Chapter 6

Volume Three Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, Volume Four, by Pu Songling Volume Five → Yu De Yin Tunan of Wuchang had a separate residence, which he once leased to a young scholar. For half a year he had not bothered to inquire about it. One day he met him at the gate; the young man was very young, but his bearing, his clothes, and his horse were elegant and handsome. Yin approached and spoke with him, finding him moreover refined and charming. Surprised, he returned and told his wife, who sent a maid on the pretext of paying a call to spy on his rooms. In the rooms there was a beautiful woman, fair and lovely beyond a fairy. All the flowers, rocks, garments, and curios were things never before seen by eye. Yin could not guess who he was, so he went to his gate and presented his visiting card, but happened to find him out. The next day the young man came to return the call; when Yin opened his card, he learned that his surname was Yu and his given name De. During the conversation he carefully asked about his official background, but his answers were very vague. When pressed, he said: “If you wish to associate with me, I dare not cut myself off. You should know that I am not a fugitive thief—why must you know my origins?” Yin apologized and ordered wine to entertain him; they talked and laughed merrily. At dusk, a Kunlun slave led a horse and carried a lantern to escort him away. The next day Yu sent a note inviting the host. Yin went to his house and saw that the walls were all pasted with bright glossy paper, clean as mirrors; a golden suan-ni incense burner gave off a strange fragrance; a jade-green vase held two phoenix tail feathers and two peacock feathers, each over two feet long; a crystal vase held a spray of pink flowers, of unknown name, also about two feet high, with drooping branches overhanging the table, sparse leaves and dense buds, the buds not yet opened, their shape like damp butterflies folding their wings, the stems like whiskers. The feast had no more than eight dishes, but they were exceptionally fine and delicious. He then ordered a boy to beat a drum to hasten the flowers, as a drinking game. As soon as the drum sounded, the flowers in the vase trembled as if about to break; soon the butterfly wings gradually spread; then the drum stopped, and with a deep sound, the stems and whiskers suddenly fell off, and they turned into butterflies that flew onto Yin’s robe. Yu laughed, rose, and drained a large goblet; just as the wine was filled, the butterflies also flew away. Soon the drum sounded again, and two butterflies alighted on Yu’s cap. Yu laughed and said, “I have made a law and fallen by it myself.” He also drank two goblets. After the third round of drumming ended, the flowers rained down, fluttering lightly, brushing sleeves and clinging to lapels. The drumming boy laughed and came to count: Yin had won nine tallies, Yu four. Yin was already slightly drunk and could not finish his tallies; he forced down three more cups, then left the table and went away. From then on, he found Yu even more remarkable. Yet Yu was a man of few acquaintances; he always kept his gate closed and did not engage in social visits with the townspeople. Yin told everyone he met, and those who heard of his strangeness vied to befriend him; carriages and visitors crowded before his gate. Yu, quite impatient, suddenly took leave of his host and departed. After he left, Yin entered his house: the empty courtyard was swept clean without a speck of dust; candle drippings were piled on the green steps; scraps of silk and cotton lay about the windows, with clear finger marks still visible. Only behind the house was left a small white stone jar, holding about a bushel. Yin carried it home, filled it with water, and kept red fish in it. For a whole year the water remained as clear as when first poured. Later a servant accidentally broke it while moving stones, but the water did not spill out. Looking at it, the jar seemed intact; touching it, it felt soft and empty. When he put his hand inside, the water drained out with his hand; when he withdrew his hand, it closed up again. In winter it did not freeze. One night it suddenly congealed into crystal, while the fish swam as before. Yin, fearing others would know, always kept it in a secret room and showed it to no one but his sons and sons-in-law. After a long time it gradually became known, and people clamoring to see it crowded at his gate. In the twelfth month it suddenly dissolved into water, soaking the floor; the fish also vanished, though the old broken stone fragments remained. Suddenly a Daoist priest came to his gate asking for it. Yin brought it out to show him. The priest said, “This is a water-holder from the Dragon Palace.” Yin told him of its strangeness—broken but not leaking. The priest said, “This is the jar’s soul.” He earnestly begged for a small piece. When asked what use it was, he said, “Ground to powder and mixed with medicine, it can give long life.” Yin gave him a piece, and he thanked him happily and left. Yang Qianzong When Minister Bi was called from home to take up military command in Taomin, there was a Qianzong named Yang Hualin who came to meet him. While on the road, they happened to see a man squatting by the roadside. Yang drew his bow and wanted to shoot him, but the minister hastily stopped him. Yang said, “This fellow is rude; he deserves a little fright.” Then he shouted from afar: “You who are squatting, I present you with a Guiji rattan hairpin to bind your topknot!” With that he shot an arrow, which struck the man’s topknot squarely. The man fled in haste, leaving his excrement on the ground. The Melon Anomaly In the sixth month of the twenty-sixth year of the Kangxi reign, in a villager’s garden west of the town, a new vine grew from a cucumber plant and bore a single watermelon, as large as a bowl. Qingmei Cheng Sheng of Baixia was open and unrestrained, not bound by conventions. One day, returning home from outside, he loosened his belt and felt it heavy, as if something had fallen into it. He looked but saw nothing. As he moved about, a woman emerged from behind his clothes, pushed back her hair, and smiled—very beautiful. Cheng suspected she was a ghost, but she said, “I am not a ghost; I am a fox.” Cheng said, “If I could have a beauty, I would not fear even a ghost, much less a fox!” So he dallied with her. After two years she bore him a daughter, whom they named Qingmei. She often said to Cheng, “Do not marry; I will bear you sons.” Cheng therefore did not marry, though his relatives and friends all ridiculed him. Cheng changed his mind and betrothed himself to a Wang family girl from east of the lake. The fox, greatly angered, nursed the child, placed her in Cheng’s arms, and said, “This is your family’s loss-making goods; whether she lives or dies is up to you. Why should I act as wet nurse for someone else?” She then went out the door and left. Qingmei grew up clever, with a handsome and delicate appearance, closely resembling her mother. After Cheng fell ill and died, Wang remarried and left. Qingmei was raised by her paternal uncle, who was dissolute and shiftless and wanted to sell her for his own profit. At that time, there was a Jinshi named Wang, who was awaiting appointment at home. Hearing of her cleverness, he bought her for a high price and made her serve his daughter Axi. Axi was fourteen, with peerless beauty, and she was pleased with Qingmei, sharing bed and board with her. Qingmei was also good at attending to others; she could listen with her eyes and speak with her brows, so the whole family loved her. In the same town there was a student named Zhang Jieshou, whose family was very poor and without fixed property; they rented a house in the Wang mansion. He was extremely filial, scrupulous in conduct, and diligent in his studies. Qingmei once happened to go to his house and saw him sitting on a rock eating congee with bran. She entered the room and chatted with his mother, and saw on the table a pig’s trotter. At that time his father was ill in bed; Zhang went in, embraced his father and urinated privately, soiling his clothes with the urine. The father noticed and felt deep self-reproach. Zhang concealed the evidence, quickly went out and washed himself, afraid his father would know. Qingmei was greatly struck by this. She returned and told what she had seen, saying to Axi: “Our lodger is no ordinary man. If you do not wish for a good match, then nothing; but if you do, Zhang Sheng is the one.” Axi feared her father would dislike his poverty. Qingmei said, “Not so; it depends on you. If you think it feasible, I will secretly tell him to send a matchmaker. The mistress will surely consult you; you need only answer ‘yes,’ and it will be settled.” Axi feared that being poor forever would make her a laughingstock. Qingmei said, “I believe I can judge the world’s scholars; I will not be mistaken.” The next day she went and told Old Mrs. Zhang, who was greatly startled and said the words were inauspicious. Qingmei said, “The young lady has heard of the young gentleman’s worthiness, and I have sounded her thoughts to speak thus. If the matchmaker goes, we two will support it, and I expect it will be agreed. Even if not, what disgrace would it bring the young gentleman?” Old Mrs. Zhang said, “Very well.” So she entrusted the flower-seller Hou to go. When the lady of the house heard, she laughed and told Wang, who also laughed. They called Axi and told her Hou’s proposal. Before Axi could answer, Qingmei hastily praised Zhang’s worthiness and declared he would surely rise in the world. The lady then asked, “This concerns your life. If you can swallow bran and husks, then we will agree for you.” Axi hung her head for a long while, then looked at the wall and replied: “Poverty or wealth is a matter of fate. If fate is generous, then poverty will not last long, and the time without poverty will be endless. If fate is thin, then even a noble in brocade—how many are there without a place to stand? It lies with my parents.” At first, when Wang had consulted his daughter, it was only for amusement; but when he heard her words, he was displeased and said, “Do you wish to marry that Zhang?” Axi did not answer; he asked again, and again she did not answer. Angry, he said, “Worthless bone, you have no ambition! You want to carry a basket and be a beggar’s wife—would that not shame you to death?” Axi flushed red and choked with anger; she withdrew in tears. The matchmaker also left in haste. Qingmei saw that the match was not going well, and wished to make her own arrangements. A few days later, she went to the scholar's place at night. He was just reading and, startled, asked why she had come. Her words were halting. The scholar straightened his face and rejected her. Qingmei wept, saying, "I am a daughter of a good family, not one who runs away in licentiousness. It is only because I admire your worthiness that I wish to entrust myself to you." The scholar said, "You love me, calling me worthy. But to go about at night—a man of self-respect would not do such a thing, and would a worthy man do it? If one begins in disorder and ends in union, even a gentleman would say it is not permissible; how much less when there can be no union—how then would you bear yourself in this?" Qingmei said, "If by chance it could be accomplished, would you deign to take me in?" The scholar said, "To get a person like you, what more could I ask? But there are three impossible circumstances, and therefore I dare not lightly promise." She said, "What are they?" He said, "I cannot decide for myself—that is one impossibility. Even if I could decide, if my parents are not pleased—that is another impossibility. Even if they are pleased, your ransom price must surely be high, and I am too poor to raise it—that is yet more impossible. Leave quickly; the suspicion of ‘melon and plum’ is fearsome!" As Qingmei departed, she urged again, "If you have any intention, pray let us plan together." The scholar agreed. Qingmei returned, and the young lady questioned where she had been; she then knelt and confessed of her own accord. The young lady was angry at her licentious running about and was about to inflict a beating. Qingmei wept, protesting it was nothing improper, and told the whole truth. The young lady sighed, "Not to consent to illicit union—that is propriety; to be sure to tell one's parents—that is filial piety; not to make promises lightly—that is trustworthiness. With these three virtues, Heaven will surely bless her; she need not worry about poverty." Then she said, "What do you intend to do?" Qingmei said, "Marry him." The young lady laughed and said, "You silly maid, can you decide for yourself?" Qingmei said, "If it fails, then I will follow it with death." The young lady said, "I will see your wish fulfilled." Qingmei kowtowed and thanked her. After a few more days, she said to the young lady, "Were your words before spoken in jest, or did you truly mean to show compassion? If so, there is still a small matter, and I beg for your pity as well." The young lady asked what it was. She replied, "Scholar Zhang cannot send betrothal gifts, and I have no means to ransom myself. If they insist on the full amount, marrying me would be like not marrying at all." The young lady pondered and said, "That is beyond my power. If I say ‘marry her’ and fear it may not be approved, and then say ‘certainly take no price’—that my father would never permit, and I dare not even speak of it." Hearing this, Qingmei wept, but only begged for rescue and pity. The young lady thought for a long while and said, "There is no help for it; I have a few taels in private savings, and I will empty my purse to help you." Qingmei bowed in thanks, and then secretly told Zhang. Zhang's mother was overjoyed, and borrowed from every quarter until they raised the required sum, and kept it in store awaiting good news. It happened that Wang was appointed magistrate of Quwo. Xi took the opportunity to tell her mother, "Qingmei is now of age, and we are about to take up office; it would be better to send her away." Madam had long thought Qingmei too clever and feared she would lead her daughter into impropriety, and had often wanted to marry her off, but feared her daughter would not like it; hearing her daughter's words, she was very pleased. After two days, a matchmaker's woman came to convey the Zhang family's intention. Wang laughed and said, "She is only fit to match with a servant; how presumptuous he was before! But selling a concubine-maid to a high family should fetch double the former price." The young lady hurriedly stepped forward and said, "Qingmei has served me long; to sell her as a concubine would be truly unkind." Wang then sent word to the Zhang family, still using the original sum on the contract, and married Qingmei to the scholar. When she entered the household, she served her parents-in-law filially, accommodating and obedient in every way, even more than the scholar, and worked even harder, not minding husks and chaff for her meals. Thus there was no one in the family who did not love and respect Qingmei. Qingmei also did embroidery as a trade; it sold quickly, and merchants waited at the door to buy, fearing only that they could not get it. With the money she earned, she could somewhat stave off poverty. She also urged him not to let domestic concerns interfere with his studies, and took all household management upon herself. When the master went to his post, she went to bid farewell to Axi. Axi, seeing her, wept and said, "You have found your place; I am certainly not your equal." Qingmei said, "Whose gift was this, that I dare forget it? But to say I am better than your maid is to shorten this maid's life." So they wept and parted. Wang had been in Shanxi for half a year when his wife died; the coffin was placed in a temple. Two years more, and Wang was dismissed for accepting bribes, with a fine of ten thousand, and gradually became too poor to support himself; his followers scattered. At that time a great plague broke out; Wang fell ill and died. Only one old woman remained with the young lady, and before long she too died, leaving the young lady even more forlorn and miserable. A neighboring old woman urged her to marry. The young lady said, "If you can bury both my parents together, I will follow you." The old woman pitied her and gave her a peck of rice, then left. Half a month later she returned and said, "I have tried hard for you, miss, but the matter is hard to arrange: the poor cannot afford burial, and the rich find you distasteful as the offspring of a fallen house. What is to be done? There is still one plan, but I fear you may not agree." The young lady said, "What is it?" She said, "There is a certain Mr. Li here who seeks a concubine. If he sees your beauty, he will surely send a generous burial, and will not spare expense." The young lady wept aloud, "I am of official lineage, and yet become a concubine to another!" The old woman said nothing and went away. She ate only one meal a day, prolonging her breath while waiting for a buyer. After half a year she could bear it no longer. One day the old woman came, and the young lady tearfully told her, "In such dire straits, I often think of ending my life, yet I linger on only because of the two coffins. If I myself am cast into the ditch, who will collect my parents' bones? So I think it better to follow your advice." The old woman then brought Li to see her; he took a peek at the young lady and was greatly pleased. He immediately produced money to arrange the burial, and both coffins were interred. After that, he took the young lady away to present herself to the principal wife. The principal wife was by nature jealous and fierce. Li had not at first dared to mention a concubine, but only pretended to buy a maid. When she saw the young lady, she flew into a rage, drove her out with a staff, and would not allow her to enter the gate. The young lady, with disheveled hair and weeping tears, had nowhere to turn. An old nun passed by and invited her to stay together; she gladly agreed. When she reached the nunnery, she knelt and begged to have her hair shorn. The nun would not allow it, saying, "I see that you, miss, are not one to remain long in the dust. The earthenware and coarse rice here can barely sustain you; stay here for a while. When the time comes, you will leave on your own." Before long, some ruffians in the market, seeing the young lady's beauty, often knocked at the gate and made lewd jests. The nun could not stop them. The young lady wept and cried out, wishing to end her life. The nun went to a certain Minister of Personnel and asked him to issue a strict prohibition, and the young scoundrels began to desist somewhat. Later, someone dug through the temple wall at night; the nun shouted in alarm and they left. She again reported to the Minister, who had the ringleader arrested and sent to the prefecture for caning, and only then did matters gradually quiet down. After another year or so, a noble young gentleman passed by; he saw the young lady and was astounded by her beauty. He pressed the nun to convey his attentions, and also tried to bribe her with rich gifts. The nun gently replied, "She is of a high official line and is not willing to be a concubine or a maid. Let the young gentleman return; in a while there will be a reply." After he left, the young lady wanted to take poison. That night she dreamed of her father, who came and said urgently, "I did not follow your wish, and brought you to this pass; regret is too late. But wait a little while longer—do not die; your former wish may yet be fulfilled." The young lady was astonished. At dawn, after washing, the nun looked at her and exclaimed, "I see that the turbid qi on your face has all vanished; adversity need not trouble you. Fortune is about to arrive—do not forget me, an old woman." Before she finished speaking, they heard a knock at the door. The young lady turned pale, thinking it must be the nobleman's servant. The nun opened the door, and indeed it was so. He abruptly asked about the plan. The nun answered with smiles and pleasantries, but asked for a delay of three days. The servant relayed his master's words: if the matter could not be accomplished, the nun was to report back herself. The nun assented respectfully and thanked him, then sent him away. The young lady was deeply grieved and again wanted to end her life. The nun stopped her. The young lady worried that in three days he would return and she would have no reply to give. The nun said, "I am here; if it comes to killing or being killed, I will bear it." The next day, just past noon, a torrential downpour overturned basins. Suddenly they heard several people pounding on the gate and shouting loudly. The girl's expression changed; she was terrified and did not know what to do. The nun braved the rain to open the door and saw a sedan chair parked outside, with several maids escorting a beautiful woman out. The retinue was splendid and grand, with canopies and carriages all very noble. Startled, she asked, and they said: "This is the Judicial Commissioner's household lady, temporarily seeking shelter from the wind and rain." She led them into the hall, moved a couch and seated them respectfully. The family women all rushed into the meditation room, each seeking a place to rest. Entering the room they saw the girl, were struck by her beauty, and ran to tell the lady. Before long the rain stopped; the lady rose and asked to look into the meditation room. The nun led her in; beholding the girl of surpassing beauty, she stared without blinking, and the girl also gazed back for a long while. The lady was none other than Qingmei. Each cried out in recognition and wept, then they told of their respective histories. It turned out that Old Man Zhang had died of illness, and after Sheng had resumed his studies, he passed the examinations in succession and was appointed Judicial Commissioner. Sheng had first escorted his mother to his post, then later moved the rest of the household. The girl sighed and said: "Looking at each other today, are we not as far apart as heaven and earth?" Mei laughed and said: "Fortunately, miss, you have suffered setbacks and have no match—Heaven intends for the two of us to be reunited. If not for this rain stopping us, how could we have met by chance? There are spirits at work here; it is not human agency." She then took out a pearl crown and brocaded garments and urged the girl to change her attire. The girl hung her head and hesitated; the nun added her encouragement from the side. The girl worried that living together would be improper in name, but Mei said: "In former days there was already a fixed portion. Would your servant dare forget such great virtue? Just consider—is Young Master Zhang one to be faithless?" She forcefully adorned her, and they took leave of the nun and departed. Upon arriving at the post, both mother and son were overjoyed. The girl bowed and said: "Now I have no face to see Mother." The mother smiled and comforted her. They then planned to select an auspicious day for the wedding. The girl said: "If there had been even a single thread of a way to live in the nunnery, I would never have consented to come here with the lady. If you still remember our old affection, and would grant me one hut where I may keep my meditation mat, that would be enough." Mei smiled but said nothing. When the day arrived, she brought gorgeous raiment; the girl was at a loss, not knowing what to do. Soon they heard drums and music resound loudly, and the girl could not control herself. Mei led the maids and old women to force the garments on her, and supported her out. She saw Sheng in his court robes bowing, and before she knew it, she found herself returning the bow. Mei drew her into the bridal chamber and said: "I have kept this place vacant waiting for you for a long time." Then, turning to Sheng, she said: "Tonight you can repay a kindness—do it well." She turned to leave. The girl caught her skirt; Mei laughed and said: "Do not detain me—I cannot take your place in this." She loosened her fingers and slipped away. Qingmei served the girl with utmost respect, never presuming to take her place at night, yet the girl was always abashed and ill at ease. So the mother ordered that they address each other as "Madam." Mei always maintained the rites of a concubine-maid and never dared slacken. After three years, Sheng was summoned to the capital for assessment. Passing by the nunnery, he offered five hundred taels of gold as a birthday gift to the nun. She would not accept; he insisted, and she finally took two hundred taels, with which she built a shrine to Great Master Guanyin and erected a stele to Lady Wang. Later Sheng rose to the post of Vice Minister. Madam Cheng bore two sons and one daughter; Lady Wang bore four sons and one daughter. Sheng submitted a memorial stating the circumstances, and both were enfeoffed as Madams. The Historian of the Strange comments: "Heaven gives forth beautiful women precisely to reward worthy and illustrious men, yet the worldly princes and lords keep them to bestow upon foppish wastrels—this is what the Creator must contend against. And so, through twists and turns, the matchmakers expend boundless efforts, the transformative work of Heaven being most painstaking indeed. Only consider Lady Qing, who could recognize a hero while he was still in the dust, and vowed to marry him even at the cost of death—while those who grandly wear caps and robes cast aside virtue and morality to pursue wealth and rank. How is it that their wisdom falls below that of a maidservant!" --- **Luocha Sea Market** Ma Ji, styled Longmei, was a merchant's son. He had handsome features, was free-spirited from youth, and loved song and dance. He often joined the theatrical troupes, wrapping his head in brocaded kerchiefs, and was as beautiful as a comely maiden, thus earning the nickname "Handsome Youth." At fourteen he entered the prefectural school and became well known. His father, grown old and infirm, gave up trading and returned home, saying to his son: "A few volumes of books—when hungry you cannot boil them, when cold you cannot wear them. My son should continue his father's trade." Ma thereupon gradually took up moneylending and commerce. He went to sea with others, was carried away by a typhoon, and after several days and nights arrived at a great capital city. The people there were all exceedingly ugly; seeing Ma approach, they took him for a monster and fled in a clamor. Ma, at first terrified by their appearance, later realized that the people of this country were frightened of him, and so in turn used this to deceive the natives. Whenever he came upon people eating, he would run toward them; when they fled in terror, he would drink up their leftovers. After a long while he entered a mountain village, where the people's features were somewhat more human-like, but they were as ragged as beggars. Ma rested under a tree; the villagers dared not approach but only watched him from afar. After a long time, perceiving that Ma was not one to bite and devour, they gradually drew nearer. Ma smiled and spoke with them; though their language was different, about half of it could be understood. Ma then explained where he came from. The villagers were delighted and told all the neighbors that this stranger was not one to attack or devour. Yet the very ugly ones would glance at him and then leave, never daring to approach. Those who did come had mouths, noses, and features still similar to those of China; they gathered wine and food and offered them to Ma. Ma asked why they were so frightened of him. They replied: "We once heard our grandfathers say that 26,000 li to the west there is a land called China, and that the people there are all strangely formed. We only heard it by hearsay, but now we believe it." He asked why they were so poor. They said: "What our country values is not literary attainment, but physical appearance. Those of supreme beauty are made high ministers; the next rank govern the people; those below that are still favored by nobles, and so obtain rich food to support their wives and children. As for us, from birth our parents considered us unlucky and often abandoned us; those who could not bear to abandon us at once did so only for the sake of lineage." He asked: "What is this country called?" They said: "The Great Luocha Kingdom. Its capital lies thirty li to the north." Ma asked them to guide him there for a look. So at cockcrow they rose and led him off. At daybreak they reached the capital. The city walls were of black stone, inky in color; the towers and pavilions were nearly a hundred feet tall. Tiles, however, were few; they were covered with red stone, and when one picked up a broken piece and rubbed it on one's nails, it was no different from cinnabar. It happened to be the time when court had just adjourned; officials in caps and carriages emerged from the palace. The villager pointed and said: "That is the Prime Minister." Looking at him, both ears grew backwards, his nose had three nostrils, and his eyelashes curtained his eyes like blinds. Then several riders came out, and he said: "These are the high ministers." In turn he indicated each official's rank—all were ferocious and grotesque. Yet the lower the rank, the less extreme the ugliness. Before long Ma turned back; the people in the streets, catching sight of him, shrieked and fled, stumbling and falling, as if they had met a monster. The villagers explained at length, and only then did the townsfolk dare to stand and watch from a distance. Once they returned, the whole kingdom knew of the strange man, and all the gentry and officials vied to broaden their knowledge, so they had the villager invite Ma. Yet at every house he came to, the gatekeeper would shut the door, and the men and women would whisper and peer through the door-cracks—all day long, no one dared receive him. The villager said: "There is a certain halberdier here who was once sent by the former king as an envoy to foreign lands. He has seen many people and likely will not be afraid of you." They went to the halberdier's gate. The halberdier was indeed delighted and bowed him to the seat of honor. His appearance was like that of an eighty- or ninety-year-old man; his eyeballs protruded and his beard curled like a hedgehog's. He said: "In my youth, I was sent on many royal embassies, but I never reached the Central Kingdom. Now I am over one hundred and twenty years old, and I get to see a personage from that great land—this must be reported to the Son of Heaven. However, I have retired to the forests and have not trod the court steps for over ten years. Tomorrow at dawn I shall go for your sake." He then set out food and drink, observing the rites of host and guest. After several rounds of wine, he brought out more than ten female musicians, who performed songs and dances in turns. Their faces were like yakshas, all wearing white brocade wrapped around their heads and trailing crimson robes that swept the ground. Their singing and dancing were in words unknown, and their rhythms and melodies were strange and bizarre. The host watched them with pleasure. He asked: "Does China have such music as well?" Ma said: "It does." The host asked him to imitate its sounds, so Ma tapped the table and performed a tune. The host rejoiced and said: "Marvelous! The sound is like the cry of phoenixes and the roar of dragons—I have never heard the like." The next day he went to court and recommended him to the king. The king joyfully issued an edict, but two or three ministers spoke of his strange appearance, fearing it might alarm the royal person, so the king desisted. The host came out and told Ma, deeply wringing his hands. After living there for some time, he drank with the host and became drunk, took up his sword and danced, smearing his face with coal to play Zhang Fei. The host thought it beautiful and said, "Please present yourself to the prime minister as Zhang Fei; a handsome salary will not be hard to obtain." Ma said, "For amusement it is all right, but how can I change my appearance to seek glory and rank?" The host pressed him, and Ma agreed. The host set a banquet and invited influential men, ordering Ma to paint his face and wait. When the guests arrived, he called Ma out to meet them. The guests were surprised and said, "How strange! Why was he ugly before but now handsome?" Then they drank together with great pleasure. Ma danced and sang the "Yiyang tune," and all in the assembly were captivated. The next day they submitted memorials recommending Ma; the king was pleased and summoned him with ceremonial banners. When he was received, he asked about the way of peace and order in China; Ma explained in detail, earning great praise, and the king gave a banquet in the detached palace. When wine had flowed, the king said, "I hear you are skilled in refined music; can I be allowed to hear it?" Ma then danced, also imitating the white silk turban and producing soft, seductive music. The king was greatly pleased and that day appointed him Xia Dafu. He was often invited to private banquets and received exceptional favor. After a long time, the officials came to know that his face was false; wherever he went, they whispered to each other and were not very cordial with him. Ma thus stood isolated, feeling uneasy despite his seeming composure. He then submitted a memorial requesting retirement, but it was not permitted; he then asked for leave, and was given three months' vacation. Thereupon he took a post-chariot carrying gold and treasures, and returned to the village. The villagers crawled on their knees to welcome him. Ma distributed the gold and valuables to those with whom he had previously associated, and cheers thundered. The villagers said, "We humble folk have received the minister's bounty; tomorrow we go to the sea market, where we shall seek rare curios to repay you." He asked, "Where is the sea market?" They replied, "It is a market in the sea, where mermen from the four seas gather goods and jewels. The twelve countries of all quarters all come to trade. Many divine beings wander there. Clouds and mists veil the sky, and waves arise at times. Noblemen value themselves and dare not risk the perils; they all give us gold and silk to purchase exotic treasures on their behalf. The time is not far now." He asked how they knew, and they said, "Whenever we see red birds flying back and forth over the sea, in seven days the market will be held." Ma asked the date of departure and wanted to go along to see it; the villagers advised him to hold himself precious. Ma said, "I am a voyager on the blue sea; why should I fear wind and waves?" Before long, there indeed came people knocking at the door to entrust funds, so he packed his things and boarded the ship. The ship held several tens of people, with a flat bottom and high rails. Ten men rowed oars, stirring the water like arrows. After three days, they saw in the distance among the swaying water and clouds, layers of towers and pavilions, and trading vessels gathered like ants. Shortly they arrived at the foot of the city; they saw that the bricks on the walls were each as long as a man, and the watchtowers reached to the clouds. They moored the boat and went in; they saw displayed in the market strange gems and rare treasures, dazzlingly bright, mostly things not found in the human world. A young man came riding a fine horse; all the market people fled and avoided him, saying he was the "Third Prince of the Eastern Ocean." As the prince passed by, he looked at the scholar and said, "This is not a man from a foreign land." Thereupon a mounted attendant came to ask his native place. The scholar bowed to the left of the road and fully stated his lineage. The prince was pleased and said, "Since you have condescended to come, our affinity is no small matter!" He then gave the scholar a horse and asked to ride side by side. They went out of the west city and had just reached the shore of the island when the horse he rode neighed and leaped into the water. The scholar was greatly startled and cried out. Then he saw the seawater part, standing firm like a wall. Soon he saw a palace with tortoiseshell beams and bream-scale tiles; the four walls were crystal-clear, reflecting images and dazzling the eyes. He dismounted and bowed as he entered. Looking up, he saw the Dragon King above; the prince reported: "I was wandering in the market and encountered a worthy scholar from the Central Kingdom; I have brought him to see Your Majesty." The scholar performed the obeisance before the throne. The Dragon King then said, "Sir, as a man of letters, you surely can make Qu and Song your subordinate scribes. I would trouble you to wield your brush and compose a 'Rhapsody on the Sea Market'; I hope you will not begrudge your pearls and jades." The scholar kowtowed and accepted the command. He was given a crystal inkstone, a dragon-mane brush, paper shining like snow, and ink fragrant as orchids. The scholar immediately wrote over a thousand words and presented them in the hall. The Dragon King beat time and said, "Sir, your outstanding talent has glorified our watery realm!" He then gathered all the dragon clan for a banquet in the Colorful Clouds Palace. After several rounds of wine and roast meats, the Dragon King raised his cup and said to the guest, "My beloved daughter has no worthy match; I would like to burden you, Sir. If you are willing?" The scholar left his seat, overwhelmed with gratitude, and only assented. The Dragon King turned and spoke to his attendants. Shortly, several palace maidens supported a young lady out; the tinkling of her pendants sounded, and suddenly music burst forth. After she had finished her bow, he stole a glance at her—she was truly a celestial being. The lady bowed and departed. After a while, the wine feast ended; twin-chignoned maids carried painted lanterns and led the scholar into the secondary palace, where the lady sat in full makeup, awaiting him. A coral bed decorated with eight treasures, with tassels outside the canopy adorned with pearls as large as a dipper, and quilts and mats all fragrant and soft. Dawn was just breaking when young maids and charming attendants rushed in and filled the room. The scholar rose, hurried out, and went to court to give thanks. He was appointed Fuma Duwei. His rhapsody was transmitted by courier to all the seas. The Dragon Lords of the various seas all sent special envoys to congratulate him, and vied to send invitations for the Fuma to drink. The scholar wore embroidered robes, rode a green dragon, and went out with a procession of heralds. Several tens of armed horsemen, carrying carved bows and white cudgels, glittering and crowded around him. They played zithers on horseback and jade instruments in carriages. In three days, he traveled through all the seas. Hence the fame of "Longmei" resounded throughout the four seas. In the palace there was a jade tree, about an arm-span in circumference, its trunk clear as white crystal, with a pale yellow heart slightly thinner than an arm, leaves like green jade about a coin thick, fine and dense with deep shade. He often sang and chanted with the lady beneath it. The tree was covered in blossoms shaped like zhantan flowers. Whenever a petal fell, it made a clinking sound. Picking it up, it looked like carved red agate, bright and lovely. Sometimes strange birds came to sing, with golden-green feathers and tails longer than their bodies; their voices were like plaintive jade, piercing the heart. Hearing them, the scholar always thought of his homeland. He therefore said to the lady, "I have been away from home for three years, cut off from my parents; whenever I think of them, tears wet my chest and sweat my back. Can you come back with me?" The lady said, "The ways of immortals and mortals are separate; I cannot stay with you. Nor can I bear to use our love as fish and water to take away the joy of your parents' side. Allow me to think it over slowly." Hearing this, the scholar could not help weeping. The lady also sighed and said, "This is a situation where both cannot be complete!" The next day, the scholar returned from outside. The Dragon King said, "I hear that the Fuma longs for his homeland; tomorrow morning we will prepare your journey, is that all right?" The scholar thanked him and said, "I am a lonely minister in a strange land, who has received excessive favor; my gratitude is deeply rooted in my heart. Allow me to return briefly to visit my parents, and then I will plan to reunite." At dusk, the lady prepared wine and spoke of parting. The scholar made an appointment for a future meeting, but the lady said, "Our fate is over." The scholar was deeply grieved. The lady said, "Return to nourish your parents—that shows your filial piety. In life, meeting and parting are like a hundred years passing in a morning and evening; why make children's wailing? From now on, I will be chaste for you, and you will be faithful for me; though we are apart, our hearts are united—that is husband and wife. Why must we stay together day and night to be called growing old together? If you break this vow, the marriage will be unlucky. If you worry about the lack of a household manager, you may take a concubine. One more thing I entrust to you: since I have worn your clothes, there seems to be a good omen; I trouble you to give a name." The scholar said, "If it is a girl, she may be called Longgong; if a boy, he may be called Fuhai." The lady asked for a token; the scholar took out a pair of red jade lotus flowers he had obtained in the Raksha country and gave them to her. The lady said, "On the eighth day of the fourth month three years from now, you must sail to the southern island, and I will return your offspring." The lady made a bag of fish-leather, filled it with pearls and jewels, and gave it to the scholar, saying, "Keep this well; it will provide for several generations." When it was barely dawn, the king set up a farewell tent and gave many presents. The scholar bowed farewell and left the palace; the lady rode a white ram carriage to see him off to the seashore. The scholar went ashore and dismounted; the lady bade him take care, turned her carriage and went away, soon becoming distant. The seawater closed over, and she could no longer be seen. Then the scholar returned. After he had sailed away across the sea, none of his family did not think him dead; when he returned, all were astonished. Fortunately his father and mother were still well; only his wife had remarried. Then he understood the words of the Dragon Maiden about “keeping faith,” for she had apparently known it beforehand. His father wished him to marry again, but he would not; he took a maidservant as concubine. He carefully marked the three-year term, and sailed to the island in a boat. There he saw two children sitting on the water, splashing and laughing as they played, not moving nor sinking. He drew near and took them; the children gurgled and clutched his arms, leaping into his embrace. The elder one cried loudly, as if resentful that he had not rescued it first. He also drew it up. Looking closely, one was a boy and one a girl, both handsome. On their foreheads were floral coronets set with jade, and on them were the red lotus flowers. On their backs were embroidered sachets; he opened them and found a letter, which read: “Father-in-law and mother-in-law are both well. In a rush three years have passed; the red dust of the world is forever separated. Though but a stretch of water lies between, the blue bird can hardly carry messages. Longing knots itself into dreams; straining my neck becomes weariness. Vast and blue—what bitterness can be told! Yet think of Chang'e who fled to the moon, and even she is lonely in the cassia palace; of the weaver girl who throws her shuttle, and still she grieves by the Silver River. What sort of person am I, that I should enjoy everlasting affection? When I muse on this, I break into tears and then laugh. Two months after our parting, I gave birth to twins. Now they chirp in my arms and quite understand smiles and talk; they reach for dates and grab pears, and can live without their mother. I respectfully return them to you. The red jade lotus you gave me I have set on their coronets as a token. When you hold them on your knee, it is as if I were beside you. I hear that you have firmly kept our former pledge, and that is a comfort to my heart. In this life I will not take a second; even unto death I shall have no other. In my bridal casket I keep no perfumed ointments; in my mirror I long ago forsook powder and rouge for new adornment. You are like a traveler, and I like a wanton wife—even if we are apart and do not lie together, how can it be said that we are not like lutes and zithers? Only I consider that your father and mother have already gained grandsons, yet they have never once seen their new daughter-in-law; in reason and sentiment, this too is a deficiency. After the year, when your mother goes to her grave, I shall come to the burial pit and perform a daughter-in-law's duty. Beyond that, the Dragon Palace is safe, and there will be no lack of opportunities for meeting; blessed sea gives long life, and perhaps there will be a path for coming and going. I humbly pray you take care of yourself; I cannot say all I wish.” The scholar read the letter over and over, wiping away tears. The two children clung to his neck and said, “Let us go home!” He caressed them with even greater grief and said, “Do you children know where home is?” The children cried and babbled that they wanted to go home. He looked at the vast sea, boundless to the horizon; the misty-haired figure was gone, the smoky waves gave no path. He took the children back to the boat and returned disconsolately. The scholar knew that his mother’s life would not last long, and he prepared all burial articles in advance, planting over a hundred pines and oaks in the grave plot. After a year, his mother indeed died. When the funeral carriage reached the mourning hall, a woman in mourning garments came to the grave. All were startled and looked; suddenly the wind lashed, thunder boomed, followed by a rushing rain, and in an instant she had vanished. The newly planted pines and oaks had mostly withered, but from then on they all revived. As Fuhai grew a little older, he often longed for his mother, and once he suddenly threw himself into the sea, returning only after several days. Longgong, being a girl, could not go, and often wept behind closed doors. One day at dusk, the Dragon Maiden hurried in and stopped her, saying, “You children are growing up; why weep?” Then she gave her an eight-foot coral branch, a packet of dragon-brain incense, a hundred pearls, and a pair of eight-treasure inlaid gold boxes as dowry. When the scholar heard this, he burst in, seized her hand, and sobbed. In an instant, a thunderbolt broke through the roof, and the woman was gone. The Historian of the Strange says: “To greet the world with a painted face—the ways of the world are like ghosts. The癖 of licking scabs is one and the same everywhere. ‘Small shame, small approval; great shame, great approval.’ If one openly wears whiskers and brows and wanders through the city, how few would not be startled and flee! That infatuated fellow of Lingyang—where will he go weeping with his priceless jade? Alas! Glory, riches, and honor—one must seek them in mirage towers and sea markets!” Tian Qilang Wu Chengxiu, a man of Liaoyang, was fond of socializing, and all his associates were well-known scholars. One night he dreamed that someone told him, “Your friendships extend throughout the realm, but they are all shallow friends. Only one man can share hardships with you—why have you not recognized him?” He asked, “Who is it?” The answer was, “Is it not Tian Qilang?” He woke up, surprised. The next morning, when he met those he associated with, he asked about Qilang. One of the guests knew him as a hunter in the eastern village. Wu paid a respectful call at his home, knocking on the gate with his horse-whip. Soon a man came out, over twenty years old, with tiger-like eyes and a wasp waist, wearing a soiled turban and a black calf-nose trousers with many white patches. He raised his joined hands to his forehead and asked whence he came. Wu gave his name and, pleading fatigue on the road, asked to borrow shelter to rest. He asked for Qilang; the man answered, “That is I.” So he invited the guest in. He saw a few broken-down rooms with forked branches propping up the walls. Entering a small chamber, tiger skins and wolf pelts were hung between the rafters, and there was no stool or couch to sit on. Qilang spread a tiger-skin mat on the ground. Wu spoke with him; his words were plain and simple, and Wu was greatly pleased. He promptly gave him money to make a living. Qilang would not accept it. Wu insisted. Qilang accepted it and went to tell his mother. Shortly he returned the money, firmly declining. Wu pressed him again and again. Then an old woman, bent with age, came in and said sternly, “I have only this one son, and I do not wish him to serve a noble guest!” Wu withdrew in shame. On the way back he pondered and could not understand. It happened that one of his attendants, who had overheard the mother’s words behind the house, told Wu. Earlier, Qilang had taken the money and told his mother. She said, “I have just seen that young gentleman; he has a somber line on his face and is sure to meet with a strange calamity. I have heard: he who receives another’s recognition shares his worries; he who receives another’s favor hastens to his difficulties. The rich repay others with wealth; the poor repay others with righteousness. To receive heavy gifts without cause is inauspicious—I fear it will bring a deadly requital upon you.” When Wu heard this, he deeply admired the mother’s wisdom; but he admired Qilang all the more. The next day he prepared a feast and invited him; Qilang declined to come. Wu went to his house, sat down, and called for drink. Qilang himself served the wine and set out dried venison, showing perfect courtesy. The following day, Wu invited him in return, and he came. They were very cordial and delighted. Wu gave him gold, which he would not accept. Wu pretended to buy tiger skins, and then he accepted. When he returned home and looked over his stock, he reckoned it was not enough to repay the value, and thought to hunt again before presenting them. He went into the mountains for three days but got nothing. Just then his wife fell ill; he attended to her medicine and had no leisure for his work. After ten days, his wife suddenly died. He spent money on her funeral and burial, and the gold he had received was gradually used up. Wu personally came to condole and see her off, with generous rites. After the burial, he took his bow and went into the forests and hills, even more desirous of repaying Wu; but still he got nothing. Wu, learning the reason, often urged him not to hurry. He earnestly wished Qilang would at least come to visit him once; but Qilang, always troubled by his debt, would not come. Wu therefore first asked for his old stock of skins to hasten his coming. Qilang inspected the old hides, but they were moth-eaten and ruined, all the fur gone; he was even more chagrined. Wu, learning this, galloped to his courtyard and did his utmost to comfort him. He also looked at the ruined hides and said, “These are still fine. What I wanted did not depend on the fur.” He then rolled up the hides and took them away, inviting Qilang to come along. Qilang would not, so Wu returned home alone. Qilang thought that in the end he could not repay Wu with what he had, so he packed provisions and went into the mountains; after several nights he got a tiger and presented it whole. Wu was delighted, prepared a feast, and asked him to stay three days. Qilang firmly declined. Wu locked the gates so he could not leave. The guests, seeing Qilang’s rustic simplicity, privately thought the gentleman was making a foolish acquaintance. Wu treated Qilang with special distinction, quite different from the other guests. He tried to give him new clothes, but Qilang would not accept them; while he slept, Wu secretly changed them, and Qilang had no choice but to accept. After he left, his son, following his mother’s orders, returned the new clothes and asked for his old tattered robe. Wu laughed and said, “Go back and tell the old dame that the old clothes have already been torn up for shoe linings.” From then on, Qilang daily sent gifts of hares and deer, but when summoned he never came again. One day, Wu went to call on Qilang, but found that he had gone out hunting and had not yet returned. The old woman came out, and leaning against the door, said to him: "Do not lead my son on again—you are up to no good!" Wu saluted her with respect and withdrew in shame. Half a year or so later, a family member suddenly reported: "Seventh郎 has brawled over a hunting leopard, beaten a man to death, and been arrested and taken to the authorities." Wu was greatly alarmed and rushed to see him; he was already manacled and imprisoned. When he saw Wu, he said nothing, but only said: "From now on, I beg you to look after my aged mother." Wu left in distress; he promptly bribed the county magistrate with heavy gold, and also bribed the victim's family with a hundred taels of gold. After more than a month without incident, Qilang was released and returned home. The mother said with deep feeling: "Your skin and hair were given you by Wu gongzi—this old woman is not the one to begrudge them. I only pray that gongzi may live out his hundred years without calamity or distress—that will be my son's good fortune." Qilang wished to go and thank Wu. The mother said: "Go if you will, but when you see Wu gongzi, do not thank him. Small favors may be thanked, but great favors must not be thanked." Qilang went to see Wu; Wu spoke gently and comforted him, and Qilang simply assented. All the family found his manner distant and strange; Wu was pleased with his sincerity and steadfastness, and treated him even more generously. From then on, he would often stay for days at a time at the gongzi's house. He accepted whatever gifts were given him, without further refusal, and also said nothing of repayment. It happened that Wu's birthday came around; guests and attendants were numerous, and by night the rooms were full. Wu had Qilang sleep with him in a small chamber, while three servants made do with straw pallets under the bed. When the second watch was nearly spent, all the servants had fallen asleep, but the two men were still talking on and on. Qilang's knife hung on the wall; suddenly it leapt out of its scabbard several inches of its own accord, making a clanging sound and flashing with light like lightning. Wu started up in alarm. Qilang also rose and asked: "Who are those lying under the bed?" Wu answered: "They are all servants." Qilang said: "There must certainly be some wicked person among them." Wu asked why. Qilang said: "This knife was bought in a foreign land; it has never been so much as dampened by a thread when killing. To this day it has been worn for three generations. It has severed heads by the thousand, and yet it is still as sharp as if newly ground on the whetstone. When it sees a wicked man, it rings and leaps—that means the killing of a man cannot be far off. Gongzi should cleave to worthy men and keep petty men at a distance—perhaps by that means you may avoid calamity." Wu nodded in agreement. Qilang remained uneasy, tossing and turning on his bed. Wu said: "Good or ill fortune are matters of destiny—why worry so deeply?" Qilang said: "I have no fear of anything at all; it is only that I have an aged mother." Wu said: "How could things come to such a pass!" Qilang said: "If nothing comes of it, then all is well." Now the three men under the bed were these: one was Lin'er, an old favorite who knew how to please his master; one was a servant boy of twelve or thirteen, whom Wu often employed; and one was Li Ying, the most stubborn and awkward of the three, who would often glare and argue with the gongzi over trivial matters, and Wu was always angry with him. That night Wu thought to himself, and suspected that this must be the man. The next morning he summoned him and, with kind words, ordered him to leave for good. Wu's eldest son, Shen, had married a woman of the Wang family. One day, Wu went out, leaving Lin'er behind to keep the house. The chrysanthemums in the study were in glorious bloom. The new bride thought that her father-in-law was away and that the study courtyard would be quiet, so she went there herself to pick some chrysanthemums. Lin'er suddenly sprang out and made lewd advances. The woman tried to flee, but Lin'er seized her by force and dragged her into the room. She wept and resisted, her face changing color and her voice growing hoarse. Shen rushed in, and only then did Lin'er let go and run away. When Wu returned and heard of it, he angrily searched for Lin'er, but he had already disappeared—no one knew where he had gone. After two or three days, they learned that he had taken refuge in the household of a certain Censor. That official was in the capital, and all household affairs were left to his younger brother. Wu, on the strength of their shared official standing, sent a letter demanding Lin'er's return, but the younger brother simply ignored it. Wu grew even more incensed and lodged a formal complaint with the county magistrate. Although a warrant was issued, the runners would not arrest him, and the magistrate took no action. Wu was boiling with rage when Qilang happened to arrive. Wu said: "Your words have come true." And he told him the whole story. Qilang's expression changed to one of utter pallor; in the end he said nothing, and went straight away. Wu ordered his trusty servants to keep watch for Lin'er. Lin'er returned home one night and was captured by the watchers, who brought him before Wu. Wu had him beaten and tortured. Lin'er hurled insults at Wu. Wu's uncle Heng, who had always been an elder of mild disposition, feared that his nephew's violent rage would bring disaster, and urged him rather to have the matter dealt with by official law. Wu followed his advice and had Lin'er bound and taken to the court. But a letter of intercession arrived from the Censor's household; the magistrate released Lin'er and handed him over to the Censor's retainers to be taken away. Lin'er now grew even more insolent, and openly spread slander in public, falsely accusing the master's wife of adultery. Wu could do nothing about it; he was so choked with fury that he wished he might die. He rushed to the Censor's gate, pacing up and down and shouting abuse. His neighbors soothed him and urged him to go home. The next night, a family member suddenly reported: "Lin'er has been cut to pieces, and his corpse thrown out in the wilds." Wu was both startled and delighted, and felt that his spirits were somewhat revived. But soon he heard that the Censor's household had brought suit against him and his uncle, and so he went with his uncle to answer the charges. The magistrate would not allow them to defend themselves and ordered Heng to be caned. Wu cried out: "The killing is a baseless charge! As for the insults to a high official, I myself am responsible for them; my uncle has nothing to do with it." The magistrate paid him no heed. Wu glared and was about to rush forward, but the crowd of attendants seized and held him down. The runners wielding the canes were all minions of the Censor's household, and Heng was old and feeble—before half the strokes were delivered, he lay utterly lifeless. When the magistrate saw that Wu's uncle was near death, he ceased further investigation. Wu wailed and cursed, but the magistrate acted as if he had not heard. So they carried his uncle home. Wu was grief-stricken and furious, but could think of no plan. He thought of seeking Qilang's counsel, but Qilang had not come even once to offer condolences. He secretly thought: I treated Qilang well enough—how could he act like a total stranger? Yet he also suspected that it must have been Qilang who killed Lin'er. But then he reflected: if that were so, why had he not consulted me? So he sent men to inquire at his home; when they arrived, the doors were locked and all was silent, and the neighbors knew nothing of his whereabouts. One day, the Censor's younger brother was in his private office, negotiating with the magistrate. As he was receiving his morning supplies of firewood and water, a woodcutter suddenly came before him, set down his load, drew a sharp knife, and rushed straight at him. The younger brother, in frantic haste, parried with his hand, and the knife fell, cutting off his wrist; with another blow, it severed his head. The magistrate was terrified and fled. The woodcutter still looked about wildly. The clerks and attendants hastily shut the yamen gates, seized staves, and shouted loudly. The woodcutter then cut his own throat and died. They all crowded around to identify him, and those who recognized him knew him to be Tian Qilang. When the magistrate had recovered from his fright, he came out to examine the body. As he was standing over the corpse to inspect it, it suddenly reared up and leaped, severing the magistrate's head, and then collapsed again. The yamen officers went to arrest his mother and son, but they had already fled days before. When Wu heard of Qilang's death, he rushed to mourn him with full grief. Everyone said that he had instigated Qilang. Wu bankrupted himself to bribe those in power, and only then was he acquitted. Qilang's corpse lay abandoned in the wilds for over thirty days, with birds and dogs keeping watch around it. Wu retrieved it and gave it a lavish burial. His son drifted to Dengzhou, where he changed his surname to Tong. He rose through the ranks of the military and by merit reached the position of Tongzhi General. When he returned to Liaodong, Wu was already over eighty, and he pointed out to him the grave of his father. The Historian of the Strange says: "Not accepting even a single coin lightly—that is precisely the mark of one who never forgets a single meal. Worthy indeed was that mother! As for Qilang, though his indignation was not fully avenged while alive, in death he still carried it through—how truly supernatural was that! Had Jing Ke been able to do likewise, there would have been no regret for a thousand years. If such a man exists, he can repair the loopholes of Heaven's net; but the world is vast and dark—one regrets that Qilangs are too few. Alas!" --- **Chanlong** In the year Renxu, in Xing Village of the county, a woman of the Li family, whose husband had died and who was pregnant with his posthumous child, would suddenly swell up like an earthenware jar and then suddenly contract to the size of a fist. When the time of labor came, for a whole day and night she could not give birth. They saw a dragon's head—as soon as it appeared, it drew back again. The family was terrified. There was an old woman named Wang who burned incense, paced in the shaman's step, and pressed and chanted incantations. Before long, the afterbirth fell, and the dragon was seen no more—only a few scales as large as wine cups. Next came a girl, whose flesh was translucent as crystal, so that her internal organs could be counted. --- **Baozhu** Before the藩 lord Wu rebelled, he once issued an order to his officers and soldiers: any man who could single-handedly capture a tiger would be given a generous stipend and the title "Tiger-Capturing General." Among his men was one named Baozhu, who was as nimble and vigorous as a monkey. In the residence, a tall tower was being built, and the beams had just been set in place. Baozhu climbed up along the corner of the tower, reached the top in an instant, stood on the ridgepole, and ran swiftly along it, back and forth three or four times. Then he leaped down from above, landing upright and straight as a ramrod. The king had a beloved concubine who was skilled at playing the pipa. The pipa she used had warm jade for the pegs, and when held, it warmed the whole room. The concubine treasured it and would not show it to anyone without the king’s handwritten order. One evening at a banquet, a guest asked to see its marvel. The king happened to be indolent and promised it for the next day. Wang was then at his side and said, “Without awaiting Your Majesty’s command, I can fetch it.” The king sent a man galloping to announce it at the palace, and inside and out they were placed on guard; only then did he dispatch Wang. Wang climbed over more than ten walls before he reached the concubine’s courtyard. He saw lamplight shining in the chamber, but the door was bolted and barred so he could not enter. Under the corridor, a parrot was roosting on its stand. Wang then made a cat’s mew, and then imitated the parrot’s cry, shouting sharply, “The cat is coming!” The sounds of flapping and scuffling grew urgent. He heard the concubine say, “Lünu, hurry and look—the parrot has been beaten to death!” Wang hid himself in a dark place. Soon a maid came out carrying a lamp; as soon as her body had left the doorway, Wang had already slipped in. He saw the concubine guarding the pipa on the table, and Wang snatched it and dashed out. The concubine cried out in alarm, “Thieves are here!” and all the guards rose up. They saw Wang running off with the pipa and gave chase but could not catch him; arrows fell like rain. Wang leaped up into a tree. Below the wall there were originally more than thirty old locust trees; Wang threaded through the trees, moving along the treetops like a bird shifting among branches. When the trees ended, he mounted the roof; when the roofs ended, he mounted the pavilions, flying over halls and towers no less than if he had wings, and in a flash he was gone from sight. The guests were still drinking when Wang flew down with the pipa in his arms before the eaves. The doors were bolted as before, and no cock crowed or dog barked. Gongsun Jiuniang In the Yu Qi case, those implicated and executed were most numerous in Qixia and Laiyang counties. One day several hundred prisoners were taken and all beheaded on the parade ground; green blood covered the ground, and white bones propped up the sky. The superior officials, in their compassion, contributed coffins, and in the workshops of Ji city, all timber was used up. Thus the eastern ghosts who suffered execution were mostly buried in the southern suburbs. In the jia-yin years, a certain gentleman of Laiyang came to Jixia. Two or three of his relatives and friends were also among those executed, so he bought paper money and offerings, poured libations in the overgrown graveyard, and then rented a lodging in a monk’s subordinate temple. The next day, he went into the city on business and did not return by dusk. Suddenly a young man arrived at his room to visit. Seeing that the gentleman was not there, he took off his hat, climbed onto the bed, and lay on his back with his shoes still on. The servant asked who he was, but he closed his eyes and did not answer. By the time the gentleman returned, the twilight was hazy and he could not distinguish things clearly. He went to the foot of the bed and asked; the young man stared at him and said, “I am waiting for your master—why do you pester me with questions? Do I look like a robber?” The gentleman laughed and said, “Your master is here.” The young man at once rose, put on his hat, bowed, and sat down, exchanging many civilities. Hearing his voice, the gentleman felt he had known him before. He called hastily for a lamp—and it was his townsman Zhu, who had also died in the Yu Qi disaster. Startled, he drew back, but Zhu pulled him and said, “You and I were friends through letters—why are you so cold? Though I am a ghost, my remembrance of an old friend is keen and never forgotten. Now I have a request to make; I hope you will not regard me as a strange being and slight me.” The gentleman then sat down and asked what he wished. Zhu said, “Your niece is a widow living alone without a mate. I wish to have her as my wife to manage my household. I have repeatedly sent matchmakers, but always they used the excuse that there was no elder to give permission. I hope you will not grudge a few favorable words.” Now, this gentleman had a niece who had lost her mother early, and was left in his care; at fifteen she returned to her own home. When she was taken captive to Jinan, hearing that her father had been executed, she was so shocked that she died. The gentleman said, “She has her own father—why do you ask me?” Zhu said, “Her father had his nephew remove his coffin and go away; he is not here now.” He asked, “With whom does my niece live now?” Zhu replied, “With an old neighbor woman.” The gentleman was concerned that a living man could not act as a ghostly matchmaker. Zhu said, “If you will grant your golden promise, I must still trouble you to come in person.” Thereupon he rose and took the gentleman’s hand. The gentleman declined, asking, “Where are we going?” Zhu said, “Just come.” He reluctantly followed and went with him. Going north about a li, there was a large village of perhaps a few dozen or a hundred households. They came to a mansion, and Zhu tapped on the door with his finger. An old woman came out and opened both leaves of the door, asking Zhu, “What is it?” He said, “Please inform the young lady that her uncle has come.” The old woman turned back and soon came out again, inviting the gentleman in, and said to Zhu, “The thatched hut of two rafters is too cramped; I beg you, sir, to wait outside for a while.” The gentleman followed her in. He saw half a mu of barren courtyard with two small rooms. His niece met him at the door, weeping; he wept too. The room was lit with a flickering lamp. The girl’s appearance was as pure and beautiful as in life; she gazed at him with tears in her eyes and inquired after all her aunts and uncles. The gentleman said, “They are all well, but your aunt has passed away.” The girl sobbed again and said, “Your niece received your nurture from childhood and has not yet repaid a single bit—I never expected to be cast into the ditch first—it is deeply regrettable. Last year, eldest cousin from Uncle’s family moved Father away, giving me not a thought; now hundreds of li away, I am solitary as an autumn swallow. Uncle, do not abandon a sinking soul; you have further bestowed gold and silk, and I have already received them.” The gentleman then told her of Zhu’s proposal. The girl hung her head in silence. The old woman said, “Sir Zhu had entrusted Old Woman Yang to come three or five times; I thought it was very good. But the young lady would not be hasty; now that her uncle is in charge, this will satisfy her heart.” As she spoke, a young lady of seventeen or eighteen, attended by a maid, suddenly entered; catching sight of the gentleman, she turned to flee. The niece caught her skirt and said, “Don’t do that—this is my uncle.” The gentleman bowed to her, and the young lady also made a curtsey. The niece said, “This is Jiuniang, of the Gongsun family from Qixia. Her father was of a good old house, but now he is a ‘poor Persian’—disappointed and ill at ease. She comes and goes with me from time to time.” The gentleman glanced at her; her smile curved like the autumn moon, and a blush of dawn suffused her cheeks—truly a heavenly being. He said, “One can tell she is from a great family—how could anyone from a cramped hut be so lovely?” The niece laughed and said, “Moreover, she is a female scholar; her poems and verses are all of the highest quality. Just yesterday I received some instruction from her.” Jiuniang smiled faintly and said, “The little maid has wantonly slandered people, making Uncle laugh at me.” The niece laughed again and said, “Uncle, your bowstring is broken and not yet restrung—would this young lady not suit your fancy?” Jiuniang laughed and ran out, saying, “The maid is raving mad!” and so left. Though the words were near jest, the gentleman was quite taken with her. The niece seemed to notice slightly and said, “Jiuniang’s talent and beauty are unrivalled. If Uncle does not think it a refuse-heap suspicion, I will ask her mother.” The gentleman was overjoyed, but he worried that a human and a ghost could not match. The girl said, “No harm—she has a predestined bond with you.” The gentleman then went out. The girl saw him off, saying, “In five days, when the moon is bright and people are still, I will send someone to welcome you.” When the gentleman reached outside, he did not see Zhu. He raised his head and looked west. The moon held a half-circle, and in the dusk he could still recognize the old path. He saw a mansion to the south; Zhu was sitting on a stone by the door. He rose to greet him and said, “I have waited long; my humble abode is here, so please do me the honor.” Thereupon he took his hand and led him in, thanking him warmly. He brought out a gold goblet and a hundred Jin pearls, saying, “I have no other valuables; let these stand for the betrothal gifts.” Then he said, “I have some home-brewed wine, but things from the dark world are not worthy to entertain a honored guest—what to do!” The gentleman declined with thanks and withdrew. Zhu saw him off for more than a li before they parted. When the gentleman returned, the monks and servants gathered to ask, but he kept it hidden, saying, “Those who speak of ghosts are wrong; I just drank with a friend.” Five days later, Zhu indeed came, neatly shod and waving a fan, looking quite pleased. As soon as he reached the door, he made a bow in the dust, laughing, “Your auspicious rite is already completed; the happy day is imminent, so I must trouble you to come.” The gentleman said, “Since I had no reply, I have not yet sent the betrothal gifts—how could the rite be completed so soon?” Zhu said, “I have already sent them on your behalf.” The gentleman was deeply grateful and went with him. They went straight to the sleeping quarters, where his niece, in full bridal dress, greeted him with a smile. He asked, “When did you marry?” The girl said, “Three days ago.” Zhu then produced the pearls he had given as the niece’s dowry. The girl declined three times before accepting, and said to her uncle, “I told Grandmother Gongsun of your intention; the old lady was greatly pleased. But she said she is old and has no other flesh and blood, and does not wish Jiuniang to marry far away; she expects you to go this night and be wedded into their family. Since that household has no men, you can go along with the young gentleman.” Zhu then led the way. At the end of the village, a mansion gate opened, and the two entered its hall. Soon it was announced, “The old lady is here.” Two maids supported an old woman up the steps. The gentleman was about to make a formal obeisance, but the lady said, “I am old and decrepit and cannot perform ceremonies; we shall dispense with formalities.” She directed the maids to bring wine and set a grand feast. Zhu then called his own people to bring out separate dishes and set them before the gentleman; he also set out a separate flagon to serve the guest. The food served at the feast was no different from the human world. But the hostess herself drank, and never pressed him to drink. Shortly after, the feast ended, and Zhu went home. The maidservant in green led the scholar away. When he entered the chamber, he found Ninth Maid waiting for him by the bright candles. They met with mutual affection and enjoyed the utmost intimacy. At first, Ninth Maid and her mother had been taken under escort to the capital. When they reached the prefectural city, the mother could not endure the hardship and died, and Ninth Maid herself had cut her own throat. As they lay on the pillow recounting past events, she sobbed so that she could not get to sleep. Then she improvised two quatrains: "Former brocade robes have turned to dust; In vain I resent the fruits of karma from a former life. For ten years the dew has chilled the maple grove under the moon; Tonight I first meet the spring of painted chambers." "Wind and rain sigh around the lonely grave by the white poplars; Who would think that on the Yang Terrace clouds would rise again? Suddenly I open the gold-inlaid box and look inside— The bloodstains still mark my old silk skirt." As dawn was about to break, she urged him: "You should leave for now, and not startle the servants." From then on he came by day and left at night, and was utterly captivated. One evening he asked Ninth Maid: "What is the name of this village?" She said: "Laixia Village. The village has many newly dead ghosts from two places, hence the name." The scholar sighed at this. The maid wept and said: "A tender soul from a thousand li away, drifting like tumbleweed without destination—a mother and daughter left orphaned and alone; it is heartbreaking to speak of it. I hope that you will remember the kindness of a night's love, and gather my bones to bury them beside the grave, so that for a hundred years I may have a place to rest, and I shall not forget even in death." The scholar agreed. The maid said: "The paths of men and ghosts are different; you should not linger long." Then she gave him her silk socks as a gift, and with tears urged him to part. The scholar left sorrowfully, too distressed to return home. So he went and knocked at the Zhu family's gate. Zhu came out barefoot to greet him; the niece also arose, her hair in disarray, and came to him in alarm to inquire. The scholar was downcast for a long while before he recounted Ninth Maid's words. The niece said: "Even had my aunt not spoken, I have been planning this day and night. This is not the world of the living, and you cannot stay here long." So they wept together, and the scholar took his leave with tears. He returned to his lodging and lay down, tossing and turning till dawn. He wished to seek Ninth Maid's grave, but had forgotten to ask for the marker. When night came he went again, but there were thousands of graves in layers, and he completely lost the village path; he sighed in regret and returned. He took out the silk socks to look at them; they crumbled in the wind, rotten like ashes, so he packed his belongings and turned eastward. For half a year he could not shake off his feelings, and went again to the Ji Gate, hoping to encounter something. When he reached the southern outskirts, the sun was already low; he rested under a tree and then made his way to the burial ground. But he saw only myriad grave mounds stretching to the horizon, overgrown with brambles and wild grasses, with ghost fires and fox howls that terrified the eye and heart. Startled and grieving, he returned to his lodging. Disheartened and wandering aimlessly, he turned his carriage east. After traveling about a li, he saw from afar a woman standing on a grave; her bearing and manner strangely resembled Ninth Maid. He whipped his horse forward to look, and it was indeed Ninth Maid. He dismounted to speak with her, but she walked straight away as if she did not know him. When he drew closer, she showed anger, raising her sleeve to shield herself. He suddenly called out "Ninth Maid!"—and she vanished like smoke. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Fragrant herbs sink into the Luo River, blood fills the breast; on East Mountain the jade pendant is worn, tears stain the mud and sand. In antiquity there were filial sons and loyal ministers who to the very end were not forgiven by their sovereigns and fathers. Could it be that Gongsun Jiu Niang, because of the entrustment of her bones unfulfilled, held resentment that would not dissolve in her heart? The thing between the diaphragm cannot be scooped out and shown—how unjust it is!" The Cricket During the Xuande reign, the court was fond of the sport of cricket fighting, and levied them from the people every year. This creature was not originally a product of the west. A magistrate of Huayin, wishing to curry favor with his superiors, presented one; when they tested it in a fight, it proved talented, so he was ordered to supply them regularly. The magistrate then passed this obligation on to the village headmen. In the marketplace, idle youths would keep fine crickets in cages, raising their price and hoarding them as rare goods. Cunning petty clerks took advantage of this to extort levies from households; every time one cricket was demanded, it would exhaust the property of several families. In the county there was a man named Cheng Ming, who studied for the examinations but had long failed to pass. He was simple and slow of speech, and so a cunning clerk enrolled him as a village headman; he tried every means to escape but could not. Before the year was out, his meager property was all used up. Just then came the levy for crickets; Cheng did not dare to collect from the households, yet he had nothing to pay with, and was so distressed he wished to die. His wife said: "What good is dying? You might as well go search for them yourself, in the hope of a one-in-ten-thousand chance." Cheng agreed. He went out at dawn and returned at dusk, carrying a bamboo tube and a copper-wire cage, searching under broken walls and in thick grass, probing stones and opening holes—no method was left untried, but to no avail. Even when he caught two or three, they were poor and weak, not up to standard. The magistrate pressed him severely with deadlines; in little more than ten days he had been beaten nearly a hundred times, and pus and blood flowed from both thighs, so that he could not even go out to catch crickets. He lay tossing on his bed, thinking only of suicide. At that time a humpbacked shamaness came to the village, who could divine by spirits. Cheng's wife prepared money and went to consult her. She saw red-clad girls and white-haired old women thronging the door. Entering the room, she found an inner chamber with a curtain let down, and outside the curtain an incense table. Those consulting burned incense in a tripod and bowed twice. The shamaness, standing beside them, faced the void and prayed on their behalf, her lips opening and closing, uttering words none could make out; all stood stiffly listening. After a while, a piece of paper was tossed out from behind the curtain, which told what was on the inquirer's mind without the slightest error. Cheng's wife placed money on the table and bowed with incense. After the space of a meal, the curtain stirred, and a slip of paper fell out. She picked it up and looked: it was not writing but a drawing, with a hall and pavilions like a temple in the middle; behind it, under a small hill, strange rocks lay scattered, thorny brambles stood in clusters, and a green-headed cricket crouched among them; beside it was a toad, as if about to leap and dance. She studied it but could not understand it. Yet seeing a cricket, it seemed to touch something in her heart; she folded it up and hid it, and on returning showed it to Cheng. Cheng turned it over in his mind: "Could this be telling me where to hunt for the creatures?" He looked carefully at the scene and found that it closely resembled the Great Buddha Pavilion east of the village. So he forced himself up, leaning on a staff, took the drawing, and went behind the temple. There was an ancient burial mound rising grandly. Following along the mound, he saw crouching stones in layered rows, exactly like the picture. So he walked slowly among the brambles, listening intently, as if searching for a needle or a mustard seed; but his eyes, ears, and mind were all exhausted, and there was no trace or sound. While he was still searching intently, a toad with a scabby head suddenly leaped away. Cheng was startled and hurried after it. The toad disappeared into the grass; he followed its tracks and pushed aside the vegetation, and saw a cricket crouching at the root of a thorn bush. He pounced on it at once, but it went into a stone hole. He teased it out with a sharp blade of grass but it would not come; he poured water from his tube into the hole, and only then did it emerge. It was extremely handsome and vigorous. He chased and caught it. Examining it closely: large body, long tail, green neck, golden wings. Overjoyed, he took it home in its cage, and the whole family celebrated, valuing it more than a priceless jade disc. He put it in a clay pot and raised it, feeding it crab meat and chestnut kernels, with the utmost care. He kept it until the deadline, to fulfill his official obligation. Cheng had a son of nine, who, seeing his father out, secretly opened the pot. The cricket leaped out and darted away, too fast to catch. By the time he caught it in his hand, its legs had fallen off and its belly was split, and it died in an instant. The boy was terrified and ran weeping to his mother. When the mother heard, her face turned ashen, and she cursed him: "You scourge! Your death day is at hand! When your father comes back, he will settle accounts with you!" The boy fled in tears. Soon Cheng entered; hearing his wife's words, he felt as if drenched in ice. In a rage he looked for his son, but the boy was nowhere to be found; then, they found his body in the well. Thereupon his anger turned to grief, and he cried out as if his heart would break. Husband and wife faced the wall in their corner, their thatched hut smokeless; they sat in silence, without a shred of hope. As dusk fell, they prepared to bury the boy in a rough grave. When they drew near to touch him, his breath was faint. Gladly they placed him on the bed, and by midnight he revived; husband and wife were somewhat comforted. But the boy was dazed and lethargic, listless and drowsy. Cheng looked at the empty cricket cage, and his breath caught in his throat; he no longer gave thought to the boy, and from dusk till dawn he did not close his eyes. As the eastern sun rose, he lay stiffly in bed, sighing in despair. Suddenly he heard a cricket chirping outside the door. He started up in surprise and looked; the cricket was there, apparently alive. Joyfully he went to catch it. As soon as it chirped, it leaped away, and it moved quickly. He covered it with his palm, but it felt as empty as nothing; the moment he raised his hand, it jumped again. He hurried after it; it turned around a corner of the wall, and he lost sight of it. He looked about in all directions and saw a cricket on the wall. He examined it closely: it was small, blackish-red, not the same creature as before. Cheng, because of its smallness, thought little of it; he only paced about, looking around, searching for the one he had been chasing. The little cricket on the wall suddenly leaped down onto his lapel. He looked at it: its shape was like a mole-cricket, with plum-blossom wings, a square head, and long legs; it seemed fine. Happily he captured it. He was about to present it to the authorities, but feared it would not please; he thought of testing it in a fight to see. In the village there was a youth fond of novelties who had reared a cricket and named it "Crab-shell Green." He pitted it daily against others, and it never lost. He wished to keep it for profit, and set a high price on it, but still no one bought it. He went straight to Cheng's house to visit him. When he saw Cheng's cricket, he clapped his hand over his mouth and laughed. Then he brought out his own cricket and placed it in the same cage. Cheng looked at it—it was huge and imposing—and felt all the more ashamed, not daring to match it. But the youth insisted. Cheng reflected: keeping an inferior creature was ultimately useless; he might as well risk a bout for a laugh. So he put them together in a fighting bowl. The small cricket lay motionless, as stupid as a wooden chicken. The youth laughed again. He tried tickling its feelers with a pig-bristle, but it still did not move. The youth laughed again. After several proddings, the insect suddenly flew into a rage, charged straight forward, and they leaped and struck at each other, vibrating and chirping loudly. Presently the small cricket jumped up, spread its tail and feelers, and bit directly into the opponent's neck. The youth was horrified and called a halt. The little cricket raised itself proudly and crowed triumphantly, as if to announce its victory to its master. Cheng was overjoyed. While they were all admiring it, a chicken suddenly caught sight of it and made a peck straight at it. Cheng stood aghast and cried out in alarm. Fortunately the peck missed; the cricket leaped away more than a foot. The chicken advanced vigorously, pressing it close, and the cricket was already under its claws. Cheng was at a loss, not knowing how to save it, stamping his feet and turning pale. Just then he saw the chicken stretch out its neck and flap about; looking closely, he saw the cricket perched on its comb, biting down hard and not letting go. Cheng was all the more amazed and delighted, and picked it up and put it in its cage. The next day he presented it to the magistrate. The magistrate, seeing how small it was, angrily berated Cheng. Cheng told of its extraordinary feats, but the magistrate did not believe him. He tested it against other crickets, and all were defeated; then he tested it with a chicken, and it happened just as Cheng had said. So he rewarded Cheng and forwarded it to the governor. The governor was greatly pleased, and presented it in a golden cage to the Emperor, with a detailed memorial of its abilities. Once in the palace, among all the tributes from across the realm—Butterflies, Mantises, Oilitas, Green-silken-foreheads, and every other strange variety—it was tested against them all, and none surpassed it. Whenever it heard the sound of lutes or zithers, it would dance in time to the music, which made it all the more wondrous. The Emperor was greatly delighted and bestowed upon the governor a famous horse and robes of silk. The governor did not forget the source; before long, the magistrate was cited as "preeminently outstanding." The magistrate was pleased, excused Cheng from his corvée, and also instructed the educational commissioner to admit him to the county school. After more than a year, Cheng's son recovered his former spirit and said of himself: "I had turned into a cricket, nimble and good at fighting; now I have only just come back to myself." The governor also richly rewarded Cheng. Within a few years, he had a hundred acres of land, myriad mansions with ten thousand rafters, and a thousand each of cattle, sheep, and horses. Whenever he went out, his furs and horses outshone those of the gentry. The Historian of the Strange says: "The Son of Heaven may use a thing casually, and may not necessarily go beyond that and forget it; but those who carry out his commands make it a fixed regulation. Added to that, officials are greedy and underlings cruel, and the people daily pawn their wives and sell their children, with no end in sight. Thus every single step taken by the Son of Heaven concerns the people's lives, and cannot be taken lightly. But this young man Cheng, because of a bookworm, was poor, and because of a cricket, grew rich, parading in furs and fine horses. When he was a village head and was being beaten, how could he have expected to reach this point! Heaven was going to reward the honest and kind, and so made the governor, the magistrate, and all alike receive the blessings of the cricket's favor. It is said: 'When one man rises to immortality, even his chickens and dogs ascend to heaven.' How true!" --- **Liu Xiucai** In the late years of the Ming dynasty, locusts appeared in Qing and Yan prefectures and gradually gathered around Yi. The magistrate of Yi was worried. He withdrew to his office and lay down, and dreamt that a xiucai came to call on him, wearing a tall hat and green clothes, of handsome and imposing appearance, and said he had a plan to repel the locusts. Asked what it was, he replied: "Tomorrow on the southwest road there will be a woman riding a big-bellied she-donkey—that is the locust spirit. If you beg her, you can be spared." The magistrate found this strange. He prepared offerings and went out of the city to the south. After waiting a long while, sure enough there came a woman with a high coiffure and brown cape, riding alone on an old grey donkey, slowly plodding northward. He at once burnt incense, held up a cup of wine, and greeted her bowing at the roadside, catching the donkey and not letting it go. The woman asked: "What does the magistrate intend?" The magistrate pleaded: "This small district, I beg you in pity to spare it from the locusts." The woman said: "How hateful that Liu Xiucai has a loose tongue and disclosed my secret! He shall bear it in his own person, and the crops need not be harmed." She then drained the three cups, and in a flash was gone. Afterwards the locusts came flying, blotting out the sky and sun, but they did not alight on the fields; they gathered entirely on the willows and poplars, and wherever they passed, the willow leaves were all eaten. Only then did he realize that the xiucai was the spirit of the willow. Some say: "This was brought about by the magistrate's concern for the people." Indeed! --- **The Flood** In the 21st year of the Kangxi reign, Shandong was stricken by drought, from spring to summer, for a thousand li of barren land. On the 13th of the sixth month there was a light rain, and they began to plant millet. After heavy rain on the 18th, they planted beans. One day, in Shimen Village, an old man at dusk saw two goats fighting on the mountain and told the villagers: "A great flood is coming!" He then moved his family away. The villagers all laughed at him. Before long, rain poured down in torrents, and the flat land was covered several feet deep with water; all the houses were submerged. One farmer abandoned his two sons and, with his wife, helped his old mother flee to a high ridge. Looking down at the village, it had become a vast lake, and he no longer gave a thought to his two sons. When the water receded and he returned home, the whole village was reduced to ruins and graves. When he entered his own gate, one house alone remained standing, and he saw his two sons still sitting together on the bed, laughing and playing, unharmed. Everyone sighed and said it was due to the filial devotion of the husband and wife. This happened on the 22nd of the sixth month. In the 24th year of the Kangxi reign, there was an earthquake in Pingyang, and seven or eight out of ten of the people died. The cities and walls were all reduced to rubble; only one dwelling remained, that of a certain filial son. In the vast and overwhelming calamity, only the filial descendants were unharmed. Who says Heaven makes no distinction between black and white? --- **A Certain Man of Zhucheng** Sun Jingxia, the instructor of studies in Zhucheng, related: In that county there was a man named A who, during the bandit uprisings, was killed, and his head fell forward onto his chest. When the bandits withdrew, his family found his body and were about to carry it off for burial, when they heard a faint breath. Examining him closely, the neck was not completely severed, but held by a finger's width. They therefore supported his head and carried it home on a shoulder-pole. After a day and a night he could groan, and with a spoon and chopsticks they gradually fed him; in half a year he had recovered. More than ten years later, while chatting with two or three others, someone made a jesting remark and the whole company burst into laughter; A also clapped his hands. As he bent and straightened, the scar from the sword suddenly burst open, his head fell off, and blood gushed out. All looked and saw he was dead. His father sued those who had laughed; the crowd collected money to bribe him, and so A was buried. The Historian of the Strange says: "A laugh and the head falls—this is the greatest laugh in all the ages. The head hung by a thread and yet he did not die, only to become a laughing-stock lawsuit ten years later—could it not be that those two or three neighbors were debtors from a former life?" --- **The Treasury Officer** Zhang Huadong of Zouping, having been ordered to offer sacrifice to the Southern Peak, passed through the region of the Yangtze and Huai rivers and was about to stay at a post-station. His outriders reported: "There is something strange in the station; you must not stay." Zhang would not listen, and at midnight sat with his cap and sword on. Presently he heard the sound of boots entering, and there was an old man with grizzled hair, in a black gauze cap and black belt. Zhang, startled, asked who he was. The old man bowed and said: "I am the treasury officer. I have been keeping the treasury for you for some time. It is fortunate that your excellency's standard has arrived from afar, and I can now be relieved of this heavy burden." Zhang asked: "How much is in the treasury?" He replied: "Twenty-three thousand five hundred taels of silver." Zhang, concerned that so much silver would be burdensome to carry, agreed to have it checked when he returned, and the old man withdrew. Zhang, while in the south, received many gifts. When he returned and stayed at the same post-station, the old man again came to pay his respects. Zhang asked about the treasury goods, and he said: "They have already been allocated to pay the troops in Liaodong." Zhang was deeply surprised at this discrepancy between the before and after. The old man said: "In the human world, one's allotted wealth has fixed limits; not a fraction can be added or subtracted. What your excellency should have received on this journey you have already received. What more do you seek?" Having said this, he departed. Zhang then calculated his gains, and they matched the treasury amount exactly. He sighed that even food and drink are predetermined, and one cannot ask for more than one's share. --- **The Imperial Censor of Fengdu** Outside the county of Fengdu there was a cave, unfathomably deep, said to be the office of King Yama. All the implements of punishment there were borrowed from human workmen. When the fetters and cangues decayed, they were thrown out at the cave mouth, and the county magistrate would replace them with new ones; by the next morning they would be gone. The expenses for this were included in the regular budget. During the Ming dynasty, there was a censor of the circuit named Hua. When he arrived on inspection at Fengdu, he heard the tales but did not believe them; he wished to enter the cave to resolve his doubts. The crowd said he must not, but Hua would not listen. He took a candle and entered, with two attendants following. After going about a li, the candle suddenly went out. Looking around, he saw broad steps and open halls, with over ten grand chambers where venerable officials were seated in rows, their robes and tablets imposing. Only the seat at the eastern end was empty. When the venerable officials saw Hua arrive, they descended the steps to welcome him, smilingly asking, “You have come, have you? Since we parted, have you been well?” Hua asked, “What place is this?” The venerable official said, “This is the underworld.” Hua was stunned and begged to withdraw. The venerable official pointed to the empty seat and said, “This seat is for you—how could you return?” Hua grew even more frightened and earnestly begged for leniency. The venerable official said, “The fixed number—how can it be escaped?” Then he brought out a register and showed it to Hua; on it was recorded: “On such a month and day, so-and-so returns to the underworld in his living body.” Hua read it and trembled as if drenched in ice water; thinking of his aged mother and young children, he wept with falling tears. Soon a golden-armored deity arrived, bearing a yellow silk edict. All bowed and danced in obeisance, then opened and read it; afterward they congratulated Hua, saying, “You have a chance to return to the living.” Hua rejoiced and asked about it. They said, “We have just received the Emperor’s decree, a general amnesty for the underworld. We may bend the original regulations for your sake.” Thereupon they showed him the way out. A few paces beyond, the darkness was like lacquer, and he could not tell the road; Hua was greatly distressed. Suddenly a divine general strode in with majestic bearing, his face red and beard long, his radiance shining for several feet. Hua greeted him humbly and pleaded piteously. The deity said, “Recite the Buddhist scriptures and you can get out.” Having said this, he departed. Hua reckoned that he did not remember many sutras and dharanis; only the *Diamond Sutra* he had once studied. So he pressed his palms together and recited, and at once he felt a thread of light illuminating the road ahead. Occasionally when he forgot, the road before him would instantly go dark; after thinking for a while and reciting again, it would brighten once more. Only then did he manage to get out. As for his two attendants, there was no way to ask what became of them. **The Dragon Without Eyes** In Yishui, during a heavy rainstorm, a dragon suddenly fell down. Both its eyes were gone, and it barely had any breath. The county magistrate covered it with eighty mats, yet they could not encompass its whole body. He set up a field sacrifice for it, but it still kept lashing the ground with its tail, making a loud *bo* sound. **The Fox’s Jests** Wan Fu, styled Zixiang, was a man of Boxing. From youth he studied the Confucian classics, but his family was poor and his fortunes low; at over twenty years of age he had still not gained even the first degree. In the village vulgar custom, many would report well-to-do households for corvée duty, and the honest and gentle were often ruined to the point of losing their homes. Wan had just been reported for corvée duty; frightened, he fled to Jinan and rented lodgings at an inn. One night a young woman came running in, quite pretty. Wan was delighted and had private relations with her; he asked her name and family. She said of herself, “I am truly a fox, but I will not harm you.” Wan was pleased and did not doubt her. She told him not to share the room with other guests, and thereafter came daily to share his bed. All daily necessities were provided by the fox. Before long, two or three of his acquaintances came to call, and often stayed two or three nights without leaving. Wan was annoyed but could not bring himself to refuse them; at last he told the guests the truth. The guests wished to see the fairy’s countenance. Wan told the fox, and the fox said, “Why should you see me? I am just like a person.” They heard her voice but did not see her person. Among the guests was Sun Deyan, who was fond of jesting; he insistently asked to see her, saying, “To hear her charming voice makes one’s soul fly. Why begrudge your appearance, and only make people yearn for you by voice?” The fox laughed and said, “My worthy grandson! Do you want to make a ‘pleasure-picture’ of your great-great-grandmother?” Everyone burst out laughing. The fox said, “I am a fox. May I tell you all some fox anecdotes? Would you care to hear them?” They all said yes. The fox said, “In former times, there was a village inn where there were many foxes, who often came out to haunt travellers. The travellers knew this and warned each other not to stay at that inn. For half a year, the place was desolate. The innkeeper was greatly worried and was very loath to speak of foxes. Suddenly a traveller from afar arrived, claiming to be from a foreign country, and stopped at the gate. The innkeeper was overjoyed and had just invited him inside when a passerby secretly told the traveller, ‘There are foxes in this house.’ The traveller was frightened and told the innkeeper he wished to move elsewhere. The innkeeper vigorously denied the rumor, so the traveller stayed. He entered the room and lay down, when he saw a host of mice emerge from under the bed. The traveller was terrified, leaped up, and cried out, ‘There are foxes!’ The innkeeper asked in alarm. The traveller said angrily, ‘The fox’s lair is here—why did you lie to me and say there were none?’ The innkeeper asked again, ‘What did you see?’ The traveller said, ‘What I saw just now were tiny little mites—if they are not fox kits, they must be fox grandchildren!’” At this, the guests all smiled broadly. Sun said, “Since you will not show yourself, we will stay and not leave, to block your tryst.” The fox laughed and said, “You are welcome to lodge here. If there is any slight offense, I hope you will not take it to heart.” The guests feared she might play some mischief, so they dispersed, but they still came every few days to ask for the fox’s wit and teasing. The fox was very witty, and every word she spoke confounded the guests, so that even the most jocular could not get the better of her. They all playfully called her “Lady Fox.” One day they held a grand drinking party. Wan Fu occupied the host’s seat, while Sun and two other guests sat left and right, and a couch was set at the upper place for the fox. The fox declined, saying she was not good at drinking. They all asked her to sit and talk, and she agreed. After several rounds of wine, they threw dice in the “melon-vine” drinking game. When a guest threw the melon color, it was his turn to drink; playfully he moved the goblet to the upper seat and said, “Lady Fox is too sober—lend us a cup for the moment.” The fox laughed and said, “I never drink, but I wish to offer a story to accompany your drinking.��� Sun covered his ears, unwilling to hear. The guests all said, “He who insults others must be penalized.” The fox laughed and said, “What if I mock a fox?” They said, “That is acceptable.” So they all pricked up their ears to listen. The fox said, “Once a great minister was sent as envoy to the land of the Red Hairs. He wore a fox-fur cap when he met the king. The king saw it and marvelled, asking, ‘What fur is this, so warm and fine?’ The minister answered, ‘Fox.’ The king said, ‘I have never heard of this creature in my life. How is the character for “fox” written?’ The minister traced it in the air and replied, ‘On the right is a big melon, on the left is a small dog.’” The host and guests again roared with laughter. The two guests were the Chen brothers, one named Suojian (“What-is-seen”) and the other Suowen (“What-is-heard”). Seeing Sun greatly embarrassed, they said, “Where is the male fox, that you let a female fox spread such poison?” The fox said, “Just now the story was not finished, and it was disturbed by this pack of barking. Let me finish it. The king saw that the envoy rode a mule and found it most strange. The envoy told him, ‘This is what a horse gives birth to.’ The king was even more amazed. The envoy said, ‘In China, horses give birth to mules, and mules give birth to colts.’ The king asked in detail about the appearance. The envoy said, ‘A horse giving birth to a mule is “what is seen by your servant”; a mule giving birth to a colt is “what is heard by your servant.”’” At that the whole company burst into laughter again. Everyone realized they were no match for her, so they agreed among themselves: henceforth, whoever started a jibe would be fined to play host for the next gathering. After a while, as the wine warmed them, Sun playfully said to Wan, "I have a couplet; I ask you to match it." Wan said, "What is it?" Sun said, "A courtesan goes out to visit her lover—when she comes, 'wanfu,' when she leaves, 'wanfu.'" The company pondered but could not respond. The fox laughed and said, "I have it." And matched it: "The Dragon King issues a decree seeking forthright remonstrance—the soft-shelled turtle 'deyan,' the tortoise 'deyan.'" All fell about laughing. Sun was greatly incensed and said, "I just swore an oath with you—why do you transgress again?" The fox laughed and said, "The fault is indeed mine, but without this I could not have made a precise match. Tomorrow I shall prepare a feast to redeem my error." They laughed and parted. The fox's wit and humor could not be fully recounted. After several months, he returned home together with Wan. When they reached the borders of Boxing, he told Wan, "I have distant kin here, but communication has been cut off for long; I cannot fail to pay them a visit. Dusk is approaching; let us lodge together here and set out at dawn." Wan asked where, and he pointed, saying, "Not far." Wan wondered why there had never been a village here before, but decided to go along. After about two li, they indeed saw a manor, which Wan had never visited in his life. The fox went to knock at the gate, and an old servant came out to answer. Once inside, there were layered gates and tiered pavilions, just like a noble household. Presently they met the master—an old gentleman and his wife—who saluted Wan and seated him. A sumptuous feast was spread, and they treated Wan as a relation by marriage, and so he stayed the night. The fox said to him early in the morning, "If I suddenly return with you, I fear it will shock people. You should go ahead first; I will follow shortly." Wan heeded his words and went ahead, first informing his family. Before long the fox arrived, and though he laughed and talked with Wan and everyone heard him, no one saw his person. After a year, Wan again went to Ji for business, and the fox accompanied him once more. Suddenly several men came, and the fox spoke with them, exchanging all the usual pleasantries. Then he said to Wan, "I am originally from Shaanxi. I have a karmic bond with you, and so I have followed you all this time. Now my brothers have come, and I shall go back with them; I cannot stay on." Wan tried to keep him, but in vain, and he departed. **Rain of Money** A scholar in Binzhou was studying in his studio when someone knocked at the door. He opened it and saw an old man of very ancient appearance. He invited him in and asked his name. The old man said, "My name is Yangzhen; my surname is Hu. I am in fact a fox immortal. I admire your refinement and wish to keep company with you day and night." The scholar was by nature open-minded and was not startled. They discussed the past and present together; the old man was exceedingly learned, his words ornate and polished, brilliant as carved flowers, and when he occasionally expounded on the classics, his principles were profound and surprising. The scholar was amazed and full of admiration, and kept him for a long time. One day the scholar secretly begged the old man, "You have been very kind to me. Yet I am so poor; if you would but raise your hand, money could be made to appear at once. Why not give me some small relief?" The old man was silent for a while, then laughed and said, "This is very easy. But I need a dozen or so coins as capital." The scholar did as he asked. The old man then entered a secluded room with him, performed the Yubu steps, and chanted incantations. In a moment, several hundred thousand coins came clattering down from the beams, like a sudden rainstorm, and in the blink of an eye reached past the knees. When he lifted his feet to stand, they came up to his ankles. In a room a full zhang wide, they piled up to a depth of three or four chi. Then the old man looked at him and said, "Is this enough to satisfy you?" "Quite enough," he said. The old man waved his hand, and the coins stopped abruptly. They then locked the door and went out. The scholar secretly rejoiced at his sudden wealth. But when he entered the room shortly after to take some for use, all that money had vanished into nothing, with only the dozen or so capital coins still there. The scholar was greatly disappointed and angrily confronted the old man, reproaching him for deception. The old man said angrily, "I intended friendship in letters with you, not partnership in thievery! If I were to follow your wish, you should seek out a rooftop bandit for companionship—I cannot accept your command!" And with that he flicked his sleeves and departed. **Concubine Beats Thieves with a Staff** In the western hinterlands of Yidu there lived a wealthy man of a noble house who kept a concubine of considerable charm and beauty. But his lawful wife tormented her, wielding the whip and the rod without stint, yet the concubine served her most diligently. The master pitied her and often consoled her in private, but the concubine never uttered a word of complaint. One night several men scaled the wall and broke in, nearly smashing the door to pieces. The master and his wife were terrified and trembling, not knowing what to do. The concubine rose without a sound, groped in the dark for a water-carrying wooden staff, unbarred the door, and rushed out. The bandits were a tangled mob like hemp and flax, but the concubine swung her staff—wind whistled, hooks sang—and instantly struck four or five men to the ground. The rest were utterly routed; in panic and confusion they fled, but in their haste could not climb the wall, stumbling and crying out, their souls lost and their lives forfeit. The concubine planted her staff on the ground, looked back with a smile, and said, "Such creatures as these are hardly worth the trouble of beating—and yet they still try to play the thief! I do not kill you; killing you would only shame me." She let them all go. The master was astonished and asked, "How did you come to be capable of this?" She replied, "My father was a staff-and-spear master, and I learned all his arts; I am more than a match for a hundred men." The wife was even more alarmed and regretted her former blindness to the girl's worth. From then on she treated her kindly, even as a proper wife, yet the concubine never showed the slightest breach of propriety. A neighbor woman said to her, "Sister, you struck down bandits like pigs and dogs—why then do you bow your head and suffer the rod?" The concubine replied, "That is my proper place; how dare I say otherwise?" All who heard thought her the more virtuous. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "She possessed consummate skill, yet for years no one knew it. When the moment came to defend her household against calamity, she turned from a dove into a hawk. Alas! When the pheasant is hit, the inner wife smiles; when the polo-stick wins, the princess shares the carriage. Such is the indispensability of martial arts!" **Scholar Drives Out the Monster** Xu Yuan-gong of Changshan had been a xiucai in the former Ming dynasty. After the change of dynasties, he abandoned Confucian studies and pursued the Dao, gradually learning the arts of Chìlè exorcism, and his fame spread far and wide. A high official of a certain district sent gifts, a formal letter of sincere invitation, and a horse to fetch him. Xu asked, "What does your master want with me?" The servant replied, "I do not know. He only instructed me to be sure to bring you." So Xu went. Upon arrival, he was feasted in the central pavilion with great ceremony and respect, yet the host never mentioned the purpose of his summons. Xu asked, "What exactly do you want? Please relieve my doubts." The host always answered, "Nothing else," and merely urged him to drink. His words were evasive and hard to fathom. As they talked, dusk fell unawares, and the host invited Xu to drink in the garden. The garden was quite fine and lovely, but the bamboo and trees were overgrown and the scene gloomy; thickets of flowering plants rose half-buried in weeds. They reached a pavilion whose boarded floor was hung with cobwebs, as if no one had lived there for a long time. After several rounds of wine, the sky grew dark, and candles were lit for more drinking. Xu declined, saying he could not hold more wine, so the host stopped the feast and called for tea. The servants hurriedly cleared away the dishes and set them on a table in the left chamber of the pavilion. Before he had finished half his tea, the host excused himself on some pretext and left. A servant brought a candle to light him to the left chamber, set it on the table, and hurriedly withdrew, in great haste. Xu suspected that someone would come with bedding to keep him company, but after a long while all sounds of people died away. He rose, barred the door, and lay down to sleep. Outside the window the bright moon shone into the room and onto the bed; night birds and autumn insects chirped and cried all at once. His heart was fearful and he could not fall asleep. Before long, a thumping sound came from the ceiling above, as of treading and stamping, very fierce. Soon it came down the ladder, then drew near the bedroom door. Xu was terrified, his hair standing on end like hedgehog spines, and hurriedly pulled the bedclothes over his head—but the door burst wide open. Xu lifted a corner of the quilt and peered out, and saw a creature with the head of a beast and the body of a man, covered all over with hair as long as a horse's mane, deep black in color; its teeth gleamed like a swarm of bees, and its eyes blazed like twin torches. It went to the table, bent down and licked the leftover dishes; with one pass of its tongue, several vessels were swept clean. Then it drew near the bed and sniffed at Xu's quilt. Xu suddenly rose, flung the quilt over the monster's head, pressed it down, and shouted wildly. The monster, taken by surprise, broke free in fright, opened the outer door, and fled. Xu threw on his clothes and ran out, but the garden gate was barred from outside and he could not get out. He ran along the wall, leaped over a low parapet, and found himself in the master's stable. The groom was startled; Xu told him what had happened and asked to lodge there. At dawn, the master sent someone to look for Xu and, not finding him, was greatly alarmed. Soon Xu emerged from the stable. Xu said angrily, "I am not accustomed to performing exorcisms, yet you sent for me and kept secret everything from me. I had a Ruyi hook in my bag, but you did not deliver it to my sleeping quarters—were you trying to kill me?" The master apologized, saying, "I intended to tell you, but feared you would refuse. I did not know you had a hidden hook in your bag. I beg you to forgive my tenfold offense!" Xu was still displeased, asked for a horse, and left. From then on the monster appeared no more. Later, whenever the master held a feast in the garden, he would smile and tell his guests, "I shall never forget the service of Scholar Xu." Yi Shi Shi said: "Yellow civet or black civet, the one that catches the mouse is the best. This is not empty talk. If, after turning over the quilt and shouting wildly, one hides his fright and openly claims the ability to stop the strange occurrence as his own, then people would say that Xu Sheng is truly a divine being beyond reach." Sisters Exchange Marriage In Ye County, Minister Mao's family was originally very poor. His father often herded cattle for others. At that time, there was a prominent Zhang family in the prefecture who had a new grave plot on the southern slope of East Mountain. People who passed by its side heard a scolding voice from within the tomb saying: "Make haste and flee from here, do not long intrude upon the dwelling of a noble!" When Zhang heard this, he did not take it seriously. Then he repeatedly received dream warnings: "Your family's burial ground is originally the propitious resting place of Lord Mao; how can you long borrow it?" From this, the family suffered many misfortunes. A guest advised him to move the grave to an auspicious spot, so Zhang relocated it. One day, Minister Mao's father, while herding cattle, passed by Zhang's old grave site. He was suddenly caught in rain and took shelter in an abandoned burial pit. Soon the rain grew heavier, and floodwaters rushed into the pit, pouring in with a crashing sound, and he drowned. At that time, Minister Mao was still a child. His mother went in person to Zhang's house to beg for a small patch of land to bury her husband. Zhang asked her surname and was greatly astonished. He went to see the place where the drowning occurred, and it was exactly the spot where a coffin should be placed; he was even more startled. So he allowed them to inter the body in the old pit. He also told her to bring the child to him. After the burial, the mother and son went to Zhang's house to thank him. As soon as Zhang saw the boy, he was pleased, and kept him in his home, teaching him to read, treating him as one of his own sons. He also proposed to marry his eldest daughter to the boy. The mother declined, not daring to accept. Zhang's wife eventually agreed. However, the eldest daughter deeply despised the Mao family, and her resentment and shame often showed in her words and expression. She said: "I would rather die than marry a cattle-herding boy!" When the wedding day came, the groom entered to feast, and the bridal sedan chair was at the gate. The daughter covered her face with her sleeves and wept in a corner. They urged her to dress, but she would not; they entreated her, but she remained unmoved. Soon the groom announced his departure, and drums and music sounded loudly. The daughter still had tears like rain and hair like flying thistles. Her father went in to urge her, but she would not listen; he angrily pressed her, and she wept even more violently, and her father had no way out. A household servant reported that the groom was about to leave. The father hurried out and said: "The clothes and ornaments are not yet ready; I beg you to wait a little." He then ran back in to see his daughter. He went back and forth several times, but the eldest daughter ultimately showed no sign of relenting. Her father was frantic to the point of death, utterly at a loss. The second daughter was at her side, and because her elder sister would not listen, she pleaded with her earnestly. The elder sister angrily said: "Little wench, you also copy others in chattering! Why don't you go with him yourself?" The younger sister replied: "Father never originally betrothed me to Mr. Mao; if he had betrothed me to Mr. Mao, why would I need my elder sister to persuade me to go?" The father, hearing her words so forthright, secretly discussed with her mother to replace the elder with the younger. The mother then said to the younger daughter: "This disobedient wench does not follow her parents' command. Now we wish to have you take your elder sister's place—are you willing?" The daughter said resolutely: "If it is Father and Mother's command, I would not dare refuse even a beggar; and besides, why should one think that Mr. Mao's family is bound to starve to death for life?" The parents were greatly delighted, and immediately dressed the younger daughter in the elder sister's wedding attire. In haste she boarded the carriage and went off. After entering the household, the husband and wife lived in perfect harmony. But the younger daughter had always suffered from a red, ragged skin disease on her neck, and Lord Mao was somewhat discomfited. Later, when he learned of the exchange marriage, he thereafter regarded her as his true benefactor and cherished her all the more. Not long after, Lord Mao became a scholar of the Imperial Academy and went to take the provincial examination. Passing through Wangsheren village, the innkeeper had dreamed the night before that a spirit said: "Soon a Jieyuan named Mao will come; later he will save you from calamity, so treat him well." For this reason, he rose early and specially watched for guests coming from the east. When he saw Lord Mao, he was overjoyed. He provided generous fare and did not ask for payment. Lord Mao asked why, and the innkeeper told him of the dream omen. Lord Mao was quite self-satisfied; he privately reflected that his wife's hair was sparse and thin, fearing that she would be laughed at by prominent people, and that after he gained wealth and rank he would replace her. When he took the examination, he actually failed, and returned dejected and crestfallen, ashamed to face the innkeeper. He did not dare to pass through Wangsheren again, but took a detour home. Three years later, he again went to take the examination. The innkeeper received him as before. Lord Mao said: "Your words did not come true; I am greatly ashamed of your hospitality." The innkeeper replied: "Because you secretly intended to change your wife, the underworld struck you down in the examination—how could my dream not be fulfilled?" Lord Mao was astonished and asked why. The innkeeper said: "After you left, I again dreamed of the spirit's warning, and that is how I knew." On hearing this, Lord Mao was alarmed, repentant, and afraid, standing stock still like a wooden idol. The innkeeper added: "You should take care of yourself; in the end you will be the first among the provincial graduates." He entered the examination, and indeed he was placed first in the provincial list. His wife's hair also soon grew long, and her cloud-like tresses hung in dark green waves, doubling her charm. Her elder sister had married a rich local youth, and was very arrogant. But her husband was lazy and dissolute; the family gradually declined, and they became so poor that they had no fire for cooking. When she heard that her younger sister was now the wife of a Xiaolian, her shame and mortification grew all the more, and the sisters would always avoid each other on the road. Soon after, her husband died, and the family fell even lower. Lord Mao then passed the Jinshi examination. When the elder sister heard this, she resented herself to the bone, and in anger she became a nun. When Lord Mao returned home as Prime Minister, she forcibly sent a female novice to his mansion to pay respects and inquire, hoping for some gift. When the novice arrived, the lady of the house gave her several bolts of fine silk and satin, and placed gold coins inside them. The novice carried them back and presented them to the nun-mistress. The mistress was disappointed and angry, saying: "If they had given me money, I could have used it for fuel and rice; of what use are these things to me?" She immediately ordered them returned. Lord Mao and his wife were puzzled; they opened them and saw that the gold was still inside. Then they understood why they had been sent back. Smiling, they said: "Your mistress cannot even bear a hundred taels of gold—how could she have the fortune and blessings to follow me, an elder Minister?" So they gave fifty taels of silver to the novice and sent her off, with the instruction: "Take this for your mistress's expenses. But I fear that a person of thin fortune may not be able to endure it." The novice returned and told her mistress. The mistress sighed to herself in silence, thinking privately that all she had done in her life had been perverse; when it came to choosing between the fine and the coarse, fleeing or approaching—how could it all be determined by man? Later, the innkeeper of Wangsheren village was arrested and imprisoned on a homicide charge, and Lord Mao exerted himself to have his crime pardoned. Yi Shi Shi said: "That the old grave of the Zhang family became the propitious resting place of the Mao family is already strange. I have heard people of the time make the jest: 'The elder sister's husband becomes the younger sister's husband; the former Jieyuan becomes the latter Jieyuan.' How could those who are merely clever and shrewd calculate such things? Alas! The blue heaven above has long been confused and dim—yet why, in the case of Lord Mao, did it respond as if to an echo?" Sequel to the Yellow Millet Dream A certain Zeng, a Jinshi from Fujian, at the time he passed the metropolitan examination, was strolling outside the city walls with two or three fellow graduates of the same year. Hearing that a fortune-teller was lodging at the Pilu Zen Temple, they went to consult him. They entered, bowed, and sat down. The fortune-teller, seeing his high spirits, flattered him somewhat. Zeng, fanning himself with a smile, asked: "Do I have a share in the rank of python robe and jade girdle?" The fortune-teller said: "You will be a peaceful Prime Minister for twenty years." Zeng was greatly pleased and his pride swelled. As a light rain began to fall, he and his companions took shelter in the monk's quarters. In the quarters there was an old monk with deep-set eyes and a high nose, sitting on a rush cushion, who looked weary and did not salute them. They merely raised their hands in greeting, then climbed onto the couch and chatted among themselves, congratulating each other on becoming Prime Ministers. Zeng, with his spirits exceptionally high, pointed to his companions and said: "When I am Prime Minister, I will recommend Senior Zhang as Governor of the South, and my cousins as Generals and Colonels; even my old house steward can have a minor post of a thousand households—then my desires will be satisfied." The whole room burst into laughter. Soon he heard the rain outside the gate growing even more torrential, and Zeng lay wearily upon the couch. Suddenly he saw two eunuch envoys, bearing in their hands the Emperor’s personal edict, summoning Grand Preceptor Zeng to deliberate on matters of state. Zeng, elated by such favor and glory, did not realize that none of it was real; he hastened straight to court. The Emperor moved his mat forward and spoke gently with him for a long while, then decreed that all officials below the third rank should be subject to Zeng’s promotion and dismissal without need for memorializing the throne. He was also granted a set of python robes, a jade belt, and two famous horses. Zeng donned the robes, made his obeisances, and departed. When he entered his home, it was not the mansion he had formerly occupied; the painted beams and carved rafters were of the utmost splendor, and he himself did not understand how he had so suddenly come to this. Yet when he stroked his beard and gave a soft call, the echoes of assent came like thunder. Soon ministers and nobles sent him gifts from across the seas, and those who bowed obsequiously thronged his gate in endless succession. When the Six Ministers came, he would rush out with his shoes awry to greet them; when Vice Ministers came, he would bow and speak with them; for those below that rank, he merely nodded. The Governor of Shanxi presented him with ten female musicians, all fine girls, and among them the most exceptional were Niaoniao and Xianxian, who were especially favored. He let down his hair, rested from official duties, and devoted his days to song and music. One day, he recalled that in his humble days, the local gentry Wang Ziliang had once helped him; now that he himself had risen to the clouds, while Wang still languished on the bureaucratic path—why not lend a hand? That morning he submitted a memorial recommending him as a Remonstrance Advisor, and immediately the imperial decree was issued, and Wang was promoted. He also recalled that Grand Coachman Guo had once borne a grudge against him, so he summoned the Remonstrance Secretary Lü and the Censor Chen Chang, among others, and imparted his intentions; within days, impeachment memorials poured in, and by imperial order Guo was stripped of office and dismissed. Thus were grievances and favors settled clearly, greatly pleasing his heart. Once, while riding out through the suburbs, a drunkard chanced to brush against his ceremonial guard; Zeng immediately had him bound and delivered to the Prefect of the Capital, where he was beaten to death on the spot. Those with adjacent estates and vast lands, all fearing his power, offered their rich properties, and from then on his wealth rivaled that of a state. Before long, Niaoniao and Xianxian died one after another. Brooding day and night, he suddenly recalled that in former years he had seen the daughter of the eastern neighbor, exceedingly beautiful, and had often wished to purchase her as a concubine, but had always been thwarted by his meager means. Now, fortunately, he could gratify that desire. He sent several capable servants to force a sum of money upon her family. In a short while, a sedan chair carried her in; she was even more stunning than when he had seen her from afar. Looking back on his life, he felt that his ambitions were now fully satisfied. Another year passed. Among the court officials there was whispered murmuring, as if some harbored unspoken dissent; yet guessing their intent, they were all like horses standing in the palace ranks, silent. Zeng, high-spirited and arrogant, paid them no heed. Longtu Academician Bao Zheng submitted a memorial, the gist of which said: "It is my humble observation that Zeng was originally a dissolute gambler and a rogue of the marketplace. By a single word that pleased the sovereign, he was honored with imperial favor—his father robed in purple, his son in scarlet—the utmost in grace and favor. Yet he never thought of sacrificing himself to repay even the smallest fraction, but instead gave free rein to his whims, arbitrarily exercising power and majesty. His punishable crimes are too many to count even if all one’s hairs were pulled out! The offices and titles of the court he treated as rare commodities, measuring their fatness or leanness to set prices high or low. Thus ministers, generals, and officers all rushed to his gate, estimating and currying favor exactly like peddlers, gazing up at his dust and breathing his breath—countless in number. Some worthy ministers and virtuous subjects, refusing to fawn upon him, were lightly assigned to idle posts, or severely reduced to commoners. Worse still, if one did not bare an arm in his cause, he would at once impute treacherous deceits; for a single word that crossed him, one would be banished to the lairs of wolves and jackals. The court officials were chilled to the heart, and the court itself was left isolated. Moreover, the fertile lands of common people were devoured at his will; the daughters of good families were forcibly betrothed. Malignant vapors and wronged spirits darken the sky, hiding sun and light! When his servants arrive, prefects and magistrates fawn upon them; when his letters are sent, judicial and provincial officials pervert the law. Some are sons of his grooms or relatives by marriage; when they go abroad, they travel by post, sweeping like wind and thunder. Should local supplies be delayed a moment, whips and canes fall upon them immediately. They poison and torment the people, enslave the officials; wherever their retinue passes, the fields are stripped of green grass. Meanwhile Zeng himself blazes and burns, relying on favor without remorse. Having just received audiences at the palace, he straightway slanders others before the sovereign; barely has he withdrawn from public duties when songs and music rise in his rear gardens. Women, music, dogs, and horses—day and night he wallows in dissipation; of state affairs and people’s livelihood he takes no thought. How could the realm have such a Chancellor! Both within and without, all are shocked and alarmed; popular feeling is agitated. If he is not urgently executed by the axe, he will surely breed the calamity of Cao Cao or Wang Mang. I, Zheng, trembling day and night, cannot rest in peace; risking death, I enumerate these charges and humbly submit them to the imperial ear. I beg that the traitor’s head be cut off, his ill-gotten property confiscated, so as to turn away Heaven’s anger above and satisfy public opinion below. If my words are false or reckless, may the knife, saw, cauldron, or boiling oil be visited upon my own person." And so on. When the memorial was submitted, Zeng heard of it and his spirit quaked with terror, as if drinking ice water. Fortunately the Emperor was magnanimous and kept it in the palace without issuing a response. Soon afterward, the Censorate, the Six Offices, and the Nine Ministers all submitted impeachment memorials; even those who had formerly bowed at his gate and called him foster father now turned their faces against him. An imperial edict ordered confiscation of his household and banishment to the military garrison in Yunnan. His son, who was Prefect of Pingyang, had already been summoned for interrogation by dispatched officials. Just as Zeng was shocked and distressed upon hearing the edict, suddenly several dozen armed warriors, with swords and spears, entered his inner chamber, stripped off his robes and cap, and bound him together with his wife. Soon he saw a number of men carrying goods into the courtyard—gold, silver, coins, and banknotes in the millions; pearls, jade, cornelian, and agate by the hundreds of bushels; curtains, canopies, screens, and couches by the thousands; down to children’s swaddling clothes and women’s shoes, scattered and dropped upon the steps. Zeng looked at each in turn, his heart pierced with bitterness. Then a man dragged out his beautiful concubine, her hair disheveled, weeping delicately, her fair face helpless. Grief burned his heart, but he dared not speak in anger. Soon the towers, pavilions, storehouses, and treasuries were all sealed and marked, and he was immediately ordered out. The guards pulled and dragged him and his wife along; they choked back their sobs and set out on the road. They begged for a lowly pony cart to serve as a little conveyance, but could not obtain one. After ten li, his wife’s feet grew weak and she was about to stumble; Zeng would from time to time support her with one hand. After another ten li, he too was exhausted. Suddenly they saw a high mountain that seemed to pierce the Milky Way; he worried that he could not climb over it, and at times he turned and wept with his wife. But the guards glared at them with fierce eyes and would not allow a moment’s pause. Looking back, he saw the slanting sun had already set, and there was nowhere to lodge; helplessly, they hobbled along, one behind the other, in faltering steps. By the time they reached the mountainside, his wife’s strength was entirely spent. She sat weeping by the roadside. Zeng also stopped to rest, enduring the guards’ scolding. Suddenly they heard a hundred voices shouting in unison; a band of brigands, each wielding a sharp blade, leaped forward. The guards, terrified, fled. Zeng knelt at length and said, “I am a lone exile, with nothing in my bag.” He begged for mercy and pardon. The brigands glared with splitting eyes and declared, “We are all wronged people who have suffered harm. We seek only the traitor’s head—we want nothing else.” Zeng angrily rebuked them, “Though I am awaiting punishment, I am still an official appointed by the court. How dare you villains do this!” The brigands, enraged, swung a great axe at Zeng’s neck, and he felt his head fall to the ground with a sound. His soul was still terrified and bewildered when two demons came and tied his hands behind his back, driving him forward. After walking for several watches, they entered a great metropolis. Soon he saw a palace, and on the dais in the palace sat a king of hideous form, leaning on a table to judge crimes and blessings. Zeng crawled forward and begged for his life. The king looked through the ledger; after only a few lines, he flew into a rage and said, "This is the crime of deceiving the sovereign and misleading the state—he should be cast into the cauldron of oil!" Ten thousand demons roared in unison, their voices like thunder. Immediately a huge demon seized Zeng and dragged him to the foot of the steps. He saw a cauldron about seven feet high, with blazing charcoal all around and its legs glowing red. Zeng trembled and wailed in terror, but found no way to flee. The demon grabbed his hair with its left hand and his ankle with its right, and flung him into the cauldron. He felt his body as a single mass, bobbing up and down with the waves of oil; his skin and flesh seared and burned, the pain piercing his very heart. Boiling oil rushed into his mouth, seething and stewing his innards. He wished for a speedy death, but by no means could he die. After about the time of a meal, the demon took him out with a great fork and made him kneel again beneath the hall. The king examined the records once more and angrily declared, "For relying on power to oppress others, you deserve the Mountain of Knives!" The demon dragged him away again. He saw a mountain, not very vast, but sheer and precipitous, with sharp blades crisscrossing thick as clustered bamboo shoots. Several people were already impaled there, their guts strung and bellies pierced, their shrieks and cries horrifying beyond words. The demon urged Zeng to climb; Zeng wept and shrank back. The demon pierced his brain with a poisoned awl, and Zeng, enduring the agony, begged for mercy. Enraged, the demon seized him and hurled him with all its might into the air. He felt himself flying amid the clouds, then with a dizzying fall, blades pierced his chest—the pain indescribable. After another interval, his body grew heavy and sluggish, the knife-holes gradually widened, and suddenly he fell off, his limbs curled like an inchworm. The demon drove him again to see the king. The king ordered an accounting of all the gold he had amassed in his lifetime by selling offices and titles, perverting the law, and seizing property. Immediately a long-bearded man appeared holding counting-rods and reckoning, and said, "Two million two hundred and ten thousand." The king said, "Since he accumulated it, let him drink it down!" Presently they piled the gold on the steps in mounds like hills, then gradually cast it into iron cauldrons and melted it with fierce flames. Several demons took turns ladling the molten metal into his mouth. It ran down his cheeks, searing and rotting his skin; and when it reached his throat, his bowels and organs boiled over. In life he had worried that such wealth was too little; now he worried that it was too much. After half a day, it was finished. The king ordered him taken to Ganzhou to be reborn as a woman. After a few steps, he saw on a rack an iron beam several spans around, holding a fiery wheel of enormous size—hundreds of yojanas across, its flames shooting five colors, its glare shining to the clouds. The demon whipped him and made him mount the wheel. He closed his eyes and leaped aboard, and the wheel spun with his feet. He felt as if falling, and a chill spread over his whole body. When he opened his eyes and looked at himself, he was already an infant—and a female. He saw his parents clad in rags and tatters; in their earthen hut, a gourd ladle and a staff still remained. He knew in his heart that he was the child of beggars. Daily he followed the beggar children with his alms bowl, his belly rumbling, never getting enough to eat. He wore tattered clothes, and the wind cut to the bone. At fourteen, he was sold to the scholar Gu as a concubine, and had food and clothing enough to get by. But the first wife was fiercely jealous, daily beating him with a whip and often branding his breasts with a red-hot iron. Fortunately her husband took some pity on him, and he could console himself a little. Then a wicked young man from the eastern neighbor suddenly climbed over the wall to force himself on him. Zeng thought to himself that in his former life his evil deeds had already been punished by the demons—how could he repeat them now? So he shouted loudly, and the husband and first wife both got up; the young man fled. One day, the scholar was spending the night in Zeng's chamber. As he chattered on the pillow, recounting his grievances, suddenly there was a thunderous crash—the chamber door burst open—and two bandits rushed in with swords, beheaded the scholar on the spot, and packed up all his clothes and valuables. Zeng cowered under the blanket, not daring to make a sound. After the bandits left, he ran shouting to the first wife's chamber. She was terrified, and together they went to identify the body. Then she suspected that Zeng had conspired with a lover to kill her husband, and reported it to the prefect. The prefect conducted a harsh interrogation and, under torture, forced Zeng to confess. The sentence was death by dismemberment, and he was bound and taken to the execution ground. His chest choked with injustice, he kicked and screamed his grievance, feeling that even the eighteen hells were not so dark as this. While he was wailing bitterly, he heard a fellow traveler call, "Are you having a nightmare?" Suddenly he awoke and saw the old monk still sitting cross-legged on his seat. His companions said to him, "It's dusk and we're hungry—why did you sleep so long?" Zeng rose, pale and dejected. The monk smiled and said, "Was the prime minister's fortune-telling accurate?" Zeng grew even more astonished and bowed, begging for instruction. The monk said, "Cultivate virtue and practice benevolence—even in the fiery pit there is a blue lotus. What would this mountain monk know?" Zeng had come in high spirits, but now returned utterly dispirited. His ambitions for the grand council thereafter faded away. Later he entered the mountains, and no one knew his end. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Dreams are indeed delusions, and thoughts are also unreal. Others treat them as empty fictions, but the spirits repay them with illusory retribution. When the yellow millet was about to be cooked, such a dream was bound to occur; it should be appended after the story of Handan." The Dragon Takes Water Xu Dongchi was traveling south at night and moored his boat by the riverbank. He saw a black dragon descend from the sky, sweep the river water with its tail, and cause the waves to surge upward, following the dragon's body. From afar, the glistening water shone like a ribbon broader than three feet. After a while, the dragon withdrew its tail and the water suddenly subsided. Soon a torrential rain poured down, filling all the channels and ditches. The Little Hunting Dog When Grand Secretary Wei of Shanxi was still a candidate, he borrowed a monk's quarters in a temple. He was greatly troubled by the many bedbugs, mosquitoes, and fleas in the room and could not sleep at night. After a meal, he lay down on the bed when suddenly he saw a little warrior, about two inches tall, wearing a pheasant-tail plume on his head and riding a horse the size of a wax candle, with a goshawk like a fly on his arm. The figure came in from outside, circled the room, and moved swiftly. While Wei was staring in astonishment, another figure entered, similarly equipped, with a small bow and arrows at his waist and leading a hunting dog the size of a giant ant. Then in another moment, footmen and riders came in by the hundreds, with hundreds of hawks and dogs. Whenever they saw a mosquito or fly take off, they released their hawks to strike and kill them all. The hunting dogs climbed onto the bed and up the walls, sniffing out and devouring the bedbugs and fleas; wherever any vermin hid, none escaped their scent, and in the space of a moment they had killed them all. Wei pretended to sleep and watched them slantwise—hawks perched and dogs scurried over his own body. Then a figure in yellow robes, wearing the flat celestial crown like a king, mounted another couch and tethered his four-horse team among the reeds. All his followers dismounted and presented their catches of birds and beasts, crowding around him in profusion, though Wei could not understand what they said. Shortly, the king mounted a small palanquin; his guards bustled about, each saddling his horse, and ten thousand hooves converged and scattered like scattered beans, in a cloud of smoke and mist, and in an instant they had all vanished. Wei had seen it all clearly and was amazed, unable to account for it. He put on his shoes and looked outside—there was no trace or sound. He turned back and examined the room, but saw nothing, except a tiny dog left on a brick in the wall. Wei quickly caught it; it was tame. He placed it in his inkstone box and examined it closely. Its fur was extremely fine and soft, and around its neck was a small ring. He offered it a grain of rice, but it sniffed and turned away. It leaped onto the bed, searched the seams of his clothing, and bit and killed lice and nits, then came back and lay down. The next day Wei wondered if it had gone, but when he looked, it was curled up as before. When Wei lay down, it climbed onto the bed and killed any insect it encountered; no mosquito or fly dared alight there. Wei cherished it more than a precious jade. One day while he napped, the dog lay quietly beside him. Wei turned over in his sleep and pressed it under his waist. Feeling something, he suspected it was the dog, and jumped up to look—but it was already flattened and dead, like something cut from paper. From that time on, however, the wall insects were utterly exterminated. The Chess Ghost General Liang, Military Superintendent of Yangzhou, retired from office and lived in the countryside. Daily he carried his chessboard and wine, wandering among the hills and groves. On the Double Ninth Festival, he climbed a height and played chess with a guest, when suddenly a man came, hovered hesitantly beside the board, and lingered, unable to tear himself away. Liang looked at him—his face was gaunt and shabby, his clothes patched and ragged, yet his bearing was gentle and refined, with the air of a scholar. Liang bowed to him, and he sat down, very modest and deferential. Liang pointed to the chessboard and said, "You must be skilled at this—why not play against the guest?" The man declined repeatedly for some time before finally taking his place at the board. When the game ended, he had lost; his expression was feverish and vexed, as if unable to contain himself. He played again and lost again, growing even more frustrated and ashamed. Liang offered him wine, but he would not drink; he only dragged the guest to play again. From dawn until sunset, he did not even take time to relieve himself. Just as they were disputing a single move, the two bickering heatedly, suddenly the scholar rose from his seat in terror, his face pale and anguished. After a moment, he knelt before Liang's seat, pressing his forehead to the ground and begging for rescue. Liang was alarmed and puzzled, and helped him up, saying, "It is only a game—how can it come to this?" The scholar said, "I beg you to tell the groom not to bind my neck." Liang was even more astonished and asked, "Who is the groom?" He replied, "Ma Cheng." Previously, the clerk Ma Cheng, who had been serving in the ducal household as a corvée laborer, was often absent without regularity. Every ten or so days he would enter the underworld, holding a writ to serve as a summoner. The duke, finding the scholar's words strange, sent someone to look in on Cheng, only to find him already lying stiff and unconscious for three days. The duke then rebuked Cheng, forbidding him any insolence. Just then the scholar vanished into the ground before his eyes. The duke marveled for a long while, then realized he was a ghost. The next day Ma Cheng awoke, and the duke summoned him for questioning. Cheng said: "He was a man from the Lake-Xiang region, addicted to weiqi, and gambled away all his property. His father, worried for him, confined him to a study. He would always climb over the wall to slip out and secretly find open spaces where he could play with other players. His father heard of this and scolded him, but could never stop him, and so died with bitter resentment. King Yama, judging the scholar lacking in virtue, cut short his allotted years and condemned him to the Hungry Ghost Hell, where he has now been for seven years. Recently, when the Phoenix Tower on Mount Dongyue was completed, a decree was sent down to all the prefectures, seeking a cultured man to compose a stele inscription. The King released him from the hell prison to answer the summons and redeem himself. Unexpectedly, he dallied along the way and greatly exceeded the deadline. The Emperor of Dongyue sent a direct attendant to question the King about this. Enraged, the King ordered my humble self and others to search for him everywhere. Earlier, because I had received my master's orders, I dared not bind him in fetters." The duke asked: "What state is he in today?" He replied: "He has been returned to the hell wardens, and will have no chance of release for all eternity." The duke sighed: "Thus does an addiction lead men astray!" The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When he saw a chessboard he forgot his death; and when he died, seeing a chessboard again he forgot his life. Was it not that what he desired exceeded life itself? Yet with such an addiction, he still never achieved a single master stroke, merely making himself, beneath the Nine Springs, a chess ghost long dead yet never living. Alas!" Xin Shisi Niang In Guangping there was a scholar named Feng, who in his youth was frivolous and given to heavy drinking. At dawn one day he happened to be walking abroad when he encountered a young maiden in a red cape, of fair and delicate countenance, attended by a little servant boy, treading through the dew in haste, her shoes and stockings dampened. He secretly admired her. Toward dusk, drunk, he was returning home when beside the road he saw an old Buddhist temple, long abandoned and overgrown. A woman came out from within—it was that same beauty. As soon as she saw Feng approaching, she turned and went back inside. He thought to himself: "How could such a beauty be staying in this temple?" He tied his donkey at the gate and went in to see what was strange about the place. Inside, the walls were broken and dilapidated, and the steps were covered with fine grass like a carpet. While he was hesitating, an elderly man in neat cap and clothes came out and asked: "Where does the visitor come from?" Feng said: "I was passing by this old monastery and wished to pay my respects." Then he asked: "And what brings you here, sir?" The old man said: "I am a wanderer with no fixed abode, and have temporarily settled here with my small family. Since you have graced us with your presence, some mountain tea may serve as wine." So he ushered his guest inside. Behind the main hall Feng saw a courtyard with flagstones smooth and bright, no trace of brambles or thickets. Entering the chamber, he found curtains, blinds, bed-canopies, and mats all suffused with fragrant mist. When they had sat down and exchanged names, the old man said: "My surname is Xin." Feng, in his drunkenness, immediately asked: "I have heard you have a daughter not yet betrothed. Presuming upon myself, I wish to offer a mirror-stand as my gift." Xin laughed and said: "I must consult my wife about this." Feng at once asked for a brush and wrote a poem: "For a thousand gold I seek the jade pestle, / with eager hands I myself shall bring it. / If Ying of the Clouds is willing, / I will pound the dark frost for her." The master laughed and handed it to his attendants. After a short while, a maid whispered in Xin's ear. Xin rose, urged his guest to be patient, and drew aside the curtain to enter. After a few indistinct words he came out at once. Feng thought surely there would be good news, but Xin merely sat and chatted idly with him, saying nothing more of the matter. Feng could not contain himself and asked: "I have yet to know your decision—please relieve my anxious doubts." Xin said: "You are an outstanding gentleman, and I have long admired your character, but there is a private concern I dare not speak." Feng pressed him further, and Xin said: "I have nineteen daughters, of whom twelve are already married. The matter of betrothal is left to my wife; this old man has no part in it." Feng said: "I only want the one who this morning led the little servant boy and walked in the dew." Xin made no reply, and they sat facing each other in silence. From within the room came soft, murmuring voices. Feng, emboldened by drink, lifted the curtain and said: "Since I cannot have her as my bride, let me at least see her face to ease my regret." Inside, hearing the curtain hook move, all the women stood staring in alarm. Sure enough, there was the girl in red, shaking her sleeves, tilting her head, gracefully holding her sash. Seeing Feng enter, she threw the whole chamber into panic. Xin was furious and ordered several men to seize Feng and throw him out. The wine surged up in him even more, and he fell among the brambles and weeds while tiles and stones rained down like hail, though by luck none struck his body. He lay there for some time, then heard his donkey still cropping grass by the roadside. He rose, mounted it, and staggered onward. The night was dark and confusing, and he mistakenly wandered into a mountain ravine, where wolves howled and owls shrieked, making his hair stand on end and his heart grow cold. He looked about hesitantly but could not tell where he was. In the distance he saw lights flickering in a dark grove and, supposing it must be a village, galloped straight toward it. Looking up, he saw a tall gate and struck it with his whip. From inside came a voice: "Who comes here at this late hour?" Feng told them he had lost his way, and the voice inside said: "Wait until I inform the master." Feng stood on tiptoe awaiting the answer. Suddenly he heard the bolt drawn and the gate opened; a sturdy servant came out and took the donkey from him. Feng entered and found the rooms very fine, with lamps lit in the main hall. After sitting a short while, a woman came out and asked his name; he told her. In a moment, several maids in black supported an old woman as she came forth and announced: "The Lady of the Commandery has arrived." Feng rose and straightened himself, about to bow. The old woman stopped him and bade him sit, then said: "Are you not the grandson of Feng Yunzi?" He said: "Yes." The old woman said: "Then you must be my great-nephew by marriage. My old body is like a water-clock and a bell both spent, my remaining years nearly exhausted, and among my own kin I have long been estranged and separated." Feng said: "I lost my father when young; among those who had dealings with my grandfather, I do not know one in ten. I have never paid my respects before—may I ask you to enlighten me?" The old woman said: "You will know in time." Feng dared not question further, and sat facing her in pensive wonder. The old woman said: "Nephew, how is it that you have come here so deep in the night?" Feng, priding himself on his boldness, recounted all that he had encountered. The old woman laughed and said: "This is a fine thing. Besides, you are a noted scholar, by no means unworthy of marriage ties—how can that wild fox-spirit put on such airs? Nephew, do not worry; I can arrange it for you." Feng thanked her with humble assent. The old woman turned to her attendants and said: "I had no idea that the Xin family's daughter was so lovely." One maid said: "She has nineteen daughters, all graceful and elegant in manner—I wonder which one the gentleman has fixed upon?" Feng said: "She is about fifteen or sixteen." The maid said: "That must be Fourteenth Maiden. Three months ago, she came with her mother to pay respects to you, my lady—have you forgotten?" The old woman laughed and said: "Is she not the one who wore high shoes carved with lotus petals, filled with fragrant powder, and walked veiled in gauze?" The maid said: "That is she." The old woman said: "This girl is very clever at making an impression and playing coquettish tricks. But she is indeed slender and lovely; my nephew's judgment is not amiss." Then she said to the maid: "Send the little cat-boy to summon her." The maid acknowledged and went off. After some time, she came back and announced: "Xin Fourteenth Maiden has been summoned." Presently the girl in red appeared and bowed low before the old woman. The old woman said: "Hereafter you will be my nephew's wife, so do not keep to the rites of a servant." The girl rose and stood gracefully, her red sleeves hanging down. The old woman arranged her hair, twisted her earrings, and said: "Fourteenth Maiden, what have you been doing in your chambers lately?" The girl replied softly: "In my leisure I have only been embroidering." She turned her head and saw Feng, and grew shy and uneasy. The old woman said: "This is my nephew. He has a sincere wish to be joined in marriage with you—why did you let him lose his way and wander all night through ravines?" The girl hung her head in silence. The old woman said: "I have called you for no other reason than to act as matchmaker for my nephew." The girl remained silent. The old woman ordered the couches swept and bedding spread, to have the wedding rites performed at once. The girl, shamefaced, said: "I must first inform my parents." The old woman said: "I act as your go-between—what error could there be?" The girl said: "If it is your command, my parents would surely not dare to refuse. But to do it so hastily—your handmaiden would rather die than obey!" The old woman laughed and said: "This young lady's will cannot be swayed—she is truly worthy of being my nephew's wife!" She then took a golden flower from the girl's hair and gave it to Feng for safekeeping, bidding him return home, consult the almanac, and set an auspicious day. Then she had the maid escort the girl away. Hearing the distant cockcrow, she sent men with a donkey to see Feng out. After a few steps, he suddenly looked back—the village houses were gone, and only dark cypress and pine trees with overgrown tumuli covered the graves. He thought for a long while and then realized that this place was the tomb of Minister Xue. Xue was the younger brother of the late grandmother of Sheng, so they addressed each other as nephew and uncle. He knew in his heart that he had met a ghost, but he did not know who Fourteenth Maiden was. He sighed and returned home, casually consulted the almanac to await the day, but feared that the ghost's appointment might be unreliable. He went again to the temple, but the halls were desolate; asking the locals, they said that foxes were often seen in the temple. He secretly thought, "If I could get a beautiful woman, even a fox would be fine." On the appointed day, he cleaned the house and swept the path, sent servants to watch, but at midnight it was still quiet, and Sheng had given up hope. Soon there was a clamor outside; he hurried out in his slippers to peek, and saw that an embroidered carriage had stopped in the courtyard; two maids with double buns helped a girl to sit in the green tent. The dowry had no extra items, only two long-bearded servants carried a money box as large as a jar, set it down and placed it in the corner of the hall. Sheng was delighted to get a beautiful mate, and did not suspect her of being a non-human. He asked the girl, "A dead ghost—why is your family so submissive to him?" The girl said, "Minister Xue is now the Inspector of the Five Capitals; ghosts and foxes within a few hundred li all serve as his attendants, so he seldom returns to his grave." Sheng did not forget the matchmaker, and the next day went to offer sacrifice at her grave. On returning, he saw two maids in black holding brocade with shells as congratulations, then threw them on the table and left. Sheng told the girl, and she said, "These are the things of the prefectural lady." In the town there was a young master, the son of Chu of the Censorate, who had studied with Sheng since childhood and was quite familiar. Hearing that Sheng had gotten a fox wife, he sent gifts as a wedding present, and then came to the hall to offer toasts. After a few days, he sent a note inviting Sheng to drink. The girl heard this and said to Sheng, "When that young master came before, I peeped through a hole in the wall; his eyes are like those of an ape and his nose like that of a hawk—one cannot have long dealings with him. You should not go." Sheng agreed. The next day, the young master came to the door, asked about the offense of breaking the appointment, and presented new writings. Sheng's comments involved ridicule, and the young master was greatly ashamed; they parted unhappily. Sheng returned and laughingly told the room about it. The girl said sadly, "That young master is a wolf—do not be familiar with him! If you do not listen to my words, you will soon be in trouble!" Sheng laughed and thanked her. Later, they often flattered and joked with each other, and the previous grudge gradually dissolved. When the provincial examiner's test came, the young master ranked first, Sheng second. The young master was smugly pleased, sent a servant to invite Sheng to drink; Sheng declined, but after repeated invitations he went. Upon arrival, he learned that it was the young master's birthday; guests filled the hall, and the feast was lavish. The young master showed his examination paper to Sheng, and relatives and friends crowded to admire it. After several rounds of wine, music was played in the hall, with drums and horns blaring, and both host and guests were very merry. Suddenly the young master said to Sheng, "There is a proverb: 'In the examination hall, do not discuss essays.' Now I know that this saying is wrong. The reason I am humbly placed above you is that the opening phrases are slightly superior." After the young master spoke, the whole table praised. Sheng, drunk and unable to restrain himself, laughed loudly and said, "Do you still think it's a matter of essays to this day?" As soon as he said this, the whole table changed color. The young master was ashamed and angry, his breath choked. Guests gradually left, and Sheng also fled. When sober, he regretted it, and told the girl. The girl was displeased and said, "You are truly a frivolous fellow from the countryside! A light and flippant attitude, when shown to a gentleman, loses us virtue; when shown to a petty man, brings death to us. Your misfortune is not far off! I cannot bear to see you in misery, so please let me take my leave from now." Sheng was frightened and wept, and told her of his regret. The girl said, "If you want me to stay, I make a pact with you: from now on, close the door and cut off social intercourse, and do not drink recklessly." Sheng carefully accepted her instruction. Fourteenth Maiden was diligent, thrifty, and free-spirited; she occupied herself daily with spinning and weaving. Sometimes she would go home to visit her parents, but never stayed overnight. She also often brought out gold and silk to manage household finances; when there was surplus each day, she would throw it into the money box. She kept the doors shut daily; when visitors came, she would instruct the old servant to decline them. One day, Young Master Chu sent a letter by express; the girl burned it without telling Sheng. The next day, Sheng went to offer condolences in the city, and met the young master at the house of the bereaved. The young master seized his arm and earnestly invited him; Sheng declined with excuses. The young master ordered his groom to hold the reins and dragged him along. When they arrived home, he immediately ordered refreshments. Then Sheng excused himself to leave early. The young master obstructed him without end, and brought out household female musicians to play the zither for entertainment. Sheng was naturally unrestrained; having been confined at home for a long time, he felt quite dull and oppressed. Suddenly encountering heavy drinking, his spirits rose and he no longer had any concerns. Thus he became deeply drunk and collapsed on the mat. The young master's wife, née Ruan, was most fierce and jealous; no concubine or maid dared to use cosmetics. A few days before, a maid had entered the study and was caught by Ruan, who struck her on the head with a staff; her skull split and she died immediately. The young master, nursing a grudge against Sheng for his ridicule and insolence, constantly thought of revenge, and so plotted to get him drunk and then frame him. Taking advantage of Sheng's drunken sleep, he carried the corpse to the bed, closed the door and left. At the fifth watch, Sheng woke from his intoxication and found himself lying on a table; he got up to look for the pillow and bed, and felt something greasy that tripped his steps. He touched it—it was a person. He thought the host had sent a servant to sleep beside him. He kicked it but it did not move; he lifted it and it was stiff. Greatly alarmed, he went out the door and shouted in surprise. The servants all got up, lit a light, saw the corpse, and seized Sheng, angrily making a scene. The young master came out to examine it, and falsely accused Sheng of forcing sex and killing the maid, then had him arrested and taken to Guangping. The next day, Fourteenth Maiden learned of it; she wept and said, "I knew this would happen today!" Then she sent money to Sheng daily. When Sheng appeared before the prefect, he could not plead his case; he was beaten day and night until his skin and flesh were stripped off. The girl went to visit him; when Sheng saw her, his grief choked his heart and he could not speak. The girl knew the trap was deep, and urged him to falsely confess to avoid further torture. Sheng wept and obeyed. During the girl's comings and goings, though people were close by, none could see her. She returned home, lamented, and immediately dismissed her maidservant. She lived alone for several days, then entrusted a matchmaker to purchase a girl from a good family, named Lu'er, who had just reached the capping age and was quite beautiful. She slept and ate with her, and treated her with more affection than the others. Sheng confessed to manslaughter and was sentenced to strangulation. The old servant received the news and returned, weeping so bitterly he could not speak. The girl heard it and was calm as if unconcerned. Then the date for the autumn execution was set; the girl finally became agitated, going out by day and returning by night without rest. She often in quiet places grieved and lamented to the point of losing sleep and appetite. One day, at dusk, the fox maidservant suddenly arrived. The girl rose immediately, took her aside to speak in private. When she came out, her face was full of smiles, and she managed the household as usual. The next day, the old servant went to the prison, and Sheng sent a message to his wife to come for a final farewell. The old servant returned with the message; the girl replied casually and showed no sorrow, rather indifferent; the household secretly discussed her cruelty. Suddenly, word spread on the road: Young Master Chu of the Censorate was dismissed from office, and the Surveillance Commissioner of Pingyang was specially ordered to handle Feng Sheng's case. The old servant heard it and happily told the mistress. The girl was also happy, and immediately sent someone to the prefectural office to inquire; Sheng had already been released from prison, and they met with both grief and joy. Soon the young master was arrested; after one interrogation, the whole truth was obtained. Sheng was immediately released and returned home. When he saw the girl, he wept tears; she also was grieved and sorrowful in response. After sorrow came joy, but he still did not know how the matter had reached the emperor's ears. The girl smilingly pointed at the maidservant and said, "This is your benefactor." Sheng was astonished and asked the reason. First, the maiden sent a servant girl to the Yan capital, intending to reach the imperial palace to plead Feng Sheng's grievance. When the girl arrived, there were divine guardians in the palace; she wandered about the imperial moat for months but could not gain entry. Fearing she would delay matters, she was about to return and devise another plan, when she suddenly heard that the present emperor was to make a progress to Datong. The girl then went ahead and disguised herself as a wandering courtesan. When the emperor came to the pleasure house, he was greatly taken with her and showered her with favour. Suspecting that she was not of the common sort, the emperor asked her, and she wept. He said: "What injustice have you suffered?" The girl replied: "Your servant is originally from Guangping in Zhili, the daughter of a licentiate named Feng. My father is about to die in a false imprisonment, so I was sold into this house." The emperor was saddened and gave her a hundred taels of gold. When he left, he questioned her carefully about the whole affair, writing down her name with brush and paper; he also said he wished to share wealth and honour with her. The girl said: "I only wish for father and child to be reunited; I do not desire splendour or emolument." The emperor nodded and departed. The girl then told this to Feng Sheng. Feng Sheng rose hastily and bowed, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. Not long after, the maiden suddenly said to Feng Sheng: "Were it not for the bonds of affection, how should I have found such vexation? When you were taken, I ran among your relatives and connections, yet not one would devise a plan for you. At that time my bitterness of heart could truly not be told. Now I find the mundane world ever more loathsome and bitter. I have already found you a good match; I shall take leave from now." Hearing this, Feng Sheng wept and prostrated himself, unable to rise; the maiden desisted. That night she sent Lu'er to attend Feng Sheng in bed, but he refused to accept her. In the morning, he saw that Fourteenth Maiden's lustre had suddenly faded; after another month, she gradually became aged and worn; in half a year, she was dark and sallow like an old village woman. Yet Feng Sheng revered her and never wavered. The maiden again spoke of parting, saying: "You have a fine companion of your own; what use have you for this ugly hag?" Feng Sheng wept and pleaded as before. After another month, the maiden fell violently ill, took no food or drink, and lay emaciated in her chamber. Feng Sheng attended her with medicines and decoctions as if serving his parents. Sorcerers and physicians could do nothing, and at last she passed away. Feng Sheng was grief-stricken to the point of despair. He used the gold given by the emperor's servant to provide for her funeral and burial. A few days later, the servant girl also left, so he took Lu'er as his wife. After a year, she bore a son. But year after year the harvest failed, and the household grew ever poorer. The couple had no plan, and sat opposite each other in long sorrow. Suddenly he remembered the money jar in the corner of the hall, where he had often seen Fourteenth Maiden drop coins; he wondered if it was still there. He approached it and saw that it was filled nearly to the top with bean-measure vessels and salt-pots. He took them out one by one, then probed inside with chopsticks, but could not penetrate the contents. He broke it open, and gold coins spilled out. From this they suddenly became very wealthy. Later, an old servant went to Mount Taihua and encountered Fourteenth Maiden, riding a black mule, with a girl servant following on a donkey. She asked: "Is Master Feng well?" and also said: "Convey my regards to the master—I have already been enrolled among the immortals." With these words she disappeared. Yi Shi Shi said: "Light and wanton words often come from the scholar class—this is what the gentleman laments and regrets. I have often braved the stigma of impropriety, saying that grievances are already far-fetched, yet I have never ceased to strive strenuously, that I might humbly attach myself to the company of gentlemen; but I do not concern myself with the doctrines of fortune and calamity. In the case of Feng Sheng, a single slight utterance nearly cost him his life; had he not had an immortal in his chamber, how could he have escaped from prison and been reborn in this world? How fearsome indeed!" **The White Lotus Sect** A certain man of the White Lotus Sect, a native of Shanxi, was roughly of the following of Xu Hongru. He deluded the masses with heterodox arts, and many fell under his spell. One day he was about to go elsewhere. He placed a basin in the hall, and covered it with another basin, then charged his disciple to sit guard and not to lift the cover. After he left, the disciple lifted the cover and saw the basin filled with clear water, on which was woven a boat of straw, complete with mast and sail. Surprised, he poked it with a finger, and it tipped over at once; he hurriedly righted it as before and covered it again. Soon the master returned and angrily reproved him: "Why did you disobey my order?" The disciple protested his innocence. The master said: "Just now the boat on the sea capsized—how dare you deceive me?" Another night, he lit a great candle in the hall and ordered them to keep strict guard and not let the wind extinguish it. At the second watch, the master had not yet come; the disciple grew weary and drowsy, and lay down on the bed for a short nap. When he awoke, the candle had gone out completely; he rose quickly and rekindled it. Then the master entered and reproved him again. The disciple said: "I truly did not sleep—how could the candle have gone out?" The master said angrily: "Just now you made me walk more than ten li in the dark, and you still speak thus?" The disciple was greatly frightened. Such strange deeds were countless and cannot all be recorded. Later, a beloved concubine had an affair with one of the disciples. He discovered it but kept silent. He sent that disciple to feed the pigs. The disciple entered the pen and at once was transformed into a pig. The man then called a butcher to kill it and sold its meat; no one knew of it. The disciple's father, because his son did not return, came to inquire, and was answered that he had not been there for a long time. The disciple's family searched everywhere but found no trace. A fellow disciple, who knew of the matter in secret, leaked it to the disciple's father, who reported it to the magistrate. The magistrate, fearing that the man might flee, dared not arrest him outright, but petitioned for a thousand soldiers to surround his house. His wife and children were all seized. They were shut in cages and to be escorted to the capital. On the way, passing the Taihang Mountains, a giant emerged from the mountains, as tall as a tree, with eyes like basins, a mouth like a bowl, and fangs a foot long. The soldiers stood stunned and dared not advance. The man said: "This is a demon; my wife can repel it." The soldiers untied the wife, and she took a halberd and went forward. The giant became angry, sucked her in, and swallowed her. The troops were even more terrified. The man said: "Since it has killed my wife, it must be my son's turn." They brought out his son, and the giant swallowed him as well. All looked at each other, not knowing what to do. The man wept and raged: "It has killed my wife and also my son—how can I bear it? I must go myself." The soldiers indeed released him from the cage, gave him a blade, and sent him off. The giant faced him with great fury. They fought for a while, then the giant grabbed him and thrust him into his mouth, stretched his neck, swallowed him down, and calmly went away. **Twin Lamps** Wei Yunwang, a man of Penquan in Yidu, came from a family that had once been a great and powerful clan. Later, however, they fell into decline and could no longer afford his studies. At over twenty, he abandoned his books and went to his father-in-law's to take up the wine trade. One night he lay alone in the wine-shop's upper story, when suddenly he heard the sound of tramping footsteps below. Startled, he rose and listened intently. The sound drew nearer, came up the stairs step by step with a steady rustle. Before long, two maidservants carrying lanterns had reached his couch. Behind them came a young scholar, who led a young lady to approach the bed with a smile. Wei was greatly alarmed and bewildered. Realizing they must be foxes, his hair stood on end and he bowed his head, not daring to look up. The scholar laughed and said: "Do not be suspicious, sir. My younger sister has a prior destiny with you, and it is fitting that she should serve you." Wei looked at the scholar, whose splendid furs dazzled the eyes; feeling ashamed of his own shabby appearance, he knew not what to answer. The scholar led the maids away and left the lamp behind, departing. Wei then scrutinized the young lady: she was charming and ethereal as a fairy, and his heart was greatly pleased. Yet, abashed, he could not utter any gallantries. The lady smiled at him and said: "You are no book-holder—why do you put on that scholar's air?" She promptly drew near his pillow and pressed her warm hand to his bosom. Only then did Wei break into a smile; he bantered with her and soon they were intimate. Before the dawn bell rang, the two maids came to lead her away. They agreed to meet again that night. In the evening she indeed came, and laughed: "What good fortune has this fool, without spending a copper, to obtain such a fine wife, who comes to him of her own accord every night?" Wei, delighted that no one else was about, set out wine and drank with her. They played the finger-guessing game; the lady won nine times out of ten. Then she laughed and said: "You do not know the counters in my hand—you guess for yourself; if you are right, you win, otherwise you lose. But if I guess, you will never win." So they played according to her words, and passed the whole night in amusement. Then, when it was time to sleep, she said: "Last night's bedding was rough and cold—quite unbearable." She called for the maids to bring quilts and spread them on the bed; they were of fine silk, fragrant and soft. Soon they loosened their belts and nestled together; the scent of her lip-rouge was strong—truly one would not exchange it for the Warm Fragrance Chamber of the Han dynasty. From then on, this became their regular practice. After half a year, Wei returned home. One moonlit night he was chatting with his wife by the window, when he suddenly saw the young lady, in splendid attire, sitting on the top of the wall, beckoning him with her hand. Wei approached her; she pulled him up, and they climbed over the wall together. Holding his hand, she said: "Now I must part with you. Pray accompany me a few steps, to show my gratitude for half a year of intimate affection." Wei, startled, asked the reason. She said: "Affinity has its fixed fate—what need is there to speak of it?" As they talked, they reached the edge of the village. The former maidservants, carrying twin lamps, were waiting there, and they went straight to the southern hills. Ascending a high place, she took leave of Wei. He tried to detain her but could not, and she departed. Wei stood there, hesitating and lost. In the distance he saw the twin lamps flicker and fade, gradually receding until they could no longer be seen; he returned disconsolate. That night the lights on the hill were seen by all the villagers. **Catching Ghosts and Shooting Foxes** Li Gong Zhuming was the son of Mr. Jinzhu, magistrate of Suining County. He was by nature bold and unrestrained, without fear or timidity, and was the brother-in-law of Wang Jiliang of Xincheng. The Wang household had many towers and pavilions, where strange occurrences were often seen. In summer, the gentleman would often lodge there, fond of the evening cool on the tower. When someone warned him of the strangeness, he only laughed and would not listen, and insisted that a bed be set up there. The master of the house did as he was told. He instructed servants to keep the gentleman company through the night, but he declined, saying, "In all my life I have never known what it is to be afraid." The master then had incense lit in a burner, asked in which direction he wished to lay his head, and only then extinguished the candle, closed the door, and left. The gentleman had been resting on his pillow for a short while when, by the moonlight, he saw the teacup on the table tilt sideways and spin around, neither falling nor stopping. He scolded it sharply, and with a clink it instantly stood still. Then it seemed as if someone pulled out the incense stick, brandishing it in the air, tracing fiery patterns in every direction. The gentleman rose and shouted, "What demon dares act thus!" Bare-bodied, he stepped down from the bed and prepared to seize it. Feeling with his foot beneath the bed, he found only one shoe. Without bothering to search further, barefoot he struck at the place where the incense had been waving—and the stick was thrust back into the burner, after which all fell silent with no further sign. The gentleman bent down and groped through every dark corner, when suddenly something flew up and struck his cheek. It felt like a shoe, but when he searched for it, he could not find it at all. He then lifted the bed curtain, went downstairs, and called his attendants to bring a torch for light—there was nothing at all. So he returned to bed. When dawn came, he sent several men to search for the shoe; they turned over the mat and tipped the bed, but did not know where it was. The master of the house gave the gentleman a replacement shoe. A day later, he happened to look up and saw a shoe wedged between the rafters. When they poked it down, it was the gentleman's own shoe. The gentleman was a native of Yidu and lodged as a resident in the Sun family estate in Zichuan. The estate was extremely spacious, with much of it left vacant, and the gentleman occupied only half. The southern courtyard faced a high pavilion, separated only by a single wall. He often saw the pavilion doors open and close by themselves, but he paid it no heed. One day, as he happened to be talking with his family in the courtyard, the pavilion gate opened and suddenly a small man appeared, sitting facing north. He was not three feet tall, wearing a green robe and white socks. Everyone pointed and stared at him, yet he did not move. The gentleman said, "This is a fox." He quickly took his bow and arrows and aimed at the pavilion, about to shoot. The small man saw this and made a mocking, cackling sound, then disappeared from sight. The gentleman seized a sword, ascended the pavilion, and searched while cursing loudly, but found nothing at all, and so returned. The strangeness ceased from then on. The gentleman lived there for several years, safe and sound. The gentleman's eldest son, You-san, is a relative by marriage of mine, and witnessed these events himself. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "I was born too late to have attended upon the gentleman. Yet I have heard from the elders that he was by and large a generous, resolute, and courageous man. From these two affairs, one may roughly see as much. When the upright spirit dwells within, what can ghosts and foxes do to such a man!" Jian Chang Zhai Li Gong Zhuming was generous and fond of almsgiving. A villager named Wang Zhuo worked as a hired laborer in his household. This man had been idle and shiftless in his youth, unable to manage farm work, and his family was repeatedly impoverished. Yet he had a few small skills and often performed odd jobs, for which he was always richly rewarded. At times when there was no morning meal, he would beg piteously from the gentleman, who would always give him a few bushels. One day he told the gentleman, "I receive your generous relief every day, and thanks to it my family of three or four has fortunately not starved to death. Yet how can this go on forever? I beg you, master, to lend me one shi of green beans as capital." The gentleman gladly gave them to him. Zhuo carried them away, but after more than a year, he had repaid nothing. When asked about it, the bean capital had already been completely squandered. The gentleman pitied his poverty and let the matter rest without pressing him. The gentleman was studying at a Buddhist temple. After three years or so, he suddenly dreamed that Zhuo came to him and said, "I owe you, master, the value of those beans, and now I have come to repay the debt." The gentleman comforted him, saying, "If I were to demand repayment from you, how could the debts you have incurred in the past be counted?" Zhuo replied with a mournful look, "That is true. For any man who does some small service and receives a thousand gold pieces, it is acceptable not to repay. But if one receives aid for no reason at all, not even a bushel or a peck may be concealed, let alone so much more!" Having spoken, he departed. The gentleman grew more puzzled. Soon afterward, a family member reported to him, "Last night, the female donkey gave birth to a colt, and it is quite tall and strong." The gentleman suddenly realized and said, "Could that colt be Wang Zhuo?" A few days later, he returned home, saw the colt, and jokingly called out "Wang Zhuo." The colt came running to him, as if it understood. From then on, that became its name. The gentleman rode it on a trip to Qingzhou, where a eunuch from the Prince of Heng's household saw it and was delighted with it. He wished to buy it at a high price, but before the price could be settled, the gentleman had to return home due to urgent family affairs. Another year passed, and the colt was stabled with a stallion. It bit and broke its shin bone, which could not be healed. An ox-doctor came to the gentleman's house, saw it, and said to him, "I beg you to let me take this colt, so that I may tend it day and night; it will take months and years. If by chance it recovers, I will sell it and split the proceeds with you." The gentleman agreed. Several months later, the ox-doctor sold the donkey for 1,800 cash, and offered half to the gentleman. Upon receiving the money, the gentleman suddenly understood—the sum exactly matched the price of the beans. Alas! Debts owed in the clear light are repaid in the dark—this should serve as a warning. Tou Gun When Mr. Su Zhenxia, the Taifeng Duke, was napping by day, he saw a head emerge from the ground, as large as a bushel measure, spinning ceaselessly beneath his bed. Startled, he fell ill and never recovered. Later, his second son slept with a wanton woman and met with a fatal calamity—was this an omen of that? Gui Zuo Yan Mr. Du Jiuwan's wife fell ill. On the Double Ninth Festival, a friend invited him to a dogwood gathering. After washing up early in the morning, he told his wife where he was going. He was about to put on his hat and robes and leave, when he suddenly saw his wife in a daze, murmuring as if speaking with someone. Surprised, he approached the bedside, and his wife addressed him as "son." The household knew something strange was afoot. At the time, Du had his mother's coffin still unburied, and suspected that her spirit was possessing her. Du prayed, saying, "Is it perhaps my mother?" His wife scolded, saying, "Beast! Do you not recognize your own father?" Du said, "If you are my father, why have you come home to haunt my wife?" His wife called him by his childhood name and said, "I came specifically for your wife—why do you resent me instead? Your wife should die soon. Four men came to seize her, the first being Zhang Huaiyu. I pleaded with them in every way, and only then did they agree. I promised them a small offering, so you should pay it promptly." Du immediately burned paper money outside the door. His wife said again, "The four have gone. They could not bear to refuse me, and in three days we must prepare a feast to thank them. Your mother is old and infirm and cannot manage the kitchen. When the time comes, I must trouble your wife to go there for a while." Du said, "The living and the dead walk different paths—how can she take over the kitchen? I beg you to forgive her." His wife said, "Do not fear, my son; she will go and return quickly. This is for her own sake, so do not begrudge the trouble." With that, she said, "I will go now." His wife then fell unconscious, and only after a long time did she revive. When Du asked what she had said, she remembered nothing at all. She only said, "Just now I saw four men come, wanting to drag me away. Fortunately, my father-in-law pleaded for me and, moreover, took out his purse to bribe them, and only then did they leave. I saw that my father-in-law's money pouch still had two ingots left, and I wanted to steal one to provide for myself. But my father-in-law saw me and scolded, 'What are you trying to do? This is not something you may use!' So I withdrew my hand and dared not move." Since Du's wife was gravely ill, he was half in doubt and half in belief. Three days later, while they were talking and laughing, she suddenly stared blankly for a long time, then said, "Your wife is extremely greedy. When she saw my silver before, she immediately coveted it—but mostly it was because of poverty, so it is hardly surprising. I am taking your wife with me to manage my kitchen duties; do not worry." No sooner had she spoken than she fell senseless and died. After about half a day, she revived and told Du, "Just now my father-in-law called me over and said, 'I do not need you to do the work; I have people to do the cooking myself. You need only sit firmly and direct them. In the underworld I like things ample and generous, so all dishes should be heaped above the rims of the vessels—be sure to remember that.' I assented. When I reached the kitchen, I saw two women working with knives and chopping boards inside, both in dark purple aprons with green borders, who called me 'sister-in-law.' Whenever they put roasted meat into a vessel, they would always ask me to look it over. The four from before were all at the feast. After the dishes were served, the wine cups were arranged in their places. Then my father-in-law ordered me back." Du was greatly astonished and told this to everyone he knew. Hu Si Xianggong Zhang Xuyi of Laiwu was the second elder brother of Zhang Daoyi, the Educational Commissioner. He was by nature unrestrained and self-indulgent. Having heard that a certain residence in the county was occupied by foxes, he respectfully prepared a visiting card and went to call, hoping to see them. He slipped the card through a crack in the gate. After a while, the door opened by itself. His servant was greatly startled and retreated in fright, but Zhang, straightening his clothes, entered respectfully. He saw that inside the hall the tables and couches were just as they should be, yet it was utterly quiet with no one there. He made a bow and addressed the air: "I have come after fasting and purification. Since you, immortals, have not rejected me from outside the gate, why not grant me the favor of your presence?" Suddenly he heard a voice in the air say: "We trouble you to make this special visit—truly a rare footfall indeed. Please be seated and instruct us." Then he saw two seats move by themselves to face each other. He had barely sat down when a lacquered red tray bearing two teacups appeared suspended before his eyes. Each took a cup and drank facing the other, with audible sipping sounds, yet still no person was to be seen. After tea, wine followed. When he carefully inquired about their rank and lineage, the voice said: "Your younger brother's surname is Hu, and I am the fourth. They call me 'Xianggong'—that is what the servants call me." Thereupon they exchanged toasts and discourse, their spirits quite congenial. Turtle delicacies and venison dried meat, mixed with fragrant herbs, were served. Those who brought wine and presented roasts seemed to be many juniors. After wine, he thought of tea; no sooner had the thought arisen than fragrant tea was placed on the table. Whatever he thought of, it appeared at his thought. Zhang was greatly pleased and returned home thoroughly drunk. From then on, he would go every three or five days, and Hu would also visit Zhang's house, following all the rites of host and guest. One day, Zhang asked Hu: "There is an old sorceress in the southern city who daily exploits the Fox Spirit to profit. Does your family's fox lord know her?" Hu said: "It is nonsense—there is actually no fox there." Shortly after, Zhang rose to urinate and heard a small voice say: "As for that southern-city fox-sorceress just spoken of, we do not know what sort of person she is. I wish to accompany the gentleman to observe her; I beg you to put in a word with the master." Zhang knew it was a little fox, so he replied: "Agreed." Then at the table he asked the fox: "I wish to have one or two of your attendants to go with me to investigate that fox-sorceress; may I request your permission?" The fox insisted it was unnecessary, but Zhang repeated the request several times, and finally he consented. Soon after, Zhang went out, and a horse came up of its own accord, as if someone were holding the reins. Once mounted and riding, the foxes spoke to one another along the way: "Hereafter, when you, sir, are on the road, if you feel fine sand scattering upon your lapels, that will be us following." As they spoke, they entered the city and reached the sorceress's house. When the sorceress saw Zhang, she smiled and greeted him: "Why has your honor suddenly descended?" Zhang said: "I hear that the fox-spirit of your house is greatly efficacious—is that true?" The sorceress assumed a serious expression and said: "Such frivolous talk is not fitting for your honor to utter! Why speak of 'fox-spirit'? I fear our family's Elder Sister Hua will not be pleased." Before she finished speaking, a half-brick came flying through the air and struck the sorceress's arm, causing her to stagger and nearly fall. Startled, she said to Zhang: "Why would you, sir, throw things at this old woman?" Zhang laughed and said: "Are you blind, old dame? Have you ever seen someone with a broken brow wrongly accuse a bystander?" The sorceress was dumbfounded and did not know what to make of it. While she was still bewildered, another stone fell, striking her and causing her to stumble, while filth and mud rained down, plastering her face like a demon's. She could only wail and beg for mercy. Zhang pleaded for her to be forgiven, and then it stopped. The sorceress hurriedly scrambled up and fled into her room, shutting the door and not daring to come out. Zhang called out to her: "Is your fox like my fox?" The sorceress only apologized. Zhang summoned her and, looking up at the air, warned them not to harm the sorceress; only then did she come out trembling with fear. Zhang smiled and admonished her, then returned. From then on, when he walked alone on the road and felt the dust and sand pattering down, he would call out to the foxes, and they always answered without fail. Tiger wolves and bandits he feared no more, thanks to them. Thus passed more than a year, and their friendship grew ever closer. He once asked Hu his age, but Hu could not remember it himself, only saying: "I saw Huang Chao's rebellion as if it were yesterday." One evening as they were conversing, suddenly there came a crashing sound from the top of the wall, very fierce. Zhang was surprised. Hu said: "That must be my elder brother." Zhang said: "Why not invite him to sit with us?" Hu replied: "His cultivation is rather shallow; he only knows enough to snatch a couple of chickens to eat, and that's all." Zhang said to the fox: "Our friendship is as good as it can be—there is no regret; but that I have never seen your face is a great regret." Hu said: "It is enough to have good friendship; what use is meeting face to face?" One day, Hu prepared wine and invited Zhang, also taking leave of him. Zhang asked: "Where are you going?" Hu said: "Your younger brother's native place is in Shaanxi; I am going back. You have always regretted not meeting face to face; now I shall let you recognize this years-long friend, so that in days to come you may know me." Zhang looked all around but saw nothing. Hu said: "Sir, try opening the bedroom door, and I will be there." Zhang pushed the door open and peered in—there was a handsome youth, who smiled back at him. His clothes were neat and elegant, his features like a painting; but in the twinkling of an eye, he was no longer seen. Zhang turned back to walk away, and immediately there were rustling footsteps following behind, saying: "Now I have relieved your regret, sir." Zhang was reluctant to part. Hu said: "Meeting and parting have their own destiny; why be so troubled?" Then he urged Zhang to drink from a large goblet. They drank until midnight, when Hu finally had a gauze candle escort Zhang home. The next day Zhang went to call, but the house was empty and desolate. Later, Commissioner Zhang Daoyi was appointed Educational Commissioner in Xizhou, and Zhang Xuyi asked to accompany him to Jin. He went to visit his younger brother, with rather high expectations. When he returned, however, he was quite disappointed, sighing on horseback, dejected as if struck dumb. Suddenly a young man on a green donkey came up behind him. Zhang turned and saw that his furs and horse were splendid, and his bearing refined and elegant, so he fell into idle conversation. The young man noticed Zhang's low spirits and asked why. Zhang told him the reason. The young man also offered consolation. They traveled together for about a li, and at a fork in the road, the young man bowed and took leave, saying: "Ahead on the road, there is someone who will deliver an old friend's gift to you; I beg you to accept it with a smile." Zhang wanted to ask more, but the young man galloped off into the distance. Zhang could not fathom what he meant. After another two or three li, he saw an old servant carrying a small basket, who presented it before his horse, saying: "Master Hu Si Xianggong respectfully sends this to you, sir." Zhang suddenly understood. He opened it and saw it was filled with silver ingots. When he looked around for the servant, he had vanished. Nian Yang The Historian of the Strange says: Deceitful human schemes are found everywhere; on the great north-south thoroughfares their harm is especially severe. The likes of strong bows and furious horses, waylaying men outside the city gates—that is something everyone knows. Or there are those who slit bags and pierce satchels, snatching goods in the market, and when the pedestrian turns his head, his money and goods are already gone—are these not the most venomous of human deviltries? But then there are also those who meet by chance, with sweet words like nectar; their approach is gradual, their penetration deep. One mistakes them for friends met by chance on the road, and so falls into the calamity of losing one's possessions. They set traps according to circumstances, with endless variations. The common people, because their speech creeps in insidiously, call it "nian yang" (sowing gossip). Now on the northern roads such cases are many, and those who suffer from them are especially numerous. In my native place there was one Wang Zixun, a county student. He had a clansman in the capital who was a banner-registered historiographer, and he was going to visit him. He packed his bags and traveled north. Leaving Jinan, after a few li, there was a man riding a black mule who galloped along with him, occasionally drawing him into idle talk. Wang engaged with him in questions and answers. The man introduced himself: "My surname is Zhang. I am a clerk of Qixia, sent on official business to the capital." He was humble in address, attentive and respectful. They traveled together for several tens of li and agreed to lodge together. If Wang was ahead, he would urge his donkey to catch up; if behind, he would wait by the roadside. Wang's servant became suspicious, and so with a stern face he drove him away, not allowing him to follow. Zhang seemed quite ashamed, and with a flick of his whip he left. At dusk they stopped at an inn; Wang happened to step into the courtyard and saw Zhang drinking in an outer room. While he was startled and suspicious, Zhang saw Wang, dropped his hands and stood respectfully, as humble as a servant, and made some inquiries. Wang also thought it was just a casual encounter, and did not become suspicious, but Wang's servant remained on guard all night. After the cock crowed, Zhang came to call them to travel together; the servant rebuffed him with a shout, and he left. After the morning sun had risen, Wang set out. After traveling about half a day, ahead there was a man riding a white donkey, about forty years old, neatly dressed in hat and clothes, with his head bowed and his steps slow, nodding drowsily as if about to fall. Sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, lingering for over ten li. Wang asked in wonder: "What did you do last night to be so exhausted?" Upon hearing this, the man suddenly stretched and yawned, saying: "I am from Qingyuan, surname Xu. The magistrate of Linzi, Gao Qing, is my cousin. My elder brother is teaching in the official residence; I was going to visit him and obtain some gifts. Last night at an inn, I mistakenly lodged with nian yang swindlers, and I was so alarmed I dared not close my eyes, which caused this daytime stupor." Wang then asked: "What is meant by 'nian yang'?" Xu said: "You have little experience as a traveler, and do not know the treacherous deceptions. Nowadays there are villains who entice travelers with sweet words, worm their way in to share lodgings, and then seize the opportunity to cheat and swindle. Yesterday a distant relative of mine lost all his money because of this. We should all be on guard." Wang nodded. Previously, the magistrate of Linzi had been an acquaintance of Wang's; Wang had once been in his staff and knew his retainers, and indeed there was a Xu among them, so he no longer doubted. He then exchanged pleasantries and also asked about his elder brother's situation. Xu suggested they lodge together that evening; Wang agreed. Wang's servant still suspected deception, and secretly conspired with the innkeeper to delay and not proceed, so they lost track of each other, and Xu vanished. The next day around noon, they met another young man, about sixteen or seventeen, riding a sturdy mule, with neat hat and clothes, and quite handsome. They traveled together for a long while without exchanging a word. As dusk fell, the young man suddenly said: "Ahead is not far from Qulüdian." Wang gave a faint reply. The young man then sighed and sobbed, as if unable to contain himself. Wang slightly inquired, and the young man sighed: "I am of the Jin family from Jiangnan. For three years I burned the midnight oil, hoping to win a degree, but unexpectedly I failed! My elder brother is a secretary in a ministry, so I brought my family along hoping to find some distraction. In my life I have never traveled; the dust and sand in my face are most vexing." He took out a red handkerchief to wipe his face, sighing and grumbling incessantly. Listening to his speech, he had a southern accent, delicate and soft like a woman. Wang took a liking to him and offered some consolation. The young man said: "I galloped ahead earlier, but my family has been long in coming; why have even my servants not arrived? The day is nearly over, what to do!" He lingered, looking around, and walked very slowly. Wang then went ahead, and they gradually grew apart. In the evening they arrived at an inn; when he entered the room, there was a bed against the wall with a guest's luggage already on it. Wang asked the innkeeper, and immediately a man entered and carried it out, saying: "Please settle in; I will move elsewhere at once." Wang looked and saw it was Xu. Wang stopped him and offered to share the room; so Xu stayed, and they sat and talked. Soon, another man carrying luggage came in; seeing Wang and Xu in the room, he turned and quickly went out, saying: "There are already guests." Wang looked closely and saw it was the young man from the road. Before Wang could speak, Xu hastily rose and pulled him back; the young man then sat down. Xu then asked about his native place and family, and the young man recounted to Xu what he had said on the road. In a moment, he opened his bag and produced money, piling up quite a weight; he weighed out more than two taels and gave them to the innkeeper, instructing him to prepare dishes and wine for their night talk. The two tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen. Soon wine and meat were laid out. At the feast, the young man discoursed on literature with great elegance. Wang asked about the examination topics in Jiangnan, and the young man told him all of them, and also recited his own opening and closing passages and the lines he was proud of. After speaking, he seemed very aggrieved, and they all commiserated. The young man also mentioned that he had lost track of his family, and had no servants at night, and was worried about not knowing how to tend the animals; so Wang ordered his servant to help with the fodder, and the young man expressed deep gratitude. Before long, he suddenly stirred and said: "My life has been full of setbacks, and even traveling brings no good fortune. Last night at the inn I stayed with wicked people who threw dice and shouted, making a deafening noise that agitated my heart and kept me from sleeping." In the southern dialect, dice are called "dou"; Xu did not understand, so he pressed him, and the young man mimed the shape with his hands. Xu laughed, and from his bag produced a single die, saying: "Is this it?" The young man said yes. Xu then used the die as a drinking game, and they drank merrily together. When the wine was nearly done, Xu proposed they gamble together, the winner to treat the loser to a meal. Wang declined, saying he did not understand. Xu then faced the young man and shouted for the dice game, and secretly told Wang: "Do not reveal this. The young barbarian gentleman is quite wealthy, and still young; he probably does not fully understand the tricks of the five-wood dice. If I win a little, tomorrow I will invite you." The two then went into the next room. Soon there was a loud gambling clamor. Wang peeked in and saw the clerk from Qixia also among them. He was greatly suspicious, but spread out his quilt and lay down. After a while, they all pulled Wang to gamble, but Wang firmly declined, saying he did not know how. Xu offered to distinguish the throws for him, but Wang again refused; so they forced him to let Xu throw on his behalf. After a short time, Xu came to the bed and reported to Wang: "You have won several stakes." Wang answered in his sleep. Suddenly several men burst in, chattering in a foreign tongue. The leader said his surname was Tong. He was a bannerman patrolman sent to catch gamblers. At that time gambling was strictly forbidden, and everyone was terrified. Tong loudly intimidated Wang, but Wang countered with the banner of the historiographer. Tong's anger subsided, and he talked with Wang about their common native place, smiling and inviting them to gamble for sport. The others indeed resumed gambling, and Tong also joined. Wang said to Xu: "I do not care about wins or losses; I only wish to sleep, do not disturb me." Xu paid no heed and kept coming to report. When the game ended, they counted their chips; Wang had incurred many debts, so Tong searched Wang's baggage to collect. Wang angrily rose and protested. Jin grabbed Wang's arm and secretly said: "Those men are scoundrels, their intentions are unpredictable. We are literary friends; we should look out for each other. Just now in the game I won a certain amount, which can offset it. This amount should be collected from Mr. Xu; now let us exchange it. Let Xu pay Tong, and you pay me. It is only a temporary cover-up; after this, it will be returned. After all, would I, as a friend in righteousness, really take your money?" Wang was always kind and honest, so he believed him. The young man went out and told Tong of the plan to exchange. Then in front of everyone they opened Wang's luggage, assessed its value and put it into their own bags; Tong then turned and demanded payment from Xu and Zhang and left. The young man then bundled his bedding and came to share Wang's pillow; the quilt and mattress were both fine. Wang also called his servant to lie on the bed, and they all silently rested. After a long while, the young man deliberately turned over and pressed his lower body against the servant. The servant moved away, but the young man again drew near. His skin touched the servant's thigh, smooth and soft like grease. The servant's heart stirred, and he tried to fondle him; the young man was extremely accommodating, and the covers rustled and moved. Wang overheard it, and though surprised, he did not suspect anything else. At dawn, the young man got up and urged them to leave early, saying: "Your donkey is tired and worn; the goods you entrusted to me last night, I will hand them over to you ahead on the road." Wang said nothing, and the young man had already loaded up and mounted his mule; Wang had no choice but to follow. The mule sped on, and they gradually went far. Wang expected to meet him on the road ahead, and initially did not mind. So he asked his servant about what he had heard during the night, and the servant told him the truth. Wang was startled and said: "Now we have been cheated by nian yang swindlers! How could a gentleman from an official family, a famous scholar, offer himself as a servant to a groom?" Then he reflected that his conversation was elegant, not something a swindler could manage; he hurriedly pursued for several tens of li, but there was no trace. He then realized that Zhang, Xu, and Tong were all of the same gang; if one scheme failed, they changed to another, determined to ensnare him. The repayment of debts and exchange of baggage had already laid the groundwork for a scheme of denial; even if the plan to carry off his luggage had not succeeded, they would certainly have seized it by force under the previous pretext. For a few tens of silver pieces, they trailed him for several hundred li, and fearing that the servant might expose them, they used their own bodies to win him over—their tricks were indeed laborious. Several years later, there was another affair concerning a certain Wu Sheng: In the county there was a student named Wu Anren, who lost his spouse at thirty and slept alone in an empty study. A Xiucai came to talk with him, and they became mutually acquainted and pleased. He was followed by a little servant named Guitou, who also got along well with Wu's servant Bao'er. After a long time, he realized that the Xiucai was a fox. When Wu traveled far, he would always go with him; within the same room, people could not see him. Wu was staying as a guest in the capital, and was about to return home, when he heard that Wang Sheng had suffered the disaster of Nianyang, so he warned his servant to be on guard. The fox laughed and said, "No need, this trip will have no disadvantage." Arriving at Zhuozhou, a man tied his horse and sat in a tavern, dressed in fine furs. Seeing Wu pass by, he also rose, mounted his horse and followed him. Gradually he spoke with Wu, saying of himself: "I am of the Huang family from Shandong, a clerk in the Ministry of Revenue. I am about to return east, and I am glad to have company on the road so as not to be lonely." Thereupon wherever Wu stopped, he also stopped; whenever they ate together, he would always pay for Wu. Wu outwardly felt grateful but inwardly suspected him. He privately asked the fox, and the fox said, "No harm." Wu's mind was eased. At evening, they together sought lodgings; there was already a handsome young man sitting inside. Huang entered, made a bow with clasped hands, and happily asked the young man, "When did you leave the capital?" He answered, "Yesterday." Huang then pulled him to share the lodging, and said to Wu, "This is Shi-lang, my cousin on the maternal side, also a scholar, who can assist you in discussing poetry and elegance; our night talk will not be dull." Then he produced funds and prepared refreshments for drinking together. The young man was elegant and refined, and so he and Wu greatly admired each other. During the drinking, he would often signal Wu with his eyes to cheat in the drinking game, penalize Huang, force him to drain the cup, and clap and laugh. Wu became even more fond of him. Soon after, they plotted with Huang to gamble, and together they pulled Wu in, and each produced money from their bags as stakes. The fox instructed Bao'er to secretly lock the wooden door, and told him, "If you hear people making a noise, just sleep and do not make a sound." Wu agreed. Whenever Wu threw the dice, if he bet small he lost, if he bet big he won. After the first watch, he counted and had gained two hundred taels of silver. Shi and Huang's bags were almost empty, and they discussed pawning their horse. Suddenly they heard a violent knocking at the door. Wu hurriedly rose, threw the dice into the fire, covered himself with the quilt and pretended to lie down. After a while, they heard the host looking for the key but not finding it, so he broke the lock and opened the door; several men rushed in, searching for and seizing the gamblers. Shi and Huang both said there were none. One man actually pulled away Wu's quilt and pointed him out as a gambler; Wu scolded him. The several men forcibly searched Wu's luggage. He was unable to resist them, when suddenly they heard outside the door the sounds of sedan chairs and horses, with heralds clearing the way. Wu hurried out and cried out; the crowd then became afraid, dragged him back in, and only begged him to be quiet. Wu then calmly handed over his bribe to the host. When the procession had gone far, the crowd then left. Huang and Shi both put on looks of surprise and delight; they took turns looking at the sleeping arrangements, and Huang ordered Shi to share the couch with Wu. Wu placed his waist-pouch under his pillow and was just spreading the quilt to sleep. Before long, Shi lifted Wu's quilt, stripped naked and got into his arms, whispering, "I admire your openness, elder brother, and wish to be intimate with you." Wu knew in his heart that it was a trick, but he also thought it was a good opportunity, so they embraced. Shi exerted himself to please, but did not expect that Wu was a strong man; it was like a square peg in a round hole, and he frowned and groaned, barely able to endure, and secretly begged to be released. Wu insisted on finishing the deed. He touched him and found blood flowing enough to float a pestle. Then he released him and let him go back. At dawn, Shi was exhausted and could not get up; he pretended to have a sudden illness and asked Wu and Huang to leave first. When Wu took leave, he gave him money for medicine. On the way, he spoke with the fox, and then learned that the procession of the previous night had all been done by the fox. Huang on the road flattered Wu even more. At dusk they again shared a lodging; the tiny room was very narrow, only enough for one couch, but quite warm and clean; Wu thought it cramped. Huang said, "If two sleep here, it is cramped; if you sleep alone, it is spacious. What harm?" After eating, he went away directly. Wu was also pleased to sleep alone so he could meet his fox friend; he sat for a long time, but the fox did not come. Suddenly he heard a small door in the wall with the sound of fingers tapping. Wu unbolted and looked; a young girl in gorgeous makeup quickly entered, locked the door herself, and smiled at Wu, beautiful as a fairy. Wu happily questioned her closely, and she turned out to be the host's daughter-in-law. So he engaged in intimacy with her, and they greatly loved each other. The girl suddenly shed tears. Wu asked in surprise, and she said, "I dare not hide it; I am truly sent by the host to bait you. Previously when I entered the room, I would be seized and held; I don't know why tonight he has not come for so long?" She further sobbed, "I am a girl from a good family, and I am not willing in my heart. Now I have given my heart to you; I beg you to rescue me!" Wu was terrified and had no plan, but only told her to go quickly; the girl only hung her head and wept. Suddenly they heard Huang and the host banging on the door in an uproar, and only heard Huang say, "I have been serving you all the way, thinking you a gentleman, but how dare you seduce my younger brother's wife!" Wu was afraid, and forced the girl to leave. He heard outside the wall door there were also sounds of banging. Wu was flustered and sweating like rain; the girl also lay down and wept. Then they heard someone trying to dissuade the host, but the host would not listen, and pushed the door more urgently. The dissuader said, "May I ask the host, what do you intend to do? If you want to kill, there are several guests like us who will certainly not sit by and watch such violence. If one of the two should escape, how can you avoid the blame? If you want to bring it to court, your domestic affairs are not in order, and you will only bring shame upon yourself. Moreover, you are running a lodging house, and you are clearly setting a trap; how can you be sure that the girl will not have a different story?" The host stared with wide eyes and could not speak. Wu heard this and secretly admired him, but did not know who it was. At first, when the inn door was about to close, a Xiucai together with a servant came and lodged in an outer room. They brought fine wine and poured drinks for all the fellow lodgers, especially urging Huang and the host to drink. The two declined and wanted to leave, but the Xiucai pulled at their robes and insistently would not let them go. Later, they took advantage of a moment to escape, and grabbed clubs and ran to Wu's place. The Xiucai heard the noise and then entered to mediate. Wu crouched by the window and peeked; it was his fox friend, and his heart secretly rejoiced. He saw that the host's resolve was somewhat shaken, so he spoke loudly to frighten him. He also said to the girl, "Why are you silent and not saying a word?" The girl wept and said, "I hate that I am not as good as others, and am driven to do such base tasks!" When the host heard this, his face turned ashen. The Xiucai scolded, "Your beastly feelings are now fully exposed. This is what all guests are indignant about!" Huang and the host both dropped their knives and clubs, knelt down and begged. Wu also opened the door and came out, and suddenly burst into angry abuse; the Xiucai again dissuaded Wu, and the two sides then made peace. The girl again wept, preferring death to returning. From inside rushed out an old woman and a maidservant, who grabbed the girl and ordered her to go in. The girl lay on the ground, weeping even more piteously. The Xiucai advised that Wu should buy her for a high price; the host hung his head and said, "I have been a madam for thirty years, and today the child is born breech; what more can I say?" So he followed the Xiucai's words. Wu was unwilling to spend a large sum, but the Xiucai mediated between host and guest, and they settled on fifty taels. After the person and money were exchanged, the morning bell had already sounded, so they all packed up and took the girl along. The girl was not used to riding; the journey was quite tiring. At noon they rested a little, and when about to leave, they called for Bao'er, but he was nowhere to be found. The sun was already setting, and still there was no trace; they were quite suspicious and surprised, so they asked the fox. The fox said, "Don't worry, he will come by himself." The stars and moon had already come out when Bao'er finally arrived. Wu questioned him, and Bao'er laughed and said, "Sir, you enriched those rogues with fifty taels; I felt it was unfair. I just plotted with Guitou and turned back to demand it back." Then he placed the silver on the table. Wu asked in surprise for the details. It turned out that Guitou knew that the girl had only one elder brother, who had gone far away and not returned for over ten years, so he transformed into the form of her brother, and made Bao'er pretend to be the younger brother, and they went to the door to demand the sister. The host was terrified and falsely claimed that she had died of illness. The two servants wanted to take it to court; the host became even more frightened, and bribed them with silver, gradually increasing to forty taels, and then the two servants left. Bao'er related the whole story, and Wu immediately rewarded him. Wu returned home, and the couple were very harmonious. The family became richer. Upon careful questioning of the girl, it turned out that the handsome young man earlier was her husband; that is, Shi was actually Jin. She wore a hooded cloak of oak-silk, which she said she had obtained from a certain Wang family in Shandong. It seems their accomplices were many; the innkeepers were all of their kind. Who would have thought that what Wu encountered was exactly the man Wang Zixun had called out to heaven in bitterness? Is that not delightful! Truly the ancient saying: "Riders are apt to fall." Frog Tune Wang Zixun said: When in the capital, he once saw a man performing a show in the market, carrying a wooden box with compartments, twelve holes in all, each with a frog inside. He tapped their heads with a thin stick, and they would croak. If given money, he would strike the tops of the frogs randomly, producing a music like playing a cloud-gong, with the notes and melodies clearly distinguishable. Rat Play One man in the Chang'an market sold a mouse show. He carried a sack on his back, in which he kept more than ten small mice. Often among a crowd of people, he would take out a small wooden frame and place it on his shoulder, exactly like the shape of a stage. Then he would beat his drum and clappers and sing ancient zaju plays. As soon as the singing began, a mouse would come out of the sack, wearing a mask and tiny costumes, climb from his back onto the stage, and stand upright to dance. The joys and sorrows of men and women all matched the dramatic plot. The Mud Scholar In Luo village there was a man named Chen Dai, who had been simple and ugly since childhood. He married a wife who was quite beautiful. She considered her husband inferior to others and was depressed and discontented. Nevertheless, she was chaste and faithful, and she and her mother-in-law got along peacefully. One night she was sleeping alone when suddenly she heard the wind stir and the door open. A scholar entered, took off his clothes and cap, and lay down with her to share the bed. She was terrified and struggled hard to resist, but her limbs suddenly went weak, and she allowed him to take liberties and then he left. From then on there was no night without him. After more than a month, she grew haggard and thin. Her mother-in-law asked in surprise; at first she was ashamed and did not want to speak, but when pressed, she told the truth. Her mother-in-law was alarmed and said, "This is a demon!" She tried every kind of spell and incantation, but could not stop him. So she had Chen Dai hide in the room, holding a staff to lie in wait. At midnight the scholar came again, placed his cap on the table, and took off his robe, hanging it on the clothes rack. Just as he was about to climb onto the bed, he suddenly started and said, "Alas! There is the smell of a living person!" He quickly put on his clothes again. Chen Dai suddenly rose up in the dark and struck him in the side; there was a dull thud. He looked around the walls, but the scholar had vanished. He gathered kindling and lit a torch to look—a piece of mud clothing had fallen to the ground, and the mud cap was still on the table. Lady Earth God One day Wang Bing of Diaoqiao village went out of the village and saw a beautiful woman emerge from the Earth God shrine, casting him very amorous glances. He tried to flirt with her, and she joyfully accepted. Since there was no place for intimacy, they agreed that she would come to him at night, and Wang Bing told her his address. That night she indeed came, and they were deeply affectionate. He asked her name, but she steadfastly would not tell him. From then on they came and went without cease. At that time Wang Bing shared a bed with his wife, yet the beauty would always come to couple with him, and his wife was not aware of anyone else. Wang Bing asked in astonishment. The beauty said, "I am the Lady Earth God." Wang Bing was greatly alarmed and urgently wanted to stop her, but no plan could prevent her. After six months of this, he fell ill from exhaustion and could not get up. The beauty came even more frequently, and all the family saw her. Not long after, Wang Bing indeed died. The beauty still came once every day. Wang Bing's wife scolded her, saying, "Shameless lewd ghost! The man is already dead—why do you come again?" The beauty then left and did not return. Though the Earth God is a minor deity, he is still a god—how could he allow his wife to elope? One does not know what lascivious and muddled creature this was, that it should make later ages say that this village has a filthy and careless god. How unjust! Lotus in Cold Moon The Daoist of Jinan—no one knew where he came from, nor his surname. In winter and summer he wore a single turban-like cap and a yellow girdle, but no trousers or undergarments. He would comb his hair with half a comb, then use the teeth to pin up his topknot like a crown. Every day he walked barefoot through the market; at night he slept in the street, and the ice and snow for several feet around his body all melted. When he first came, he would perform illusionary tricks for people, and the market folk vied to give him presents. There was a rogue in a lane who gave him wine and begged to be taught his arts, but he would not consent. When he met the Daoist bathing in a river ford, he suddenly snatched his clothes to coerce him. The Daoist bowed and said, "Please give them back to me, and I will not be stingy with my arts." The rogue, fearing deception, would not let go. The Daoist said, "Will you truly not return them?" He said, "Yes." The Daoist was silent and did not speak to him. Soon the yellow girdle turned into a snake, several spans in girth, which coiled around him six or seven times, glaring and raising its head, flicking its tongue at him. The rogue was greatly astounded, knelt prostrate, pale and gasping, only begging for his life. The Daoist then took back the girdle. The girdle was not a snake after all; another snake slithered off into the city. From then on the Daoist's fame grew even greater. A gentry family heard of his marvels and invited him to travel with them, so from then on he frequented the gates of local scholars. The intendants and circuit intendants all knew his name, and whenever they held banquets, they always had the Daoist accompany them. One day the Daoist asked to host a feast for the officials at the Water Pavilion. When the day came, each found on his desk an invitation from the Daoist, and no one knew how it had arrived. The officials went to the banquet site, and the Daoist stooped to welcome them. When they entered, the pavilion was empty and still, with no tables or couches set up, and some doubted his claim. The Daoist addressed the officials, saying, "This poor Daoist has no servants; I must trouble you to lend me some of your attendants to do a little running about." The officials all agreed. The Daoist painted a pair of doors on the wall and knocked on them with his hand. Inside there was a doorkeeper who opened the bolt. They all crowded to look and saw figures bustling about within, and there were screens, curtains, couches, and tables—everything complete. Immediately people handed things out through the door one by one, and the Daoist ordered the clerks and attendants to arrange them in the pavilion, and warned them not to speak with those inside. They passed things back and forth, only smiling at each other. In a moment the pavilion was fully furnished, with the utmost luxury and beauty. Then fine wine diffused its fragrance, and roasted meats steamed with savory smells, all passed out from within the wall. All the guests were astounded. The pavilion originally backed onto the lake; in the sixth month, there were dozens of acres of lotus flowers, stretching as far as the eye could see. At the time of the feast it was deep winter, and outside the window all was vast and misty green. One official happened to sigh, saying, "This fine gathering is spoiled only by the lack of lotus flowers to adorn it!" All the others murmured agreement. After a moment, a clerk in blue rushed in to report, "The lotus leaves have filled the pond!" Everyone was astonished. They pushed open the windows and looked out, and indeed saw a boundless expanse of verdant greenery, interspersed with lotus buds. In the blink of an eye, thousands of stems and ten thousand blossoms all opened at once. The north wind blew in their faces, and the fragrance of the lotuses penetrated their brains. All found it strange. They sent a clerk to row a boat and gather lotuses. From afar they saw the clerk enter deep among the flowers; after a short while he turned back, empty-handed, and came to report. The officials questioned him, and the clerk said, "I went by boat, but saw the flowers far away; when I reached the north shore, they had turned again to the southern expanse." The Daoist laughed and said, "These are but empty flowers in an illusion." Soon the wine gave out, and the lotuses also withered; the north wind suddenly rose and broke the lotus leaves, leaving none at all. The surveillance commissioner of Jidong was greatly pleased and took him back to his office, where he daily amused himself with him. One day the commissioner was drinking with guests. The commissioner had a fine family wine, and as a rule, only one dou was ever used at a time; he would not allow lavish drinking. That day the guests found the wine so delicious that they insisted on draining the jar, but the commissioner firmly declined, saying it was already finished. The Daoist laughed and said to the guests, "If you must satisfy your gluttony, you may ask it of this poor Daoist." The guests asked him. The Daoist put the jar into his sleeve; after a moment he brought it out and poured for all at the table, and it was no different from the commissioner's own store. They finished the feast happily. The commissioner was suspicious and went in to inspect the wine jar—the seal was intact, but the bottle was empty. In his heart he was ashamed and angry, and took him to be a demon, so he ordered him caned. But as soon as the cane fell, the commissioner felt a sharp pain in his thigh; at the second stroke, the flesh of his buttocks seemed to split. Though the Daoist's voice was hoarse beneath the steps, the commissioner was already bleeding on his seat. He therefore stopped the caning and ordered him to go. The Daoist then left Jinan, and no one knew where he went. Later someone met him in Jinling; his clothing was the same as before. When asked, he laughed and did not reply. Wine Madman Miao Yongding was a senior tribute student from Jiangxi, and had always been given to excessive drinking, so much that his relatives and friends mostly avoided him. He happened to visit his cousin's house, and with the guests he joked and bantered, so they all drank deeply together. Miao, drunk, vented his wine fury and insulted the guests, offending them; the guests grew angry, and the whole party was in an uproar. His cousin tried to mediate, but Miao, favoring the guests, turned his anger instead on his cousin. His cousin, at his wits' end, ran to tell his family. His family came and supported him back home. No sooner had they laid him on the bed than his four limbs went limp; when they felt him, he had already ceased to breathe. He then saw that the black-hat man had already bound him and was leading him away. After some time they arrived at a government office building, its tiles a gleaming turquoise, such as no earthly structure could match for magnificence. They reached the steps before the hall, and he seemed to expect to be summoned to see the magistrate; thinking himself guilty of no crime, he supposed it must be a lawsuit over a brawl. He looked back at the black-hat man, who glared at him with eyes like an ox's, and dared not ask. Suddenly a clerk in the hall proclaimed that those with suits should wait early the next day; whereupon the crowd below scattered. Miao followed the black-hat man out as well, having nowhere to go; he shrank back, standing under the eaves of a shop. The black-hat man said angrily, "You drunken, good-for-nothing scoundrel! The day is nearly over—each must go find a place to sleep and eat. Where do you think you're going?" Miao trembled and said, "I do not even know what this is about, and I told no one in my family, so I have not a copper for expenses—where can I go?" The black-hat man said, "You drunken rogue! When you buy wine to guzzle for yourself, you have means enough! If you dawdle any more, I'll smash your good-for-nothing bones with my fist!" Miao hung his head and dared not speak. Suddenly a man came out from inside a door, saw Miao, and exclaimed in surprise, "What brings you here?" Miao looked at him—it was his maternal uncle. His uncle, of the Jia family, had been dead for several years. When Miao saw him, he finally realized that he himself was dead, and his heart grew even more grieved and fearful. Weeping to his uncle, he said, "Uncle, save me!" Jia turned to the black-hat man and said, "This is none other than Dongling; pray condescend to enter my humble home." The two men then went in. Jia made a deep bow to the black-hat man and urged him to look kindly upon the matter. Presently he brought out wine and food, and they all sat together and drank. Jia asked, "What has my nephew done, that you should be put to the trouble of apprehending him?" The black-hat man said, "The King was on his way to visit Lord Fuluo when he encountered your nephew in a drunken rage, cursing aloud, and I was ordered to seize him." Jia asked, "Has he seen the King yet?" He replied, "Lord Fuluo is holding the Flower-Child Case; the King has not yet returned." Jia asked again, "What punishment will my nephew receive?" The answer was, "That is not yet known. But the King is quite enraged at such persons." Miao, sitting to one side, heard their words and trembled so that sweat poured down; he could not even lift his cup or chopsticks. After a while, the black-hat man rose and thanked them, saying, "I have imposed on your generous hospitality; I am already drunk. I shall entrust your nephew to you for now. When the King returns, I will call again and visit." With that he left. Jia said to Miao, "Nephew, you have no other brothers; your parents loved you like a pearl in the palm and could never bear to scold you. When you were sixteen or seventeen, after every third cup of wine you would mutter and find fault with people, and at the slightest disagreement you would bang on doors and strip off your clothes to curse—but they still thought you were young and unformed. I never expected that after more than ten years apart, you would have not improved in the least. What is to be done now!" Miao threw himself on the ground and wept, full of remorse but too late. Jia pulled him up and said, "I am in the wine trade here and have some small reputation; I will certainly do my utmost. The one who just drank with us is an envoy of Dongling; I often give him wine and am on fairly good terms with him. The King has myriad affairs each day—he may not necessarily remember this incident. I will speak tactfully to him and beg him to release you on private terms; perhaps he will consent." Then he thought again and said, "But this is a heavy burden; nothing less than a hundred thousand will settle it." Miao thanked him and agreed, and that night he lodged with his uncle. The next day, the black-hat man came early to look in. Jia asked for a private word. After they had spoken for some time, he came and said to Miao, "It is arranged. He will come again shortly. I will first use all I have to pay the deposit, and the rest you can gather at your leisure after you return home." Miao happily asked, "How much in total?" He said, "A hundred thousand." Miao said, "Where can I get such a sum?" Jia said, "Only one hundred bundles of gold and silver paper money will suffice." Miao was delighted and said, "That is easy to manage." They waited until nearly noon, but the black-hat man did not appear. Miao wanted to go out into the market for a little stroll. Jia warned him not to wander far. He agreed and went out. He saw that the trade and peddling in the streets were just as in the human world. He came to a place surrounded by a thorny fence and sheer walls, like a prison. Across from it was a wine shop, with many people coming and going. Outside the shop ran a long stream of dark, surging water, deep beyond measure. As he stood peering into it, he heard someone inside the shop call out, "Why have you come here, Master Miao?" Miao looked quickly and saw that it was Old Man Weng from a neighboring village—a literary friend from ten years before. He came out, grasped Miao's hand, and they were as joyful as if they had never parted. They sat down in the shop for a little drink and exchanged news of their long separation. In the midst of his good fortune, meeting an old acquaintance again, Miao poured out his heart and drank deeply. He became quite drunk and suddenly forgot that he was dead; his old habits returned, and he began to mutter and find fault with Weng. Weng said, "It has been several years, and you are still the same?" Miao had always hated being reminded of his drinking conduct, and at these words he grew even more furious. He pounded the table and shouted abuse. Weng glanced at him, flicked his sleeves, and walked out. Miao pursued him to the stream's edge and snatched off Weng's cap. Weng angrily said, "You truly are a senseless brute!" Then he pushed Miao, who fell headlong into the stream. The water was not very deep, but within it were countless sharp blades that pierced his sides and drove through his shins, so that he could not move at all, and the pain reached to his very brain. The black water, mixed with filth, was sucked into his throat with each breath, utterly unbearable. On the bank, people crowded around watching and laughing, none offering the slightest help. At that moment of crisis, Jia suddenly arrived. Seeing this, he was greatly alarmed and pulled Miao out, bringing him back. He said, "You are incorrigible! Even in death you do not wake up—you are not fit to be a man! You had better go back and receive the axes and axes from Dongling." Miao, terrified, wept and bowed, acknowledging his fault. Jia then said, "Just now Dongling came, waiting for you to sign the bond, but you were out drinking and did not return, so he could not wait. I have already signed the bond and given him a thousand strings of cash to leave, with the remainder due by the end of the decade. When you return home, you must quickly prepare it, and at night in the open wilderness outside the village, call out my name and burn it—then this case will be closed." Miao obeyed all his instructions, and urged him to send him off. At the outskirts, Jia again warned, "You must not break your word—it will do no good to implicate me." Then he showed him the way home. By that time Miao had been lying stiff for three days. His family thought he had died of drink, but his breathing was faint as a fine thread. That day he revived, vomited violently, and brought up several pecks of black sediment, stinking intolerably. After the vomiting, sweat soaked his mattress and bedding, the stench wafting up no different from the vomit; only then did his body feel cool. He told his family of the strange events. Soon he felt pain and swelling at the places where he had been pierced; by the next day they had become sores, but fortunately they did not fester severely. In ten days he was able to walk with a staff. His family all urged him to pay the underworld debt. Miao calculated the expense—it would cost several pieces of silver, and he grew reluctant, saying, "Perhaps it was all a phantom vision from my drunkenness. And even if not, since he released me privately, how would he dare let the King know?" His family urged him, but he would not listen. Still, he was fearful in his heart and dared not indulge in drink again. His neighbors and kinsfolk all rejoiced at his reform and gradually joined him in moderate drinking. After more than a year, the underworld retribution faded from his mind, his ambition grew unrestrained, and his old habits began to sprout again. One day he drank at the home of a younger relative, again cursed his fellow drinkers, and the host expelled him, shutting the door and leaving. Miao made a racket for some time until his son learned of it and helped him home. Entering the room, he turned to the wall, knelt for a long time, and beat his own head repeatedly, saying, "I will repay your debt! I will repay your debt!" Having said this, he fell to the ground, and when they looked, his breath had already ceased.