a Wang, who was intimate with a certain schoolmate. The schoolmate's wife went to visit her parents. Wang knew that her donkey was easily startled, so he hid in the thickets in advance, waiting until the woman approached, then burst out suddenly. The donkey shied and the woman fell; only a young servant accompanied her and could not help her mount again. Wang then solicitously lifted and steadied her with great attention, and the woman did not recognize who he was. Wang preened with pride over this, and told the servant to drive the donkey away, whereupon he took the woman in the thickets for his private pleasure, and described in full detail her bared trousers and shoes. When the schoolmate heard this, he left in great shame. A moment later, Wang saw through the crack in the window that the schoolmate held a blade in one hand and dragged his wife with the other, his expression full of rage and menace. Wang was terrified and fled over the wall. The schoolmate pursued him for two or three li, could not catch him, and returned. Wang ran with all his might until his lungs were strained wide open, and from this he contracted a roaring-illness that did not heal for years. Wang Shixiu Wang Shixiu was a man of Luzhou. He was bold, fierce, and strong, able to lift a stone pestle. Father and son were both skilled at cuju. When his father was past forty, he crossed the Qiantang River and perished there. Some eight or nine years later, Wang went to Hunan on business and moored at night on Dongting Lake. At that time the full moon was rising in the east, and the clear river stretched like white silk. As he was gazing into the distance, suddenly five people emerged from the lake, carrying a large mat which they spread flat upon the water surface, covering about half a mu. They laid out wine and dishes in profusion; the vessels clinked and scraped as they touched, but the sound was warm and mellow, not like pottery or earthenware. Presently three of them stepped onto the mat and sat, while two attended them at drink. Of the seated ones, one wore yellow and two wore white; all had black headdresses, tall and lofty, extending down to join the shoulders and back, in a style utterly ancient and strange, though the moonlight was dim and indistinct, making them hard to discern clearly. The attendants both wore brown robes; one seemed a youth, the other an old man. Only the yellow-robed one's words could be heard: "Tonight the moonlight is most excellent, enough to make for a hearty drinking bout." The white-robed one said: "The scenery tonight greatly resembles the time when the King of Guangli gave a banquet on Pear Blossom Isle." The three urged each other to drink, raising their cups and vying to empty them. But when their talk grew somewhat soft, it could no longer be heard. The boatmen hid themselves and dared not move or breathe. Wang scrutinized the attendants closely—the old man strongly resembled his father; yet when he listened to his voice, it was not his father's. The second watch was nearly spent when suddenly one of them said: "With this bright moon, we ought to strike a ball for sport." Then the youth was seen drawing water from the lake and bringing out a round object, as large as an armful, filled inside like with quicksilver, translucent throughout. The seated ones all rose. The yellow-robed man called the old man to join him in kicking it. It was kicked up more than a zhang, its light shimmering and dazzling to the eyes. In a moment it rose with a clatter, flew far off, and fell into the boat. Wang's skill itched within him; he gave it a mighty kick and found it exceptionally light and soft. He kicked so hard it seemed about to burst; it sprang up several zhang, with light leaking from within and shooting down like a rainbow, then fell with a whirring sound; like a comet crossing the sky it plunged straight into the water, where it rolled with bubbling sounds and vanished. Those on the mat all angrily said: "What mortal creature is this, spoiling our pure pleasure?" The old man laughed and said: "Not bad, not bad—this is my family's 'Meteor Turn'." The white-robed one was displeased at his jesting words and angrily said: "We are all vexed enough—how dare this old slave make merry? Go with Little Black-Skin and seize that mad fellow at once! Otherwise, your shins will feel the mallet!" Wang saw no way to escape, yet felt no fear, and stood in the boat grasping his blade. Suddenly he saw the youth and the old man coming with weapons. Wang stared hard—it was truly his father. He cried out: "Father! Your son is here!" The old man was greatly startled, and they gazed at each other in bitter anguish. The youth immediately turned back. The old man said: "Son, hide at once! Otherwise, we shall all die!" Before he finished speaking, the three figures had suddenly boarded the boat. Their faces were all pitch-black, their eyes larger than pomegranates. They seized the old man and dragged him out. Wang struggled with all his might to wrench him back, rocking the boat and breaking its mooring cable. Wang cut off one of their arms with his blade, and the yellow-robed one fled. One of the white-robed ones charged at Wang; Wang hacked off his head, which fell into the water with a splash, and with a great hubbub they all vanished. As they were planning to cross by night, suddenly a huge maw rose from the water, as deep as a well. Water from all sides of the lake rushed into it with booming sounds. Then came a great spout, and waves rose to touch the stars, tossing ten thousand boats. The lake-men were terrified. On the boat were two stone drums, each weighing a hundred jin. Wang lifted one and threw it in; the water surged with a thunderous roar and the waves gradually subsided. He threw in the other, and wind and waves became entirely calm. Wang suspected his father was a ghost. The old man said: "I never died at all. Of the nineteen men who drowned in the river, all were devoured by the demon creatures; I survived because of my skill at kicking the ball. That creature incurred the anger of the Lord of Qiantang, and so moved here to take refuge at Dongting. The three are fish-spirits; the ball they kicked was a fish-bladder." Father and son rejoiced together, and at midnight they rowed away. At daybreak, they saw in the boat a fish-fin some four or five chi across, and realized it was the arm cut off the night before. Shang Sanguan In the former city of Zhuge, there lived a scholar named Shang Shiyu. He offended a local tyrant with drunken jests. The tyrant set his household slaves on him to beat him without mercy. He was carried home and died. Shiyu had two sons, the elder called Chen and the younger called Li, and a daughter called Sanguan. Sanguan was sixteen, and her wedding day had been set, but because of her father's death it could not proceed. Her two elder brothers brought suit, but after a whole year no judgment was reached. Her future in-laws sent someone to consult her mother, asking that she agree to the marriage rites despite the circumstances. The mother was about to consent. The daughter stepped forward and said: "How can there be a wedding while the corpse of my father is not yet cold? Do they have no parents of their own?" When her in-laws heard this, they were shamed and desisted. Before long, the two brothers could not obtain justice from the lawsuit and returned with their grievance unredressed. The whole household was grieved and enraged. The brothers planned to keep their father's body unburied, to lay grounds for another lawsuit. Sanguan said: "If a man is killed and not buried, one can see the state of the times. Would Heaven create a pure Judge Bao especially for you brothers? To leave his bones exposed—how can your hearts bear it?" The two brothers heeded her words and buried their father. After the burial, Sanguan slipped away at night, and none knew where she had gone. Her mother, ashamed and distressed, feared only that her in-laws would learn of it, and dared not tell the clan or neighbors, but only charged the two sons to search for her in secret. After nearly half a year, no trace could be found. At the birthday celebration of the wealthy man, performers were hired to put on a show. The performer Sun Chun brought his two disciples to serve. One was Wang Cheng, of ordinary appearance but with a clear and melodious voice, much praised by the crowd. The other was Li Yu, whose youthful beauty was like that of a fair maiden. When called upon to sing, he pleaded inexperience; when pressed, the tunes he sang were half mixed with children's ditties and rustic ballads, drawing applause from the entire hall. Sun was greatly ashamed and said to the host: "This boy has been studying with me only a short while; he knows only how to serve wine. I beg you not to blame him." Thereupon he was ordered to ply the wine. Yu moved about serving, deftly gauging the host's inclinations. The wealthy man was pleased with him; when the feast ended and the guests dispersed, he kept Yu to share his bed. Yu helped the host to his couch and removed his shoes, attending him with utmost solicitude. When the host, in his drunkenness, spoke lewdly to him, Yu only smiled. The host grew more infatuated, sending away all his servants, leaving Yu alone. Yu waited until the servants had gone, then closed the doors and dropped the bars. The servants retired to another chamber to drink. After some time, they heard a grating sound from the main hall. One servant went to peek and saw the room was pitch dark and utterly silent. As he turned to leave, a loud crash suddenly sounded, like a heavy object hung by a rope snapping free. He called out but received no answer. He summoned the others and they burst the door open together: there lay the host, his head and body severed, while Yu had hanged himself, the rope broken, his body fallen to the ground, with the remnant of the cord still plainly visible on the beam by his neck. The crowd was terrified and spread the news through the inner chambers; all assembled but none could explain it. They moved Yu's corpse to the courtyard and noticed his socks and shoes seemed hollow, as if there were no feet within. Removing them, they found small white shoes curved like hooks—it was a woman! They were even more alarmed and summoned Sun Chun to question him. Sun was frightened beyond measure and knew not what to answer. He only said: "Yu came to be my disciple a month ago, wishing to serve at the master's birthday feast—I truly know not whence she came." Suspecting she was an assassin sent by some merchant due to her mourning attire, they stationed two men to guard the body in turns. The woman's face was as if alive; touching her, her limbs were still warm and soft. The two men secretly plotted to violate her. One of them turned the corpse over and was about to loosen her garments when suddenly his head was struck as if by something, blood gushed from his mouth, and in an instant he was dead. The other, terrified, reported this to the rest. The crowd thereafter regarded the body with reverence as if it were a deity. They reported the matter to the prefecture. The officials questioned her elder brothers Chen and Li, who both said: "We do not know. But our younger sister has been gone for half a year already." They were allowed to examine the body, and indeed it was San Guan. The official, finding it extraordinary, ruled that the two brothers should take the body for burial and ordered the wealthy man's household not to seek vengeance. Yishi Shi said: "To have in one's household a female Yu Rang and not know it—one can thus imagine what sort of men her brothers were. Yet as for San Guan's character, even the desolate waters of the Xiao and Yi rivers would be shamed into stillness; how much more so those who drift aimlessly with the vulgar world! May all women under heaven buy silk and embroider her likeness—such merit would be no less than venerating Lord Guan Yu." Yu Jiang The rustic Yu Jiang's father was sleeping in the fields when he was devoured by a wolf. Yu was sixteen at the time. Finding his father's abandoned shoe, he was consumed with grief and hatred. At night he waited until his mother was asleep, then secretly took an iron hammer and went to sleep where his father had slept, hoping to avenge him. After a short while, a wolf came, prowling and sniffing at him. Yu did not move. The wolf, finding nothing amiss, wagged its tail and brushed his forehead, then gradually bent down to lick his thigh. Yu remained motionless. Then the wolf leaped forward with glee, about to bite his throat. Yu struck the wolf's head with his hammer, killing it instantly. He rose and laid the carcass in the grass. After a time, another wolf came, behaving in the same manner, and he killed it too. By midnight, no more came. He dozed off briefly and dreamed his father said: "Killing these two suffices to vent my hatred. But the one who first killed me had a white nose; neither of these is that." Yu awoke and lay still, waiting. Dawn came and nothing more was caught. He wanted to drag the wolves home but feared alarming his mother, so he threw them into an abandoned well and returned. The next night he went again, but nothing came. This continued for three or four nights. Suddenly a wolf came, bit his foot, and dragged him along. After a few paces, brambles tore his flesh and stones scraped his skin, but Yu lay as if dead. The wolf set him down on the ground and seemed about to tear open his belly. Yu sprang up and struck it with his hammer; it fell, and he struck it again until it died. Examining it closely, it indeed had a white nose. Overjoyed, he carried it home on his back and finally told his mother. His mother wept and followed him to the well, where they retrieved the two wolves. Yishi Shi said: "Among the farming folk, there should be such a heroic figure! His righteous valor sprang from the sincerity of his heart—not merely courage, but wisdom as well." Xiao Er In Teng County, Zhao Wang and his wife were devout Buddhists, eating no meat or blood, and were regarded in the village as "Good People." Their household was moderately well-off. They had a daughter, Xiao Er, exceptionally clever and beautiful, whom Zhao cherished. When she was six, she was sent to study with her elder brother Changchun under a tutor, and in five years she had mastered the Five Classics. A fellow student, Ding Zimo, was three years older than the girl, talented and refined, and they were deeply attracted to each other. He privately told his mother of his feelings and proposed marriage to the Zhao family. But Zhao intended to marry his daughter into a great family and so refused. Not long after, Zhao was seduced by the White Lotus Sect; when Xu Hongru raised his rebellion, the entire household became embroiled with the bandits. Xiao Er, being well-read and quick-witted, mastered at once all the arts of paper soldiers and bean horses. Of the six young women who studied under Xu, she was the best, and thus was taught all his techniques. Because of her, Zhao received great preferment. At that time, Ding was eighteen and a student in the Teng County school. He refused to marry, his heart still fixed on Xiao Er. He secretly left home and joined Xu's camp. When Xiao Er saw him, she was overjoyed and treated him with exceptional courtesy. As one of Xu's foremost disciples, she was in charge of military affairs, coming and going day and night, and her parents had no chance to interfere. Ding visited her every night; she would dismiss all attendants, and they would remain together until the third watch. Ding confided privately: "Do you know why I have come here?" Xiao Er said, "I do not." Ding said: "It is not ambition that brought me; it is entirely for you. The heterodox path leads nowhere—only to destruction. You are a wise person; do you not see this? If you can flee with me, then my true heart will not have been betrayed." Xiao Er was pensive for a moment, then suddenly awakened as from a dream, and said: "To leave my parents is unfilial; I must tell them." The two entered and laid out the pros and cons. Zhao, however, was unconvinced: "Our master is a divine being—how could he err?" Knowing remonstrance was useless, Xiao Er changed her girl's bangs to a woman's coil, produced two paper kites, and mounted one with Ding. The kites hummed and spread their wings, like a pair of lovebirds flying side by side. At dawn they reached the borders of Laiwu. Xiao Er pinched the necks of the kites, and they folded and descended. She stowed the kites away, changed to two mules, and rode to Shanyin Village, where they pretended to be refugees and rented a house. They had left in haste with scant possessions; their provisions were insufficient. Ding was deeply worried. He asked for grain from the neighbors, but none would lend so much as a peck. Xiao Er showed no concern, only pawning her hairpins and earrings. They closed the doors and sat together quietly, guessing lantern riddles and recalling lost texts, competing for victory or defeat; the loser would be rapped on the wrist with two fingers. To the west lived an old man by the surname Weng, a formidable brigand. One day he returned from hunting. Xiao Er said: "'Wealth comes from one's neighbor'—why should we worry? If we borrow a thousand taels from him, will he give it to us?" Ding thought it difficult. Xiao Er said: "I will make him pay willingly." She cut paper into the likeness of a Judge, placed it on the ground, and covered it with a chicken coop. Then she took Ding's hand and mounted the bed, heated some stored wine, and took up the Rites of Zhou as a drinking game: one would cite a certain volume, folio, and line, and they would together look it up. He who found a character with the food, water, or wine radical would drink; one who found a wine character would drink double. Presently Xiao Er happened upon "the Wine Man," and Ding filled a large goblet and pressed her to drink. Xiao Er then prayed: "If we obtain the gold, you shall get the Wine Section." Ding turned the pages and found "the Turtle Man." Xiao Er laughed heartily, saying: "The matter is already settled!" She poured and offered him the wine. Ding was unconvinced. Xiao Er said: "You are of the aquatic kind, so turtle-drinking becomes you." As they were bantering, they heard a clattering from the coop. Xiao Er rose and said: "It has come!" Opening the coop to inspect, they found a cloth sack full of great ingots of gold. Ding was astonished and delighted beyond measure. Later, the old woman of the Weng household came with her child to play and let slip: "When our master first returned, he sat by lamplight at night. Suddenly the ground burst open, fathomless, and a Judge emerged, saying: 'I am a clerk of the underworld. The Sovereign of Mount Tai has convened the netherworld officials to compile the register of evil deeds for robbers; a thousand silver lampstands are required, each weighing ten taels. If you offer a hundred stands, your offenses will be erased.' Our master, terrified, burned incense and knelt in prayer, offering a thousand taels of silver. The Judge drifted back down, and the earth closed again." The couple listened to this tale and pretended to be greatly amazed. From then on, they gradually bought cattle and horses, hired servants and maids, and built their own mansion. The local ruffians, having observed their wealth, gathered a band of miscreants and scaled the wall to rob the Dings. Mr. and Mrs. Ding were just waking from their dreams when they saw that torches of woven reeds had been lit and the house was full of bandits. Two men seized Ding; another thrust his hand into the woman's bosom. She rose in her undergarments, pointed her finger, and cried out: "Stop! Stop!" The thirteen bandits all stuck out their tongues and stood stupefied, as foolish as wooden puppets. Only then did she put on her trousers and get down from the bed, summon the household servants to bind the bandits' arms behind their backs one by one, and force them to confess everything in full detail. Then she rebuked them, saying: "We are strangers who have buried ourselves in this mountain valley, hoping to find mutual support—how could you be so unkind as this? Hardship comes to everyone in turn; if you were in desperate straits, you might have told us plainly. Am I one who hoards wealth and clings to it? Such wolfish conduct deserves death to the last man; but I cannot bear to do it, so for the time being I release you. If you offend again, there will be no pardon!" The bandits kowtowed their thanks and departed. Not long after, Hongru was captured, and the Zhao family—man, wife, and children—were all executed. The scholar took gold and went to ransom Hongru's youngest son, Changchun, bringing him back. The child was three years old; they raised him as their own, giving him the surname Ding and naming him Chengtiao ("inheritor of the ancestral line"). By this time the villagers gradually came to know that they were relatives of the White Lotus sect. Just then a plague of locusts was damaging the crops, so the woman released several hundred paper kites into the fields. The locusts fled far away and did not enter her ridges, and thus she suffered no harm. The villagers all resented her for this, and a group of them denounced her to the authorities, claiming she was a remnant of Hongru's faction. The officials, eyeing her wealth and looking upon Ding as a piece of meat, arrested Ding. She bribed the magistrate handsomely, and only then was Ding released. The woman said: "Our wealth was acquired by questionable means, so it is only right that some should be lost. But this is a nest of snakes and scorpions—we cannot stay here long." So she sold off her business at a low price and moved away, settling on the western outskirts of Yidu. The woman was ingenious and skilled at managing savings and investments, surpassing men in her business acumen. She often operated a glassware workshop; whenever she hired workers, she would instruct them personally. All the chess-lamps and other items—their novel shapes and fantastic colors—were beyond what any other shop could produce, and for this reason the prices were high and they sold quickly. After several years, her wealth became even more formidable. She supervised her maids and servants strictly; although there were several hundred mouths to feed, none were idle. In her spare time, she would brew tea and play chess with Ding, or read histories and classics for amusement. Income and outlays, as well as the work of the maids and servants, were reviewed every five days: the woman herself kept the tallies while Ding checked the ledgers and called out the names and numbers. The diligent were rewarded according to merit, while the lazy were caned and made to kneel as punishment. On that day, they were given time off from night work; the couple would set out wine and dishes, summon the maids, and sing folk ditties for amusement. The woman's perception was godlike; no one dared deceive her. And her rewards always exceeded the labor performed, so tasks were easily completed. Of the two hundred-odd households in the village, she gave capital to all the poor, and because of this there were no idlers or vagrants in the area. During a great drought, the woman had the villagers set up an altar in the fields. She rode out in a carriage, paced in the manner of Yu the Great, and performed her magic; sweet rain poured down, thoroughly irrigating the land within five li. The people revered her all the more. When the woman went out she never veiled her face, and all the villagers could see her. Sometimes groups of young men would gather privately to discuss her beauty; but when they met her face to face, they all became solemn and dared not look up at her. Every autumn, she gave money to the village children who could not work in the fields, sending them to gather tea and thistles. For nearly twenty years, they piled up enough to fill the entire upper story of the house. People secretly laughed at her for this. But when a famine struck Shandong and people were eating one another, the woman brought out the vegetables and mixed them with grain to feed the hungry. The nearby villages depended on her to survive, and none fled their homes. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "What these two did was virtually heaven-sent, not a matter of human power. Yet had it not been for that single word of awakening, they would have perished long ago in pairs. Looking at this, one sees that in this world there must be no small number of those who possess extraordinary talent but mistakenly fall into wrongdoing and die. How could one know that among the six schoolmates there was not such a person? It makes one regret not having encountered Ding." Gengniang Jin Dayong was from a good family in the central plains. He had been betrothed to the daughter of Prefect You, whose courtesy name was Gengniang—beautiful and virtuous. Their conjugal affection was deep. Because of the rebellion of roving bandits, the family was scattered. Jin took his family south to flee. On the road he met a young man who was also fleeing with his wife. He claimed to be Wang Shiba of Guangling and offered to serve as their guide. Jin was pleased, and they traveled together. When they reached the river, Gengniang secretly told Jin: "Do not share a boat with that young man. He has repeatedly looked at me, with shifty eyes and changing expression—his intentions are unfathomable." Jin agreed. But Wang was assiduous in finding a large boat and helping Jin move his baggage, working with utmost diligence. Jin could not bear to refuse him. He also reflected that since Wang had his own young wife with him, there should be no harm. The woman shared quarters with Gengniang and seemed quite gentle and agreeable. Wang sat at the boat's prow, speaking in low tones with the oarsmen, as if he were very familiar with them, like old friends or relatives. Before long, the sun set and the water journey stretched far into the distance, so dim that one could not tell north from south. Jin looked around at the perilous and desolate surroundings and grew deeply suspicious and alarmed. Presently the bright moon rose, and they saw an endless expanse of reeds. Once they had anchored, Wang invited Jin and his father to step outside the cabin for a breath of air. Then, taking advantage of the moment, he shoved Jin into the water. Jin's father saw this and tried to shout, but the boatman struck him with a pole and he too drowned. Jin's mother heard the commotion and came out to look; they struck her with the pole and drowned her as well. Only then did Wang begin shouting for help. When Jin's mother came out, Gengniang had been behind her and had already glimpsed what was happening. When she heard that the whole family had drowned, she did not panic. She only wept, saying: "My father-in-law and mother-in-law are both gone—where am I to go?" Wang came in and urged her: "Do not worry, madam. Please come with me to Jinling. My house and fields there are quite enough to support you; I guarantee you will have no worries." The woman wiped away her tears and said: "If it is so, I should be content." Wang was overjoyed and attended to her with great care. When evening came, he drew her close and sought intimacy. She pleaded that she was indisposed (having her monthly courses), so Wang went to sleep with his own wife. When the first watch had ended, the husband and wife were heard quarreling loudly, though the cause was unclear. Only the wife's voice could be heard saying: "What you have done—thunder and lightning will surely shatter your skull!" Wang then struck her. The wife cried out: "Better to die! Truly I will not be the wife of a murderer!" Wang roared in fury, dragged her out, and there was a splash—then he announced loudly that his wife had drowned. Before long they arrived at Jinling. Wang led Gengniang to his home, where they entered the hall and paid respects to his mother. The old lady was surprised that this was not her former daughter-in-law. Wang said: "My wife fell into the water and died; I have newly married this one." When they entered the bedroom, he tried once more to force himself upon her. Gengniang smiled and said: "A man of thirty or so—have you never known the marriage bed? When a common lad first weds, he must at least have a cup of light wine. Your family is rich and well-provisioned—that should not be difficult. To face each other cold sober—what sort of conduct is that?" Wang was delighted and brought out wine to drink with her. Gengniang held the cup and pressed him to drink with warm entreaty. Wang gradually became drunk and declined to drink more. Gengniang brought out a large bowl and with coaxing charm urged him to drink. Wang could not bear to refuse and drank again. Thus he became deeply intoxicated, stripped off his clothes, and hurried her to bed. Gengniang put away the vessels and extinguished the candle, pretending she needed to go out to relieve herself. She left the room, took a knife, and re-entered. In the darkness she felt for Wang's neck with her hand; Wang, still thinking it was caresses, made amorous murmurs. Gengniang slashed at him with all her might, but he did not die; he cried out and rose. She slashed again, and only then did he fall dead. The old mother, hearing something amiss, came to ask. The woman killed her as well. Wang's younger brother Shijiu sensed something wrong. Gengniang knew she could not escape, and urgently tried to cut her own throat. But the knife was blunt and notched and would not go in; she opened the door and fled. Shijiu pursued her, but she had already thrown herself into the pond. He called out to the neighbors, and they pulled her out, but she was already dead—yet her countenance was as beautiful as in life. Together they examined Wang's corpse and saw a letter in the window. When they opened it, it contained the woman's full account of her grievances. All declared her a martyr and planned to collect funds for her funeral. At dawn, several thousand people gathered to look at her; when they saw her face, they all bowed in worship. In a single day they collected a hundred taels of gold, and so buried her at the southern outskirts. Those with a taste for such things provided her with a pearl crown and ceremonial robes, and her interment was sumptuous. Initially, when Jin Sheng had been swept away by the water, he floated on a wooden plank and thus survived. As dawn approached, he reached the Huai River shore, where a small boat rescued him. The boat belonged to a wealthy man named Yin, who had specifically stationed it there to save the drowning. Once Jin revived, he went to Yin to express his gratitude. Yin treated him generously and kept him to tutor his son. Jin, however, was anxious to learn of his parents' fate and could not settle on a course of action. Soon, someone reported: "We have retrieved the bodies of an old man and an old woman." Jin suspected they were his parents, and when he rushed to see, they were indeed. Yin helped procure coffins for them. While Jin was still in mourning, another report came: "A drowned woman has been rescued; she claims her husband is a certain Mr. Jin." Jin wiped away his tears and hurried out in surprise. The woman had already arrived, but she was not Gengniang—she was Wang Shiba's wife. She wept before Jin and begged him not to abandon her. Jin said, "My mind is already in chaos—how can I spare thoughts for another?" The woman grew even more sorrowful. Yin learned the whole story and, delighted that heaven had repaid virtue, urged Jin to take her in. Jin declined on the grounds of mourning and added that he still had to seek revenge, fearing that a helpless dependant would only be a burden. The woman replied, "By your logic, if Gengniang were still alive, would you cast her aside because of revenge and mourning?" Yin thought her words wise and offered to temporarily keep her in his household, so Jin consented. When the old couple were buried, the woman donned mourning garments and wept as though she had lost her own father- and mother-in-law. After the burial, Jin concealed a blade, took up a begging bowl, and prepared to go to Guangling. The woman stopped him, saying: "I am a Tang, my ancestral home is in Jinling—the same hometown as that vile beast. My earlier mention of Guangling was a lie. Moreover, the river bandits along the waterways are half his associates; you cannot avenge yourself, only invite disaster." Jin hesitated, uncertain what to do. Then word suddenly spread along the waterways of a woman who had slain her enemy, her name and deeds widely known. Jin was briefly gratified, but grief overwhelmed him again. He said to the woman, "I am fortunate not to have been disgraced. When my family has produced such a martyr, how could I bear to be disloyal and remarry?" But the woman argued that she had already been promised and refused to part ways midway, offering to remain as a concubine. It happened that Deputy General Yuan had an old friendship with Yin and was about to depart westward when he called on Yin. He met Jin and took a great liking to him, inviting him to serve as a secretary. Before long, roving bandits rose in rebellion, and Yuan rendered great service; Jin, having assisted in strategic matters, was rewarded with a commission as a guerrilla officer and returned home. Only then did the couple perform the formal nuptial rites. After a few days, Jin took his wife to Jinling to visit Gengniang's grave. On the way, they stopped at Zhenjiang and wished to ascend Jinshan Mountain. As their boat drifted midstream, suddenly a skiff passed by, carrying an elderly woman and a young lady. Jin thought the young lady strikingly resembled Gengniang. The boat sped past, but the lady peered through her window at Jin, her expression even more like Gengniang's. Startled and doubtful, he dared not call out directly, but urgently shouted: "Look at the flock of ducklings flying up to heaven!" The young lady, hearing this, called back: "Is the greedy little dog craving the smell of catfish?" This was a private jest from their boudoir days. Jin was greatly astonished, turned his boat around and drew near—it was truly Gengniang. A maidservant helped her cross over to his boat, and they embraced and wept bitterly, moving all the travelers. Tang-shi greeted Gengniang with the formalities due a principal wife. Gengniang asked in surprise, and Jin recounted the full circumstances. Gengniang took her hand and said, "That one conversation aboard the boat has ever lingered in my heart—I never imagined our separate households would become one. You have buried my parents-in-law on my behalf; you deserve my foremost thanks—why offer such formalities to me?" Then she ranked them by age; Tang being one year younger, she called her "little sister." Previously, after Gengniang had been buried, she did not know how many autumns had passed. Suddenly a voice called out: "Gengniang, your husband is not dead; you shall yet be reunited." Thereupon she felt as if waking from a dream. Touching around her, she found walls on all sides and realized she had died and been buried. She only felt stifled, but suffered no pain. Some young rogues, having noticed the richness of her burial goods, opened the grave and broke open the coffin. Just as they were about to ransack it, they saw Gengniang still alive and were all terrified. Fearing they would harm her, she pleaded: "I am grateful you have come, for you have let me see the light of day again. Take all the hairpins and earrings from my head. If you sell me to a nunnery, you can still earn a little more. I will not reveal anything." The bandits kowtowed and said: "Madam, your chastity and fortitude are revered by gods and men alike. We are merely poor wretches with no other recourse, committing this unrighteous act. We would count ourselves fortunate if you do not breathe a word—how dare we sell you to a nunnery!" Gengniang said, "This is what I myself desire." Another bandit said, "Madam Geng of Zhenjiang is a widow without children; if she sees you, she will surely be overjoyed." Gengniang thanked them. She herself removed her pearl ornaments and handed them all to the bandits. They dared not accept them; but she insisted, so they bowed and took them. Then they carried her off to Madam Geng's house, claiming she had been lost in a windstorm at sea. Madam Geng was of a wealthy family, a widow managing her own affairs. She was delighted with Gengniang and treated her as her own daughter. It happened that mother and daughter were returning from Jinshan that day. Gengniang recounted her story in full. Jin then went aboard to pay his respects to the mother, who received him as a son-in-law. She invited them to her home, where they stayed several days before departing. Thereafter they visited each other without end. The Historian remarks: "When great upheaval comes, the lewd survive and the chaste perish. The survivors make one gnash their teeth in rage; the slain make one weep in sorrow. Yet to face peril with laughter, to slay one's foe with one's own hand—among the heroes of ages past, how many could match her? Who says a woman cannot rival the likes of Yan Yun?" Gong Mengbi Liu Fenghua was a native of Baoding. His wealth was unrivaled in the region, and he was generous and fond of guests; often a hundred people sat at his table. He was eager to relieve others' distress and would not begrudge even a thousand taels. Friends and guests often borrowed money without repaying it. Only one guest, Gong Mengbi, a man from Shaanxi, never asked for anything his whole life. Whenever he came, he would stay for a year or more. His speech and manner were refined and free; Liu spent more time in his company than with any other. Liu's son, named He, was then still a child with his hair in tufts, and he called Gong "uncle." Gong also enjoyed playing with He. Whenever He returned from school, Gong would lift the floor tiles with him and bury pebbles to pretend they were hiding gold—just for fun. They dug beneath the five bays of the house until nearly every spot was turned up. Everyone laughed at this childishness, but He alone loved it and grew especially close to Gong, closer than to any other guest. More than ten years later, the family's fortunes gradually declined, and they could no longer satisfy the demands of so many guests; thus the guests grew fewer. Still, a dozen or so people drinking and talking through the night remained common. As the years advanced, their circumstances worsened further, yet Liu still sold off parcels of land to provide for chickens and grain. He too was extravagant, following his father's example in cultivating young friends, and Liu did not restrain him. Before long, Liu fell ill and died, leaving not even enough for funeral provisions. Gong then produced his own funds to manage Liu's burial arrangements. He was all the more grateful to Gong. He entrusted all matters, great and small, to Uncle Gong. Gong, whenever he came in from outside, would always conceal pebbles in his sleeve; once inside, he would toss them into dark corners. No one could fathom his intent. He would often lament his poverty to Gong. Gong said: "You do not understand the hardships of toil. Not to mention having no money—even if I gave you a thousand taels, you would spend it all in a flash. A man should worry about not standing on his own; why worry about poverty?" One day, Gong announced his wish to return home. He wept and begged him to come back quickly; Gong promised, and departed. He was now too poor to sustain himself; his pawned possessions were nearly exhausted. He daily expected Gong's return, hoping he would manage affairs, but Gong had vanished without trace, gone like the yellow crane. Earlier, when Liu was still alive, he had betrothed He to the Huang family of Wuji, a wealthy house. Later, hearing of Liu's poverty, the Huangs secretly regretted the match. When Liu died, they were informed but did not even offer condolences; He excused this on grounds of the long distance. After He's mourning period ended, his mother sent him in person to his prospective father-in-law's home to set a wedding date, hoping the Huangs might take pity on him. When he arrived, Huang, seeing his worn-out clothes and shoes, ordered the gatekeeper to refuse him entry. He sent word: "Go home and raise a hundred taels of silver; then you may return. Otherwise, let this be the end between us." He wept bitterly at these words. Old Woman Liu across the way, taking pity on him, gave him food and presented him with three hundred coppers, consoling him and sending him home. His mother too was grieved and helpless. Then she recalled that among their former guests, eight or nine out of ten were in debt, and urged He to seek help from the wealthiest of them. He said: "Those who befriended me in the past did so because of my wealth. If I rode in a four-horse carriage today, borrowing a thousand taels would be no trouble; but in my present state, who would still remember past kindness or old friendship? Besides, Father lent money to people without any promissory notes or guarantors—demanding repayment would be difficult to prove." His mother insisted, and He obeyed. Over more than twenty days, he could not obtain a single coin; only the performer Li Si, who had once received favors from their family, upon hearing of his plight, gave him one tael of silver out of righteousness. Mother and son wept together, and from then on they abandoned all hope. Huang's daughter had now reached the age of fifteen. When she heard that her father had broken off the engagement, she privately disapproved. Huang wanted his daughter to marry another. The girl wept and said, "Liu was not born poor. If he were twice as rich as before, could those who hate me take him from me? To abandon him now because he is poor is unkind!" Huang was displeased and tried every argument to convince her, but the girl would not yield. Her father and mother both grew angry, cursing and spitting at her morning and night, but she bore it calmly. Before long, bandits raided them one night; Huang and his wife were tortured with branding irons nearly to death, and everything in the house was swept clean. Over three years passed, and the family declined further. A western merchant, hearing of the girl's beauty, offered fifty taels of silver as betrothal gift. Huang, tempted by profit, agreed and resolved to force her to change her resolve. The girl, seeing through their scheme, destroyed her finery, smeared dirt on her face, fled by night, and begged for food along the road. After two months, she reached Baoding, inquired after Liu's dwelling, and went straight to his house. His mother, taking her for a beggar woman, scolded her. The girl sobbed and identified herself. His mother took her hands and wept, saying, "Child, how have you come to this state!" The girl then sorrowfully recounted everything. Mother and son both wept. They bathed and groomed her, and her complexion brightened, her eyes and brows shining anew. Both mother and son rejoiced. Yet the three in the household ate only one meal a day. The mother wept and said, "My son and I deserve this; what I pity is that we have wronged my virtuous daughter-in-law!" The girl smiled and comforted her, saying, "When your daughter-in-law was among beggars, she knew well that way of life. Seeing it now, I feel it is as different as heaven and earth." The mother smiled at this. One day the girl entered an idle room and saw clumps of broken grass everywhere with no clear floor space. Going further into the inner chamber, she found dust piled thick; in a dark corner something was heaped up. She kicked it and stubbed her toe; picking it up, she saw it was all refined silver. Startled, she ran to tell Liu. Liu went with her to examine it, and it turned out to be the tiles and pebbles that Gong had once thrown away, now all turned into white silver. He then recalled that as a child he had often buried stones in that stone chamber—could they all be silver? But the old house had already been mortgaged to a neighbor. He hurriedly redeemed it. Where the broken bricks were missing, the buried stones were plainly visible, which rather disappointed him; but when he uncovered other bricks, they glittered as bright silver. In an instant, he had tens of thousands in silver. From then on he redeemed fields and property, bought servants, and his gatehouse and halls became more splendid than before. He spurred himself on, saying, "If I do not stand on my own, I will have wronged my Uncle Gong!" He applied himself diligently to study, and within three years passed the provincial examination. He then personally took silver to repay Old Woman Liu. His fine clothes dazzled the eyes; more than ten servants, all riding spirited horses like dragons, accompanied him. Old Woman Liu had only one room, yet Liu sat on her couch. Men shouted and horses pranced, filling the lanes. Old Huang, since his daughter's disappearance and the western merchant's pressing for return of the betrothal money—of which more than half had already been spent—sold his house to settle the debt. Thus he was as impoverished as Liu had once been. Hearing of his former son-in-law's glory, he shut his doors and nursed his own distress. Old Woman Liu bought wine and prepared food to entertain Liu, and told him of the daughter's virtue, lamenting that she had fled. She asked if Liu had married. Liu said, "I have." After the meal, he insisted that Old Woman Liu come see his new wife, and took her back with him in his carriage. When they arrived, the lady came out in splendid adornment, surrounded by maidservants like a fairy. Old Woman Liu was greatly startled, and then they recounted old times. The lady warmly inquired after her parents' welfare. She stayed several days, treated with great kindness and generosity, had fine clothes made, new from head to toe, and then sent her back. Old Woman Liu went to the Huangs' home to report news of the daughter and convey her regards. The couple were astounded. Old Woman Liu urged them to go visit their daughter, but Huang hesitated. Soon, however, cold and hunger became unbearable, so they had no choice but to go to Baoding. Upon arriving at the gate, they saw it was lofty and magnificent, but the doorkeeper glared angrily and for a whole day they could not gain entry. Then a woman came out; Huang, with a meek expression and humble words, told her his surname and asked her to quietly inform the daughter. After a moment, the woman came out and led them into a side room. She said, "The young mistress greatly wishes to see you, but fears the master may know; she is still waiting for an opportunity. When did you arrive here? Are you not hungry?" Huang then recounted his hardships. The woman brought out a flagon of wine and two dishes of food and set them before Huang. She also gave him five taels of silver, saying, "The master is feasting in the inner chambers; the young mistress may not be able to come. Tomorrow morning, you should leave early, and do not let the master hear of this." Huang agreed. The next morning he rose early to pack, but the gate locks had not yet been opened, so he waited at the gate, sitting on his bundled belongings. Suddenly there was a commotion as the master came out. Huang tried to step aside and avoid notice, but Liu had already seen him. Surprised, he asked who it was, but none of the servants could answer. Liu angrily said, "This must be a villain! Seize him and take him to the authorities." At his command, they rushed out, tied him with a short rope to a tree. Huang, shamed and frightened, did not know what to say. Before long, the woman from the previous night came out, knelt, and said, "This is the mistress's maternal uncle. Because he arrived late last night, I did not inform the master." Liu ordered them to release him. The woman escorted him out and said, "I forgot to instruct the gatekeeper, which caused this mishap. The young mistress says: when you miss her, you may have the old lady pretend to be a flower seller and come with Old Woman Liu." Huang agreed and returned home to tell his wife. The old mother missed her daughter desperately and told Old Woman Liu, who indeed accompanied her to Liu's house. They passed through more than ten gates before reaching the lady's quarters. The lady wore a cape and an upswept coiffure, adorned with pearls, jade, silks, and brocades, her fragrance wafting toward them. At a single chirping sound, young and old maidservants rushed in from all sides, set out gold-inlaid couches and placed double armrests. Clever maids brewed tea; they exchanged greetings in veiled words, their eyes glistening with tears. That evening, a room was prepared for the two old women; the mats and bedding were warm and soft, beyond even what they had enjoyed in their prosperous days. After three or five days, the lady's attentions remained warm and generous. The old mother would often lead her aside to a private spot, weeping as she confessed her former faults. The lady said, "How could I, as your daughter, ever forget any wrongdoing? But my husband's anger has not subsided, and I must prevent him from hearing of this." Whenever Liu approached, she would flee and hide. One day, as they were sitting close together, Liu suddenly entered and, seeing them, angrily scolded, "What village crone is this, who dares to sit beside my wife! Her hair should be pulled out!" Old Woman Liu hurried forward and said, "This old woman is my relative—Sister Wang the flower seller. I beg you not to be angry." Liu then raised his hands in apology and sat down. He said, "You have been here several days, but I have been very busy and have not had time to converse. Is that old beast Huang still alive?" She smiled and said, "They are well, but so poor they cannot get by. You, sir, are now wealthy and honored—can you not think of the bond between father-in-law and son-in-law?" Liu struck the table and said, "In those years, if you had not taken pity and given me a bowl of gruel, how could I have ever returned to my homeland! I would like to have them sleep under my feet—how can there be any thought of them!" As he grew angrier, he stamped his feet and rose to curse. The lady, vexed, said, "Even if they are unkind, they are my parents. I came a long way, my hands cracked with chilblains, my toes worn through, thinking myself not unworthy of you. How can you curse my father to my face and make me suffer?" Liu then restrained his anger and left. Old Mother Huang, ashamed and disheartened, took her leave and wished to return. The lady privately gave her twenty taels of silver. After they returned, there was a long silence with no word, and the lady deeply missed them. Liu then sent men to summon them. When the couple arrived, they were so ashamed they could not face anyone. Liu apologized, saying, "When you honored us last year, I was not informed, and so I offended you greatly." Huang only murmured in assent. Liu had their clothes and shoes changed. They stayed over a month, but Huang's heart was never at ease, and he repeatedly asked to leave. Liu gave him one hundred taels of silver and said, "The western merchant offered fifty—I now double it." Huang received it with a face flushed with shame. Liu sent them back with carriages and horses, and that year they were moderately well-off. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "After the weeping at Yongmen, the red slippers vanished, and men in their indignation shut their gates, unwilling to receive another guest. Yet a true friend who buries one's bones and turns stone to gold—one cannot say this is not the reward for generous hospitality. A woman in the inner chambers enjoying high honor, like a palace consort—unless she possessed a chastity and constancy surpassing all others, as Huang's daughter did, who could bear such fortune without shame? Thus does the Creator not bestow blessings lightly." In the countryside there was a rich man who hoarded and exacted profit to the full, calculating to the bone. He buried several hundred taels of silver in a vault, terrified that others might know, and so wore tattered clothing and ate chaff to appear poor. If relatives or friends ever came, he never once prepared a meal of chicken or millet. If anyone suggested he was not poor, he would glare in anger as if they were his mortal enemy. In his later years, he ate nothing but a pint of elm husks a day; the skin on his arms hung down a full inch in folds, yet he never opened his vault. Gradually he grew emaciated. As he neared death, his two sons crowded around questioning him, but he still would not tell them; only when he felt death truly imminent did he wish to tell his sons, but when they came, his tongue was already too stiff to speak, and he could only claw at his heart and gasp. After his death, his descendants could not afford a coffin and buried him in straw. Alas! If one regards buried silver as wealth, then the millions in the imperial treasury—why could one not claim them as one's own? How foolish! The Mynah Bird Wang Fenbin said: In his village there was a man who kept a mynah bird. He taught it to speak, and it became very familiar and playful. Whenever he went out, he always took it with him, and they had been together for several years. One day, he was about to pass through Jiangzhou, but his travel funds were exhausted. The man was worried and at a loss. The bird said, "Why not sell me? Send me to the prince's residence, and you will get a good price; then you need not worry about lacking funds for the return journey." The man said, "How could I bear to do that?" The bird said, "No harm. The master should take the money and go quickly, and wait for me under the trees in the woods twenty li west of the city." The man followed its advice. He took it to the city, and as they conversed with each other, the onlookers gradually increased. A eunuch saw it and reported it to the prince. The prince summoned him and wished to buy it. The man said, "I depend on this bird as my companion; I do not wish to sell it." The prince asked the bird, "Do you wish to stay?" It said, "I wish to stay." The prince was pleased. The bird also said, "Offer ten gold pieces; do not give more." The prince was even more delighted and immediately gave ten gold pieces. The man put on a look of chagrin and left. The prince spoke with the bird, and it answered readily and cleverly. He called for meat to feed it. After eating, the bird said, "I wish to bathe." The prince ordered a golden basin filled with water, opened the cage, and let it bathe. After bathing, it flew to the eaves, preened its feathers and shook them dry, still chattering incessantly with the prince. After a while, its feathers dried, and it fluttered up, saying in the Jin accent, "Your servant is leaving!" In a glance, it had vanished from sight. The prince and the eunuchs looked up and sighed. They hurriedly sought the man, but he had already disappeared. Later, someone who went to Qinzhong saw the man with the bird in the marketplace of Xi'an. This was recorded by Mr. Bi Zaiji. Liu Haishi Liu Haishi was a native of Putai. He fled the chaos and went to Binzhou. At that time he was fourteen years old, and shared a teacher with Liu Cangke, a scholar of Binzhou; because of this they became close and pledged to be like brothers. Before long, Haishi lost his parents, and after escorting their funerals home, all news of him ceased. Cangke's family was quite well-off. At forty, he had two sons: the eldest, Ji, was seventeen and a famous scholar of the county; the younger was also clever. Cangke also took as a concubine a Miss Ni of the same county, and doted on her greatly. After half a year, the eldest son died of a brain disease, causing the husband and wife great grief. Not long after, his wife also fell ill and died; within a few months, the eldest son's wife died too; and deaths among the servants and maids followed one after another. Cangke was so grief-stricken that he could barely bear it. One day, while he was sitting in melancholy, the gatekeeper suddenly announced that Haishi had arrived. Cangke was overjoyed and hurried out to welcome him in. Just as he was about to exchange pleasantries, Haishi suddenly exclaimed in surprise, "Brother, do you not know that your household is facing a calamity of annihilation?" Cangke was startled and could not understand what he meant. Haishi said, "I have not heard from you for a long time, and I secretly suspected that your recent circumstances might not be good." Cangke's tears flowed, and he recounted the situation. Haishi sighed with emotion. Then he smiled and said, "The disaster is not yet over; at first I came to offer condolences. But fortunately you have met me—allow me to offer congratulations instead." Cangke said, "We have not seen each other for so long; have you recently mastered the art of Bian Que?" Haishi said, "That is not my forte. But I am rather practiced in the physiognomy of dwellings." Cangke was pleased and asked him to inspect the house. Haishi went inside and looked over the entire compound, inside and out. Then he asked to see all the family members; Cangke followed his instruction and had his sons, daughters-in-law, concubines, and maids all appear in the hall. Cangke pointed them out one by one. When he came to Ni, Haishi looked up to the sky and laughed without stopping. Everyone was startled and puzzled, but they saw Miss Ni trembling, her face pale; her body suddenly shrank to only a little over two feet. Haishi struck her head with a carpenter's square, producing a sound like stone. Haishi grabbed her hair and examined the back of her head, where he saw several white hairs, which he tried to pull out. The woman shrank her neck, knelt, and wept, saying she would leave at once, but begged him not to pull them out. Haishi angrily said, "Your malicious intent is not yet dead, is it?" He pulled them out from the back of her neck. With that, the woman transformed instantly into something black like a wildcat. Everyone was terrified. Haishi picked it up and put it into his sleeve, then turned to the daughter-in-law and said, "Your daughter-in-law has been deeply poisoned; there should be something unusual on her back—please let me examine it." The woman was ashamed and refused to bare herself. Liu's son insisted, and when she did, they saw white hairs on her back, about four finger-widths long. Haishi removed them with a needle and said, "These hairs are already old; in seven days it would have been incurable." He then examined Liu's son, who also had hairs, only two finger-widths long. He said, "At this rate, he would die in a little over a month." He then pricked Cangke and all the servants and maids as well. He said, "Had I not come, not one soul in this household would have survived." They asked, "What are these things?" He replied, "They belong to the fox kind. They absorb human vital spirit to gain their powers, and are most adept at causing death." Cangke said, "I have not seen you for a long time—how have you become so divinely extraordinary? Are you not an immortal?" Haishi laughed and said, "I merely learned a minor skill from my master—how can you call me an immortal?" When asked about his master, he replied, "He is the Mountain-Stone Daoist. As for this creature, I cannot kill it; I will take it back as a captive offering to my master." Having said that, he took his leave. He felt his sleeve was empty and exclaimed in alarm, "It is gone! There was a long hair at the tip of its tail that I did not remove, and now it has escaped." Everyone was frightened. Haishi said, "The hairs on its collar are all gone, so it cannot transform into a human anymore; it can only turn into an animal, and it cannot have fled far." So he went into the rooms and examined the cats, went outside and set the dogs after it, but each time said there was nothing. When he opened the pigsty, he laughed and said, "Here it is." Cangke looked and saw an extra pig. When it heard Haishi laugh, it lay down and dared not move. He took it by the ear and pulled it out; on its tail they saw a single white hair, stiff as a needle. Just as he was about to pluck it out, the pig turned and squealed piteously, refusing to let him pull it. Haishi said, "You have committed so many misdeeds, and yet you still refuse to give up even one hair?" He held it fast and pulled it out; with that, it once again transformed into a wildcat. He put it in his sleeve and was about to leave. Cangke pressed him to stay, so he stayed for a meal. When asked about their next meeting, he said, "That is hard to predict. My master has made a great vow, and often sends us out into the world to rescue living beings—we may well meet again." After he left, Cangke pondered his name carefully and then suddenly understood: "Haishi must be an immortal. 'Mountain' and 'Stone' combined form the character 'Yan'—that is the taboo name of Immortal Lü." Admonishing Ghosts When Shi Maohua, the Minister of Works from Qingzhou, was still a candidate, there was a large deep pool outside the prefectural gate that never dried up even without rain. The county had captured several dozen great bandits and executed them by the pool. The ghosts gathered and caused mischief; those who passed by were often dragged in. One day, a certain A was in distress when he suddenly heard the ghosts fleeing in panic, crying, "Minister Shi is coming!" Soon after, the minister arrived, and A told him what had happened. The minister wrote on the wall with white chalk an announcement saying: "Shi so-and-so issues a prohibition: It is observed that those of unwholesome mind bring upon themselves the thunderous wrath; those who plot treason incur the punishment of the axe and halberd. They should only turn back the hearts of the netherworld and vie with each other in repentance; perhaps they may wash away the blood from their skulls and escape this abyss of suffering. Yet you, though already subjected to the extreme penalty in life, still gather in evil after death. Leaping and howling, you come in disheveled bands; shuffling and prowling, you beat your breasts and act as malevolent spirits. With yellow mud stopping your ears, you recklessly display the ferocity of demons; in broad daylight you become apparitions, almost cutting off the path of travellers! Those mounds of three feet are under human jurisdiction; how can you, the wicked and stubborn, be allowed to roam freely within the vastness of Heaven and Earth? After this proclamation, each of you should hide your traces and not persist in wrongdoing. The bones by the Wuding River shall quietly await reincarnation; the souls that dreamt within the golden闺 chambers shall return to their native soil. If you repeat your former offences, you will surely bring later regret!" From then on, the ghostly troubles ceased, and the pool soon dried up as well. The Clay Ghost In my native place, when Grand Historian Tang Jiwu was a child of several years, a cousin of his took him to play in a temple. The young Tang was open and bold, and had the stoutest courage. He saw a clay ghost in the corridor, with glittering glass eyes, very bright and large; he took a fancy to it, and secretly pried one out with his finger, carrying it home in his bosom. When he got home, the cousin suddenly fell violently ill and could not speak for a long time. Then he suddenly rose and shouted in a fierce voice, "Why did you gouge out my eye!" He screamed and yelled incessantly. No one knew the reason. Only then did the young Tang tell what he had done. His family then prayed, "The child was ignorant and playfully injured your honored eye; we will return it at once." Then the voice cried loudly, "If so, I shall leave." With that, the cousin fell to the ground and became insensible. After a long while he revived; when asked what he had said, he was completely unaware. So they sent the eye back and replaced it in the clay ghost's socket. The Historian of the Strange says: "Coming into the hall to demand his eye—how numinous was that clay idol! But when Grand Historian Tang took the eye, why did the ghost take out his anger on the cousin who accompanied him? It is because of the dignity of the Hanlin scholar, and moreover his outspoken nature—consider how he memorialized the Northern Palace and retired to the Southern Mountains with a sweep of his sleeve; even the spirits feared him, let alone a ghost?" Dream Parting Mr. Wang Chunli's grandfather was on the best of terms with my late grand-uncle, Mr. Yutian. One night, he dreamed that Mr. Yutian came to his home and spoke to him with a gloomy countenance. He asked, "Why have you come?" He replied, "I am about to go on a long journey, so I have come to take leave of you." He asked, "Where are you going?" He said, "Far away." Then he went out. He escorted him to a valley, where he saw a crack in a stone cliff. Then he clasped his hands in farewell, turned his back to the crack, and slowly backed into it, walking backwards. He called out but received no answer, and thus startled awake. At dawn, he told this to Grandfather Jingyi and also had him prepare mourning paraphernalia, saying, "Mr. Yutian has passed away!" Grandfather Jingyi asked to first go and verify it, and then offer condolences. He would not listen, but went directly in plain white mourning clothes. Upon arriving at the gate, he saw the mourning streamers already hung. Alas! The ancients trusted each other in life and death to such a degree; the funeral cortege waited for Juqing before proceeding—how could that be false! --- **Dog Lantern** The servant of Han Daguang Qian's household was sleeping in the outer hall one night when he saw a lamp above the tower, like a bright star. Before long, it flickered and drifted down, and upon reaching the ground it transformed into a dog. Glancing at him, it turned and went behind the house. He quickly rose and stealthily followed it; it entered the garden and turned into a young woman. Knowing in his heart that she was a fox, he returned and lay down in his original place. Soon, the young woman came from behind. The servant pretended to be asleep to observe her movements. The woman bent down and shook him. The servant feigned waking and asked who she was. The woman did not answer. The servant said, "Was it not you who caused the lamp light upstairs?" The woman said, "Since you already know, why ask?" Thereupon they spent the night together. They parted by day and met at night, and this became their regular practice. The master learned of this and had two men lie flanking the servant; when the two men awoke, they found themselves lying under the bed, not knowing when they had fallen. The master grew even angrier and said to the servant, "When she comes next, you must capture her; otherwise, you shall suffer the whip!" The servant dared not speak, but assented and withdrew. Then he thought: capturing her is difficult; not capturing her, I fear punishment. He turned matters over without finding a plan. Suddenly he remembered that the young woman always wore a small red jacket tightly against her body, never removing it even for a moment—surely it was her vital spot. If he could seize that, he could coerce her. At night, the woman came and asked, "Did your master order you to capture me?" He said, "Indeed he did. But the two of us are on good terms—how could I do such a thing?" When they lay down, he secretly clutched her jacket. The woman cried out sharply, exerted herself, and fled away. From then on, she never came again. Later, the servant was returning from elsewhere when he saw the woman sitting by the roadside at a distance; as he drew near, she raised her sleeve to cover her face. The servant dismounted and called out, "Why do you act like this?" The woman then rose, took his hand, and said, "I thought you had already forgotten our old affection. Since you still cherish the feeling of old friendship, your conduct can still be forgiven. What happened before was under the master's orders, and I do not blame you either. But our fate is exhausted. Now I have prepared a small banquet; please come in and take leave of me." It was early autumn, and the sorghum was lush. The woman led him in together; inside there was a great mansion. He tied his horse and entered; in the hall, wine and dishes were already laid out. As soon as they sat, maidservants served the courses in turn. The day was about to end, and the servant had matters to attend to and needed to report back to his master, so he took his leave. When he went out, it was once again the open fields. --- **Barbarian Monks** The monk Tikong said: "In Qingzhou, I saw two barbarian monks of strange and ancient appearance; they wore double rings in their ears, were clad in yellow cloth, and their hair and beards were curly. They said they came from the Western Regions. Hearing that the prefect revered Buddhism, they came to pay respects. The prefect sent two runners to escort them to the monastery. The monk Lingpi did not treat them with much courtesy. The attendants, seeing that these men were unusual, privately entertained them and let them stay overnight. Someone asked, 'The Western Regions have many extraordinary people—do the arhats perhaps possess strange arts?' One of them grinned and smiled, drew his hand from his sleeve, and in his palm held a small pagoda, barely a foot tall, exquisite and lovely. On the highest place on the wall there was a small niche; the monk tossed the pagoda into it, where it stood erect and upright, without the least tilt. They saw that on the pagoda there was a relic emitting light, illuminating the entire room. After a moment, he beckoned with his hand, and it fell back into his palm. The other monk then bared his arm and stretched out his left arm, which could extend six or seven feet, while his right arm had completely shrunk away; then he stretched his right arm, and it was the same as the left." --- **Fox Concubine** Liu Dongjiu of Laiwu, serving as an official in Fenzhou, was sitting alone in his office when he heard laughter and voices outside the pavilion drawing nearer. They entered the room: four women—one about forty, one about thirty, one about twenty-four or twenty-five, and the last a young girl with hanging hair. They all stood before the desk, looking at each other and smiling. Liu knew well that government offices often had foxes, so he paid them no heed. After a moment, the young girl with hanging hair produced a red kerchief and playfully tossed it onto his face. Liu picked it up and tossed it toward the window, still ignoring them. The four women laughed and left. One day, the eldest came and said to Liu, "My younger sister has a predestined connection with you; I hope you will not reject the humble and worthy alike." Liu gave a careless assent. The woman then left. Soon she returned with a maidservant, bringing the young girl with hanging hair, and made her sit shoulder to shoulder with Liu. She said, "A fine phoenix pair—tonight you shall celebrate the nuptial candles. Serve Mr. Liu well; I am going." Liu looked closely; her radiance and beauty were peerless, and so he enjoyed intimate relations with her. He inquired about her origins. The woman said, "I am indeed not human, but in fact I am human. I am the daughter of a former official here; I was bewitched by a fox and suddenly died, and was buried in the garden. The foxes used their arts to bring me back to life, and so I drifted about like a fox." Liu then reached his hand to probe her hip area. The woman sensed it and laughed, saying, "Are you not thinking that foxes have tails?" She turned around and said, "Please try feeling for yourself." From then on, she stayed and would not leave. Every time she moved or sat, she was accompanied by a young maidservant. All the household treated her with the respect due to a junior mistress. The maids and old women came to pay their respects, and she bestowed generous rewards. When Liu's birthday came, there were many guests, altogether more than thirty banquet tables, requiring many cooks; he had sent notices in advance to summon them, but only one or two arrived. Liu was extremely annoyed. The woman, learning of this, said, "Do not worry. Since the cooks are insufficient, it would be better to send away even those who came. I am indeed somewhat lacking in talent, but thirty feasts are not difficult to manage." Liu was delighted and ordered all fish, meat, ginger, and cinnamon to be moved into the inner office. The household only heard the sound of chopping and slicing, incessant and busy. A small table was set inside the gate; those serving dishes placed their platters on it, and when they turned around, the dishes and chopping boards were already full. They carried them out and came back again; more than ten people kept coming and going along the way, yet they never exhausted the supply. Finally, those serving the food came asking for soup and noodles. A voice from inside said, "The master did not warn us beforehand—how can we prepare them on the spur of the moment?" Then after a moment, it said, "There is no help for it; we shall borrow some." Shortly after, they called out to take the soup and noodles. Looking at them, there were more than thirty bowls, steaming hot on the table. After the guests had left, she said to Liu, "You may take out silver and repay that family for the soup and noodles." Liu sent someone with the money to pay. It turned out that the family had lost their soup and noodles and were all astonished; when the messenger arrived, their doubts were resolved. One evening, while drinking at night, Liu suddenly thought of the bitter wine of Shandong. The woman offered to fetch it. She went out the door and returned after a while, saying, "There is a jar outside the gate, enough for several days' drinking." Liu looked and indeed found wine, truly his own home-brewed "Vat Spring." After a few days, his wife sent two servants to Fenzhou. On the way, one servant said, "I hear that the Fox Lady's rewards are generous; when we get there and receive the gold, we can buy a fur coat." The woman, already knowing this in the office, said to Liu, "Your household people are about to arrive. But that boorish fellow is rude—I must repay him." The next day, as soon as the servant entered the city, he suffered a severe headache; upon arriving at the office, he clutched his head and howled. Everyone planned to get him medicine. Liu laughed and said, "No need for treatment; when the time comes, it will heal by itself." They all suspected that he had incurred the young mistress's displeasure. The servant thought to himself: I have not even unpacked since I arrived—how could I have committed any offense? Having nowhere to appeal, he crawled on his knees and begged her mercy. A voice from behind the curtain said, "You call her 'Lady'—that is acceptable, but why do you call her 'Fox'?" The servant then understood and kowtowed without cease. She added, "Since you wanted a fur coat, how could you again be so disrespectful?" Then she said, "You are healed." As soon as she spoke, the servant's illness vanished as if lost. The servant bowed and was about to leave when suddenly a bundle was tossed out from behind the curtain, and she said, "Here is a lambskin coat; you may take it." The servant untied it and found five taels of silver. Liu asked for news from home; the servant said everything was well, except that one night a jar of stored wine had gone missing. Checking the date, it was the very night she had fetched the wine. They all feared her supernatural powers and called her "Holy Immortal." Liu had a small portrait painted of her. At that time, Zhang Daoyi was the Provincial Educational Commissioner. Hearing of her extraordinary nature, he called on Liu out of fellow-township sentiment, hoping to beg a face-to-face meeting. The woman refused him. Liu showed him the portrait, and Zhang forcibly took it away. Returning home, he hung it beside his seat and prayed to it morning and evening, saying: "With such beauty as yours, where could you not go? Yet you entrust yourself to this grizzled old man! Your subordinate is by no means inferior to Dong Jiu—why not deign to look upon me?" In the official residence, the woman suddenly said to Liu, "Zhang is rude; he deserves a small punishment." One day, as Zhang was just praying, it seemed someone struck his forehead with a ruler, causing a crashing pain. Terrified, he rolled up the portrait. Liu questioned him, and Zhang made him conceal the true reason and give a false answer. Liu laughed and said, "Does your master's forehead not ache?" The messenger could not deceive him and told the truth. Before long, the son-in-law, Qi Sheng, came and requested to see her. The woman firmly declined. Qi pressed his request insistently. Liu said, "A son-in-law is no outsider—why refuse him so deeply?" The woman said, "If the son-in-law sees me, I must surely have something to give him; but he expects too much of me, and I judge myself unable to satisfy his ambitions, so I prefer not to see him for now." After he persisted in his request, she consented to meet him in ten days. When the day came, Qi entered, bowed to her from behind the curtain, and exchanged a few words of greeting. Her bearing and face were indistinct, and he dared not look closely. As he withdrew, a few paces away, he kept turning his head for a lingering gaze. But he heard the woman say, "Ah, son-in-law looks back!" With that, she laughed loudly, harsh as an owl's cry. Hearing it, Qi's legs and thighs went weak, and he swayed as if his very soul had left him. After he came out, he sat for a while before he began to steady himself. Then he said, "Just now, hearing that laugh was like hearing thunder—I was utterly unaware that my body was my own." Shortly after, a maid came, by the woman's order, and gave Qi twenty taels of silver. Qi accepted it and said to the maid, "The Divine Immortal lives daily with my father-in-law—surely she knows that I have always been a spendthrift and am not used to handling small sums!" The woman heard this and said, "I knew it would be so. My purse happens to be empty right now; once I travelled with companions to Kaifeng, where the city was occupied by the River God and all the treasuries were submerged in the water. We each dove in and got a few small things—how could that satisfy insatiable demands? Besides, even if I could give generously, his fortune is too shallow to bear it." The woman could foresee everything in advance; whenever they encountered difficulties and consulted her, she resolved everything without fail. One day, as they sat together, she suddenly looked up at the sky and exclaimed in alarm, "A great calamity is approaching—what is to be done!" Liu asked in alarm about his household. She said, "All the rest are safe, only your second son gives cause for concern. This place will soon become a battlefield. You should seek an official mission far away, and thus perhaps avoid the disaster." Liu followed her advice. He begged his superiors and obtained a posting to escort military supplies to Yunnan and Guizhou. The journey was long, and those who heard of it offered their condolences; but the woman alone congratulated him. Before long, Jiang Xiang rebelled, and Fenzhou fell and became a bandits' lair. Liu's second son, coming from Shandong, happened to encounter the upheaval and was killed. When the city fell, all the officials perished in the disaster; only Liu, being away on official business, escaped. After the rebels were pacified, Liu returned. Soon after, he was implicated in a major case and became so poor that he could not even afford meals; moreover, those in power made many exactions on him, so that he was distressed and worried to the point of despair. The woman said, "Do not worry—under the bed there are three thousand taels of silver, enough for your expenses." Liu was overjoyed and asked, "Where did you steal it?" She said, "Under heaven, there is no end of masterless goods; one may take without exhausting them—why speak of stealing?" Liu used her plan to extricate himself and return home, and the woman followed him. After several years, she suddenly left, bequeathing a few items wrapped in paper, among which was a small funeral banner for hanging at a mourner's gate, about two inches long. The household all took it as an ill omen. Liu soon died. **Lei Cao** Le Yunhe and Xia Pingzi were in boyhood from the same village, and in youth shared the same schoolroom; their friendship was the closest. Xia was precociously bright and became known at ten sui. Le served him with humble sincerity, and Xia in turn reproved and encouraged him without flagging, so that Le's literary skill advanced daily, and their names became equally renowned. Yet both failed repeatedly in the examinations, always defeated. Before long, Xia fell victim to an epidemic and died. His family was too poor to bury him, and Le took the responsibility upon himself. For Xia's orphaned infant and widow, Le regularly provided for the household; whenever he obtained a measure of grain, he would divide it into two equal portions, and Xia's wife and child depended on this for survival. Thus the gentry and officials esteemed Le all the more. Le's own property was not great, and with the added burden of caring for Xia's family, his household finances grew ever tighter. He sighed and said, "A scholar like Pingzi, with all his talent, still ended his life in obscurity—how much more so for me! In life, wealth and honour must be seized in time; if I fret away the whole year, I fear I may fill a ditch before even the dogs and horses, and waste this life. Better to plan for myself early." So he gave up his studies and took to trade. After half a year in business, his family means improved somewhat. One day, he travelled to Jinling and rested at an inn. He saw a man of tall stature, with prominent sinews and bones, loitering restlessly beside his seat; his expression was dim and sorrowful. Le asked, "Do you want something to eat?" The man did not speak. Le pushed some food toward him, and the man scooped it up with his hands and devoured it, finishing it in an instant. Le added enough food for two men, and he ate that too. Then Le ordered the innkeeper to cut a shoulder of pork and pile up steamed cakes; again he finished several men's rations. Only then did he satisfy his hunger and thank Le, saying, "For three years, I have never had such a full meal." Le said, "You are clearly a stout fellow—why do you wander so destitutely?" He replied, "My offence has incurred Heaven's punishment; it cannot be spoken of." Asked where he lived, he said, "On land I have no house, on water no boat; by dawn in one village, by dusk in another town." Le packed his things to leave, and the man followed him, lingering unwillingly. Le tried to take leave of him. The man told him, "You face a great danger, and I cannot bear to forget the kindness of a single meal." Le found this strange and so travelled together with him. On the road, he pulled the man to eat with him. The man declined, saying, "I eat only a few meals a year." This seemed even stranger. The next day, they crossed the river. Suddenly a violent wind and waves arose, and all the merchant boats capsized; Le and the man both sank into the river. Soon the wind subsided, and the man emerged, carrying Le as he trod over the waves, set him aboard a passenger vessel, then parted the waves and departed again. After a short while, he towed a boat back, helped Le aboard, and told him to lie down and guard it. Then he leaped into the river again, carried out cargo under both arms, and tossed it into the boat; he went in again, and came out several times, piling goods until the boat was full. Le thanked him, saying, "That you saved my life is more than enough—how dare I hope for the return of my lost goods!" But when he inspected his cargo, nothing was missing. Delighted all the more, he marvelled at the man as a supernatural being, and set sail to continue. The man took his leave, but Le pressed him to stay, so he continued the journey together. Le laughed and said, "In this disaster, the only loss was one gold hairpin." The man wanted to go back for it. Le was just trying to dissuade him when he had already plunged into the water and disappeared. Le was stunned for a long while. Suddenly the man emerged, smiling, and handed the hairpin to Le, saying, "Fortunately I did not fail the commission." All the people on the river were utterly astonished. Le returned home with him, and they shared the same bed and board. He would eat only once every ten days or so, but when he did, he consumed an immense amount. One day, he again spoke of parting, and Le tried hard to detain him. Just then the sky grew dark as rain threatened, and thunder was heard. Le said, "I wonder what the clouds above look like? And what exactly is thunder? How I wish I could go up to heaven and see for myself—then this doubt would be resolved." The man laughed and said, "Do you wish to make a journey through the clouds?" After a little while, Le grew very weary, lay down on the couch, and dozed off. When he awoke, he felt his body swaying, not as if on the couch; opening his eyes, he found himself in the midst of cloud vapours, all around him like cotton fluff. Startled, he rose, but felt as dizzy as if on a boat. Treading, it was soft and insubstantial. Looking up, the stars and constellations were right before his eyes. He began to wonder if it was a dream. Gazing closely, the stars were embedded in the sky like old lotus seeds in their pods; the large ones were as big as urns, the next like jars, and the smaller like bowls and cups. He reached out and shook them: the large ones were firm and immovable; the small ones swayed, as if they could be plucked down. He picked one and tucked it into his sleeve. Pushing aside the clouds and looking down, he saw a vast silver sea, with cities and walls no bigger than beans. Alarmed, he thought to himself: if I slip, what becomes of this body? Suddenly he saw two dragons twisting and curving, pulling a canopied cart. With a flick of their tails, it sounded like an ox whip. On the cart were vessels, each several zhang in circumference, full of water. Several dozen men were using dippers to scoop water and sprinkle it everywhere among the clouds. Suddenly they caught sight of Le and all found it strange. Le recognised the stalwart man among them, who said to the crowd, "He is my friend." Then he took a vessel and handed it to Le, telling him to sprinkle. At that time there was a severe drought; Le took the vessel, parted the clouds, and, looking toward his hometown, poured it out with all his might. Before long, the man said to Le, "I was originally a Thunder Official. I once made an error in releasing rain and was demoted and exiled for three years. Now my allotted term is ended; let us part here." He then took a ten-thousand-foot rope used for the cart and flung it forward, telling Le to grasp the end and descend. Le was frightened. The man laughed and said, "No harm." Le did as he said, and in a whistling rush he touched ground in an instant. Looking about, he had landed outside his village. The rope slowly withdrew into the clouds and disappeared from sight. For a long time there had been a drought, yet ten li away the rain had fallen barely a finger's depth; only in the alleys and ditches of Le's village were they full. Returning home, he felt in his sleeve—the Star-Plucker was still there. He took it out and set it on the table; by day it was dull and black as stone, but when night came it shone with brilliant light, illuminating all four walls. He treasured it all the more, wrapping it in many layers and storing it away. Whenever fine guests came, he would bring it out to light their drinking. If one looked straight at it, its rays shot into the eyes. One night, as his wife sat opposite him combing her hair, she suddenly saw the starlight grow small as a firefly, darting and flying about. Even as she cried out in surprise, it had already entered her mouth; she tried to cough it out but could not, and it had gone down her throat. Aghast, she ran to tell Le, who found it equally strange. That night he dreamed that Xia Pingzi came to him and said: "I am the Star of Lesser Radiance. Your kindness to me I have not forgotten in my heart. Moreover, you have brought me back from the heavens—this may be called fate. Now I shall become your heir, to repay your great virtue." Le was thirty and had no son; he was overjoyed at the dream. Thereafter his wife indeed conceived; and when the time of birth came, radiance filled the room, just as when the star had been on the table, and so they named the child "Xing'er" (Star-Child). He was exceptionally quick-witted, and at sixteen passed the metropolitan examination. The Historian of the Strange says: "Master Le's literary name was renowned in his generation, yet suddenly he realized that Heaven's placement of him was not in that, and so cast aside his writing brush like a discarded slipper—how is this different from those who threw away the pen to seek a marquis's seal? As for the Thunder God repaying the kindness of a single meal, and the Star of Lesser Radiance requiring the understanding of a good friend—could this be the spirits and gods privately repaying favors? Rather, it is the Creator's impartial requital of the worthy and heroic." The Gambler's Talisman Daoist Han lived at the Temple of Heavenly Unity in the town. He knew many illusions, and everyone called him "Immortal." My late father was on the best of terms with him; whenever he went to town, he would call on him. One day, he and my late uncle were going to town and planned to visit Han, when they happened to meet him on the road. Han handed over a key and said: "Please go ahead, open the door, and sit down; I will be there shortly." They did as he said. When they reached the temple and unfastened the lock, Han was already sitting in the room. And so it was with many such things. Now, there was a man of our clan who was addicted to gambling; through my late father he also came to know Han. It happened that a monk had come to the Great Buddha Temple, who devoted himself entirely to dice-throwing and gambled for very high stakes. The clansman saw this and took a liking to it; he emptied his purse to gamble and lost heavily. His ardour only grew; he pawned his fields and property and went again, losing everything in a single night. Dejected and at a loss, he made his way to Han, his spirits utterly downcast and his speech disordered. Han asked what was wrong, and he told him the whole truth. Han laughed and said: "He who gambles constantly cannot but lose. If you can swear off gambling, I will win it back for you." The clansman said: "If I can get my losses back, may this gambling-bones be smashed to pieces with an iron pestle!" Han then wrote a talisman on paper, gave it to him, and told him to wear it in his belt. He warned: "Only get back what you lost, and do not covet more." He also gave him a thousand coins, with the understanding that he would repay them out of his winnings. The clansman was overjoyed and went off. The monk examined his money and thought little of it, deeming him not worth gambling with. The clansman pressed him, asking for a single throw to settle it. The monk laughed and agreed. He staked the thousand coins as his all. The monk threw and neither won nor lost; the clansman took the dice, threw once, and scored a winning cast. The monk then staked two thousand coins, and lost again. Gradually he increased to over ten thousand; even when the dice clearly showed a losing throw, at the clansman's shout they all turned to winning ones. In short order, all he had previously lost was recovered. Secretly he thought it would be even better to win a few thousand more, so he gambled again—but now his luck turned bad. Suspicious, he rose and looked at his belt—the talisman was gone. Greatly alarmed, he stopped. Carrying his money back to the temple, after repaying Han and reckoning it up, including what he lost at the end, it came to exactly his original sum. Then, ashamed, he apologized for losing the talisman. Han laughed and said: "It is here already. I expressly told you not to be greedy, but you would not listen, so I took it back." The Historian of the Strange says: "Nothing under heaven ruins a family faster than gambling; nothing undermines virtue more than gambling. One who enters it is like one lost in a sea of intoxication, with no bottom in sight. Farmers and merchants have their proper occupations; scholars and literati especially treasure every moment. Shouldering the plow or poring over the classics—these are the proper paths to establishing a household; refined conversation and light drinking are still ways to enjoy life. But to consort with depraved companions and pass endless nights—emptying purses and boxes, staking gold on perilous odds; shouting for 'pheasant' and 'tiger,' begging luck from debauched bones; spinning the five sorts of dice like rolling pearls; grasping many cards as if holding a round fan; eyeing others while watching oneself, straining the very eyes of a fiend; feigning weakness while secretly using force, exhausting all the tricks of a specter; with guests waiting at the gate, still lingering at the gaming table; with smoke rising from the house, still staring at the bowl—forgetting meals and sleep, one sinks deeper with time; lips parched and tongues worn, one looks at others as if they were ghosts. When at last the entire army is lost, one stares with hot eyes into nothing. Hearing the cries of excitement from within the game, one's own breast itches with the urge; looking at the bottom of the purse, the strings of cash are empty, and the hero's heart turns cold. Craning one's neck and pacing, one realizes bare hands are useless; hanging one's head in despondency, one finally returns home in the dead of night. Fearing lest the scolded household have woken, one dares not startle the dogs; racked with hunger from long emptiness, one dares not complain of cold leftovers. Then selling sons and mortgaging fields, hoping to recover lost pearls; but the fire has burned away all the hair, and one ends up fishing for the moon in the vast river. Only after defeat does one reflect—but one has already become a base creature. Ask who is the best among gamblers? All point to the man with no trousers. Some, unable to bear their emptiness, turn to banditry; or, at their wits' end, live off women's dowries. Alas! Ruining virtue, losing conduct, squandering property, destroying life—is there anything that does not come from this one path of gambling?" A Xia Jing Xing of Wendeng was renowned from a young age. He lived next door to a certain Chen, their studies separated only by a low wall. One day, Chen was passing through a desolate mound at dusk when he heard a woman weeping among the pines and cypresses. Drawing near, he saw a hanging belt on a branch of a tree, as if she were about to hang herself. Chen questioned her; she brushed away tears and replied: "My mother went far away and entrusted me to my elder cousin. I never expected that wolf-hearted wretch would not keep me to the end. Thus forlorn, better to die!" Having said this, she wept again. Chen untied the belt and urged her to marry someone. The girl said she had no one to rely on. Chen offered to let her stay at his home temporarily, and she agreed. When they returned, he lit a lamp and examined her closely—she was surpassingly lovely. Overjoyed, he tried to seduce her. The girl cried out in resistance, and the commotion reached the other side of the wall. Jing Xing climbed over the wall to peep, whereupon Chen released the girl. When the girl saw Jing, she fixed her eyes on him and gazed for a long time, then ran off. The two chased after her, but she vanished without a trace. Jing returned home, closed the door, and was about to sleep, when there was the girl, radiant, emerging from his room. Startled, he asked who she was. She replied: "That man has thin virtue and shallow fortune—he cannot be relied on to the end." Jing was overjoyed. He asked her surname and family, and she said: "My ancestors lived in Qi. Since that is my origin, my given name is A Xia." He spoke flirtatious words to her; she smiled and did not refuse much, and so they lay together. Many friends came and went in his study, so the girl always stayed hidden in the inner room. After a few days, she said: "I shall go away for now. This place is noisy and troublesome, and wearying. From now on, I shall come only at night." He asked where her home was, and she said: "Not far at all." So she left early, and indeed returned at night, and their affection grew deep. After several more days, she said to Jing: "Though our feelings are good, in the end this is an illicit union. My father is serving as an official in the western frontier; tomorrow I shall follow my mother there. Allow me to take the opportunity to inform them and then follow you for good." He asked how long she would be away; she agreed to return within ten days. After she left, Jing thought that living in his study could not be permanent; but if he moved her into the inner quarters, he feared his wife's jealousy. He decided it would be better to send his wife away. His resolve made, he scolded and cursed his wife whenever she appeared. His wife could not bear the humiliation and wept, wanting to die. Jing said: "If you die, I fear you will implicate me. Please go back to your family at once." He pressed his wife to leave. Weeping, she said: "I have followed you for ten years and never committed any fault—why are you so ruthless?" Jing would not listen and drove her out all the more urgently. So his wife left the house. From then on, he whitewashed the walls and swept clean the dust, craning his neck in eager expectation; but no message came from the green phoenix, and it was like a stone sunk in the sea. After his wife had returned to her family, she several times begged mutual acquaintances to plead with Jing to take her back, but Jing would not accept her; so she married a certain Xiahou. Xiahou's village adjoined Jing's, and because of disputes over fields, their families had long been at odds. When Jing heard of this, his resentment grew even deeper. Yet he still hoped A Xia would return, which was some comfort. After more than a year, there was still no trace of her. On the occasion of the Sea God's birthday, the temple and its environs were crowded with men and women devotees, and Jing was among them. From a distance he caught sight of a young woman who strongly resembled A Xia. Jing drew near her, but she melted into the crowd; he followed her out through the gate; he followed her further, and she drifted away like a wisp of smoke. Jing could not overtake her, and returned full of chagrin. Half a year later, as he was walking along the road, he saw a young lady in a red garment, accompanied by an old servant leading a black mule. Looking at her, he saw it was Xia. He therefore asked the attendant: "Who is that lady?" The attendant replied: "She is the second wife of Master Zheng of South Village." He asked again: "How long has she been married?" The attendant said: "Half a month." Jing thought to himself: Could there be a mistake? The young lady, hearing this exchange, glanced back at him. Jing looked—it was truly Xia. Seeing that she had already married another man, rage filled his chest, and he called out loudly: "Sister Xia! How can you forget our old promise?" When the attendants heard someone call out to their mistress, they were about to raise their fists. The lady hastily stopped them. Lifting her veil, she said to Jing: "How can a faithless man have the face to meet me?" Jing said: "You are the one who has failed me—how have I ever failed you?" The lady said: "You failed your first wife far more than you failed me! If that is how you treat one with whom you shared your youth, what would you do with another? Formerly, because your ancestral virtue was deep and your name was listed among the laureates, I gave myself to you; now, because you abandoned your wife, the underworld has struck your name from the rolls of office. The second-place scholar in this session, Wang Chang, is the one who has taken your place. I am already married to Master Zheng—do not waste your thoughts on me any longer." Jing hung his head and cowered, unable to utter a single word. He watched the lady urge her mule away like the wind, and was left with nothing but resentment and regret. In that session, Jing failed the examination, and the second-place laureate was indeed named Wang Chang. Zheng also passed. Jing thus earned a reputation for fickleness. At forty he remained unmarried, his family fortunes declined further, and he was constantly dependent on the hospitality of relatives and friends. On one occasion he called on Zheng, who received him graciously and offered him lodging for the night. The lady, peeping at the guest, recognized him and felt pity. She asked Zheng: "Is that guest in the hall not Jing Qingyun?" When he asked how she knew him, she said: "Before I married you, I once took refuge in his household and received much kindness from him. Though his conduct is base, his ancestral virtue has not yet been severed; besides, he is an old acquaintance of yours, and you should extend to him the charity of a friend in need." Zheng agreed, replaced his ragged clothes, and kept him for several days. As night fell and Jing was about to retire, a maidservant brought him more than twenty taels of silver. The lady spoke from outside the window: "This is from my private savings—a small return for past kindness. Take it and find yourself a good match. Fortunately your ancestral virtue is still deep enough to benefit your descendants. Do not again lose your moral bearings and shorten what remains of your years." Jing thanked her earnestly. After returning home, he used more than ten taels to buy a maidservant from a scholar-official's household—she was extremely ugly and shrewish. She bore him a son, who later passed both levels of the imperial examinations. Zheng rose to become a Director in the Ministry of Personnel. After his death, when the lady was returning from his funeral, she opened the carriage and found it empty—only then did she realize she was not human. Alas! When a man lacks virtue, abandoning the old for the new, in the end the egg is broken and the bird flies away—Heaven's retribution is indeed severe! Li Sijian Li Sijian was a provincial graduate from Yongnian. On the twenty-eighth day of the ninth month in the fourth year of the Kangxi reign, he beat his wife Li to death. The local authorities reported it to Guangping, which ordered Yongnian to investigate and try the case. While Sijian was in front the prefectural office, he suddenly snatched a butcher's knife from under a meat rack, rushed into the Town God's temple, climbed onto the stage, and knelt before the god. He spoke: "The god reproves me for heeding wicked men and distorting right and wrong among my fellow villagers, and orders me to cut off my ear." Thereupon he sliced off his left ear and threw it beneath the stage. He spoke again: "The god reproves me for cheating people out of their money, and orders me to chop off my fingers." Thereupon he chopped off his left fingers. He spoke again: "The god reproves me for committing adultery, and orders me to castrate myself." Thereupon he castrated himself, collapsed unconscious, and fell stiff. At that time, Governor-General Zhu Yunting had submitted a memorial requesting his dismissal and punishment, and had already received imperial approval—but Sijian had already suffered divine execution. This is from the official gazette. Wu Gu Da Fu Chang Tiyuan of Hejin, styled Ruyu, when he was a candidate for the provincial examinations, dreamed that someone called him "Wu Gu Da Fu" (Grandee of Five Black Goats), and took it as a good omen. Later, when he encountered the rebellion of roving bandits, they stripped him of all his clothes and locked him at night in an empty room. It was midwinter, and bitterly cold. Groping about in the dark, he found several goatskins and wrapped them around himself, barely avoiding death. At daybreak, he looked—they were exactly five in number. He laughed silently at the god's jest. Later, by virtue of his classical studies, he was appointed magistrate of Luonan County. This was recorded by Mr. Bi Zaiji. Mao Hu A farmer named Ma Tianrong, over twenty years of age, lost his wife and was too poor to remarry. While working in the fields one day, he saw a young woman in full makeup, stepping over the grain and crossing the path. Her face was reddish, and her bearing was also quite charming. Ma thought she might be lost, and looking around to see no one in the open fields, he teasingly made advances to her. The woman responded slightly. He wanted to couple with her in the open. She laughed and said: "Under the bright sky and shining sun, how can one do such a thing? Go home, close the door and wait for me; when dusk falls, I will come." Ma did not believe her. She swore an oath. Ma then told her the orientation of his gate and door, and she left. At midnight, she indeed arrived, and they enjoyed each other's love. He found her skin extremely tender. Lighting a lamp, he saw her skin was red and thin like that of an infant, covered with fine hair all over. He found this strange. He also suspected that her comings and goings had no basis, and thought to himself: Could she be a fox? He therefore jokingly questioned her. The woman did not hide it and admitted it. Ma said: "Since you are an immortal, you should be able to obtain anything you wish. Since you have favored me with your affection, would you not give me a few taels of silver to relieve my poverty?" The woman agreed. The next night she came, and Ma demanded silver. The woman pretended to be startled, saying: "I quite forgot." As she was leaving, Ma urged her again. The following night he asked: "Have you perhaps not forgotten what I begged for?" The woman laughed and asked him to wait another day. After several days, Ma demanded again. The woman laughed and drew from her sleeve two ingots of white metal, about five or six taels in weight, with turned-up edges and fine grain, elegant and pleasant to behold. Ma was delighted and hid them deep in a chest. After half a year, he chanced to need silver and therefore showed them to someone. The person said: "This is tin." Biting it with his teeth, it crumbled at once. Ma was greatly alarmed, put them away, and returned home. That night when the woman arrived, he reproached her angrily. The woman laughed and said: "Your destiny is thin—you cannot bear genuine gold." With a laugh, she let the matter drop. Ma said: "I have heard that fox immortals are all beauties of the realm—but that is not the case." The woman said: "We all transform according to the person we meet. You do not even have the fortune for a single gold piece—how could you possibly enjoy a beauty that would make fish sink and wild geese fall? With my own dull ugliness, I am certainly not fit to serve a man of high station; yet compared with those who are big-footed and hunchbacked, I am a beauty of the realm." After several months, she suddenly gave Ma three taels of silver and said: "You have asked me repeatedly, but I knew that your destiny did not allow you to possess stored gold. Now your betrothal is at hand, so I give you this as a bride-price, and also as a farewell gift." Ma protested that he had no talk of betrothal. The woman said: "In a day or two a matchmaker will certainly come." Ma asked: "What sort of appearance will she have?" She said: "Since you long for a beauty of the realm, she will naturally be a beauty of the realm." Ma said: "I dare not hope for that. But how can three taels buy a wife?" The woman said: "This is fixed by the Old Man Under the Moon—it is not within human power." Ma asked: "Why do you speak of parting so suddenly?" She said: "Traveling under the moon and stars is no way to end one's days. 'The lord has his own lady'—why go on prevaricating?" At dawn she left, and gave him a knife-tip measure of yellow powder, saying: "After we part, you may fall ill—take this and it will cure you." The next day, a matchmaker indeed came. First he asked about the girl's looks. The reply was: "She is between plain and pretty." "How much is the betrothal price?" "About four or five taels." Ma did not find the price difficult, but he insisted on seeing the girl in person. The matchmaker feared that a respectable girl's family would not allow her to be shown off. After a while, she arranged for him to go with her, to seize an opportunity as it arose. When they reached the village, the matchmaker went ahead and had Ma wait outside the village. After a long while she came out and said: "It is settled. My cousin lives in the same courtyard. I just went over and saw the girl sitting in her room. Please pretend to be calling on my cousin, and as you pass by, you can steal a look from close by." Ma followed her plan. He indeed saw the girl sitting in the hall, bent over the bed, asking someone to scratch her back. Ma hurried past and cast a glance at her—her looks were indeed as the matchmaker had said. When it came to the betrothal negotiations, they did not haggle over the price, only asking for one or two taels to outfit the girl for her wedding. Ma found this even cheaper, paid the silver, and after compensating the matchmaker and the scribe for the contract, the total of three taels was spent—not a single coin more. He chose an auspicious day and brought the bride home. When she entered the gate, she was hunchbacked both in chest and back, her neck was shriveled like a turtle's, and looking below her skirt, her lotus feet were a full foot long. Then he understood that the fox's words had a reason. The Historian of the Strange says: "Transforming according to the person—this may be the fox lady's own self-mockery; yet her words about fortune and blessing are deeply believable. I have always said: unless a man's ancestors have cultivated virtue for several generations, he cannot attain high office; unless he himself has cultivated virtue for several generations, he cannot win a beautiful wife. Those who believe in cause and effect will certainly not regard my words as empty talk." Pianpian Luo Zifu, a man of Bin, lost both parents early in life. At eight or nine, he depended on his uncle Daye. Daye was a left-wing officer in the Imperial Academy, wealthy in gold and silks but without sons, and he loved Zifu as if he were his own. At fourteen, Zifu was lured away by scoundrels and led into dissolute pleasures. It happened that a courtesan from Jinling had taken lodgings in the prefecture; the young man was captivated and infatuated with her. When the courtesan returned to Jinling, he stole away after her. He stayed in her house for half a year until his money was all gone, and he became the object of ridicule among her sisters. Yet they did not immediately cast him off. Before long, however, his sores swelled, festered, and stank, soiling the bed; he was driven out and begged in the streets. The townspeople, seeing him, all shrank away from afar. Fearing he would die in a strange land, he begged his way westward, covering thirty or forty li a day, until gradually he reached the borders of Bin. Then, thinking of his tattered rags and foul sores, he had no face to enter his native gate and lingered hesitantly in the nearby towns. At dusk, he wanted to head for a mountain temple to spend the night. There he met a young woman, whose face was like that of an immortal. She approached and asked, "Where are you going?" He told her the truth. The woman said, "I am one who has left the world. I live in a mountain cave, where you may find lodging, and I am not much afraid of tigers or wolves." The young man was delighted and followed her. They went deep into the mountains and saw a grotto. Entering, they found a stream running across the entrance, spanned by a stone bridge. A few paces further, there were two stone chambers, brilliantly lit, needing no lamps or candles. She told him to take off his ragged clothes and bathe in the stream. "Wash, and your sores will heal," she said. Then she opened a screen, spread a mat, and urged him to rest, saying, "Please go to sleep now; I shall make trousers for you." She took large leaves like those of a banana plant, cutting and piecing them into clothing. The young man lay watching. In no time at all, she finished, folded the garments at the head of the bed, and said, "Put them on in the morning." Then she lay down on the opposite couch. After bathing, he felt no pain from his sores. When he awoke, he touched them and found thick scabs formed. At daybreak, he was about to rise, doubting that banana leaves could be worn as clothes. He took them and examined them—they were smooth green silk. After a while, she prepared a meal. She took mountain leaves, called them cakes, and when he ate them, they were indeed cakes; she cut leaves into chickens and fish, and when cooked, they tasted like the real things. In a corner of the chamber was a jar storing fine wine, which she often drew and drank; when a little was gone, she replenished it with stream water. In a few days, all the scabs fell off, and he begged to share her bed. The woman said, "You wanton boy! Scarcely settled, and already you have wild thoughts!" He said, "I only wish to repay your kindness." So they lay together and greatly delighted each other. One day, a young woman came in laughing and said, "Pianpian, you little wretch, how happy you are! When will that sweet dream of Aunt Xue's be fulfilled?" Pianpian greeted her with a smile, saying, "Sister Huacheng, your noble feet have long been absent. Today the southwest wind blows strong and has wafted you here! Have you brought your little boy?" The other replied, "I have another little girl now." Pianpian laughed, "Sister Huacheng, you have a tile-kiln indeed! Why didn't you bring her?" "She was just crying, but now she has fallen asleep," she answered. So they sat down and were entertained with wine. Then she looked at the young man and said, "Young master, you have burned good incense indeed." He looked at her—she was twenty-three or twenty-four, with more than a surplus of beauty. His heart was drawn to her. While peeling fruit, he purposely dropped it under the table; pretending to pick it up, he secretly pinched her arched, embroidered slipper. Huacheng looked away and smiled, as if unaware. The young man was just lost in rapturous fascination when he suddenly felt his robe and trousers grow cold; looking at himself, all his clothes had turned into autumn leaves. He was nearly terrified out of his wits. He sat upright for a while, and gradually they changed back. He secretly rejoiced that the two women had not seen. After a little while, amid the passing of cups, he again used his finger to stroke her delicate palm. Huacheng remained at ease, laughing and joking, apparently unaware. In the midst of his pounding heart and flustered state, his clothes had again turned to leaves, and it was some time before they reverted. From then on, he restrained his expression and curbed his thoughts, not daring to entertain any more fantasies. Huacheng said, "Your little husband is by no means proper! If it weren't for you, my jealous-gourd sister, he might have leaped into the clouds." Pianpian also sneered, "Faithless creature—he deserves to freeze to death!" They clapped their hands together. Huacheng rose from the seat, saying, "The little maid has woken; I fear she will cry her heart out." Pianpian also rose, saying, "I have been so greedy to amuse another woman's man that I forgot little Jiangcheng must be crying himself hoarse." After Huacheng left, the young man feared reproach; but Pianpian treated him as usual. Before long, autumn deepened with cold wind, frost fell, and the trees shed their leaves. Pianpian then gathered fallen leaves and stored fine provisions against the winter. Seeing the young man shivering, she took a bundle and scooped up white clouds at the cave mouth to stuff a lined coat for him. When he put it on, it was as warm as a wadded jacket and as light and soft as new cotton. After a year, she bore a son, extremely clever and handsome. Daily in the cave he played with the child for amusement. Yet he often thought of his old home and begged her to return with him. She said, "I cannot go with you; otherwise, you may go by yourself." He let the matter drag on for two or three years, and the child gradually grew up. They then arranged a marriage with Huacheng's family. The young man often worried about his uncle's age. She said, "Uncle is indeed quite advanced in years, but fortunately still hale and hearty—there is no need for such concern. After Baor is wed, you may stay or go as you please." In the cave, she would always take leaves and write on them to teach the child to read, and he would grasp everything after a single glance. She said, "This boy has a fortunate countenance. If he is let out into the mortal world, he need not worry about reaching the highest offices." Before long, the boy was fourteen. Huacheng personally came to send her daughter. The bride arrived in splendid attire, her face radiant. The husband and wife were overjoyed, and the whole family gathered in feast. Pianpian tapped her hairpin and sang: "I have a fine son—I envy not high officials. I have a fine daughter-in-law—I envy not rich silks. Tonight we gather together; let all be joyful. I pledge you wine; I urge you to eat more." After that, Huacheng left, and the young couple shared a chamber. The new bride was filial, clinging affectionately to them as if she were their own child. The young man again spoke of returning home. The woman said, "You have a mortal bone, after all—you are no immortal. The boy, too, is one for wealth and rank; you may take him away. I will not hinder his life's course." The new bride wished to part from her mother, and Huacheng had already arrived. The children clung to them, tears filling their eyes. The two mothers comforted them, saying, "Go for now; you may come again." Pianpian then cut leaves into a donkey and had the three ride it home. Daye had long since retired to private life, thinking his nephew dead; suddenly he saw him return with a fine grandson and a beautiful wife, and he was as overjoyed as if he had found a treasure. When they entered the gate, each looked at their clothes—all were banana leaves. When they tore them, the wadding vaporized and drifted away. So they all changed into new garments. Later, the young man missed Pianpian and went with his son to visit her, but the path was covered with yellow leaves and the cave mouth was shrouded in mist. They returned weeping. The Historian of the Strange says: "Pianpian and Huacheng—were they immortals? Eating leaves and wearing clouds—how strange! Yet their bantering in the inner chamber, their intimate embraces and bearing children—how was that any different from the human world? Fifteen years in the mountains, though without the change of 'men and cities'—yet the cave mouth lost in mist, with no trace to find—seeing that scene, truly it was like the time when Liu and Ruan turned back their oars." Hei Shou I have heard from Grand Tutor Li Jingyi: "A certain gentleman was in Shenyang, feasting on a mountain peak. Looking down, he saw a tiger carrying something in its mouth. It dug a hole with its paw, buried the object, and left. He sent men to investigate what was buried and found a dead deer. They took the deer and lightly covered the hole again. After a short while, the tiger led a black beast to the spot. Its fur was several inches long. The tiger went ahead, as if inviting a honored guest. When it reached the hole, the black beast crouched and stared, waiting. The tiger dug up the hole and found the deer missing. It trembled and prostrated itself, not daring to move at all. The beast, enraged at being deceived, struck the tiger's forehead with its paw, and the tiger fell dead on the spot. The beast then went straight away." The Historian of the Strange says: "The beast is unknown by name. Yet when asked about its size, it was not much larger than a tiger. Why then did the tiger stretch out its neck and accept death, fearing it so greatly? Every creature has its master; the principle is unfathomable. For instance, the macaque most fears the rong. When it sees one from afar, they gather in droves of a hundred or ten, array themselves, and kneel, none daring to flee. They stare fixedly and hold their breath, waiting for the rong to approach. It then uses its claws to feel each one's fatness; the fat ones it marks on the crown of the head with a small stone. The macaques, bearing the stones, crouch in terror, as stiff as wooden fowls, only fearing that the stones might fall off. After the rong has felt and marked them all, it takes them in order according to the marks and devours them; only then do the rest scatter in confusion. I have often thought that corrupt officials are like the rong—they also feel the fatness of the people and mark them, then tear them apart and eat them; while the people, with folded ears and submissive demeanor, dare not even breathe. Such is the ignorant condition of the common folk. How pitiable!" [End of Volume Three]