Chapter 7

Volume Four Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume Five — Author: Pu Songling Volume Six → Marquis Yangwu Marquis Yangwu, Xue Lu by name, was a native of Xue Family Island in Jiao. His father, Elder Xue, was extremely poor and herded cattle for a village schoolmaster. The schoolmaster had some barren fields, and while Xue was herding there, he would often see snakes and hares fighting among the weeds. Finding this strange, he asked the owner for the land as a burial site, built a thatched hut, and took up residence there. Several years later, when his wife was about to give birth, a sudden rainstorm arrived. Just then, two regional commanders on a mission to inspect the coast happened to pass by and took shelter from the rain in his doorway. They saw crows and magpies gathering in swarms on the roof, each using its wings to cover the leaking spots, and found this remarkable. Soon the old man came out, and the commanders asked, "What were you just doing?" He told them about the birth. They asked what had been born, and he said, "A boy." The commanders were even more astonished and said, "This child is bound to be extremely noble! Otherwise, how could he have us two commanders guarding his doorstep?" They sighed in amazement and departed. When the marquis grew up, his face was grimy, his nose ran, and he was by no means bright. The Xue clan on the island had long been registered in the military rolls. That year, it fell to the old man's household to send one able-bodied man to garrison Liaoyang, and his eldest son was deeply worried about this. At that time, the marquis was eighteen. Because he was considered a simpleton, no one had arranged a marriage for him. Suddenly he said to his elder brother, "Brother, why all the fretting? Is it not because there's no one to send for garrison duty?" "Yes," said the brother. The marquis laughed and said, "If you are willing to give me your maidservant as a wife, I will take on this duty." The elder brother was delighted and immediately betrothed the maidservant to him. The marquis then took his wife and set out for the garrison post. After traveling barely a few dozen li, a sudden rainstorm descended. By the roadside was a precipitous cliff, and the couple ran and took shelter beneath it. After a short while, the rain stopped, and they resumed their journey. They had taken only a few steps when the cliff rock collapsed. From a distance, the local residents saw two tigers leap out, press close to the couple, and vanish. From that day on, the marquis became extraordinarily strong and robust, and his bearing was completely transformed. Later, through military merit, he was enfeoffed as Marquis Yangwu with hereditary title. During the Tianqi and Chongzhen reigns, the then reigning marquis passed away without a son, leaving only a posthumous child, so a collateral branch temporarily took over the title. In all hereditary noble households, whenever a consort became pregnant, it was reported to the court, and officials would send an elderly matron to attend and guard her until the birth. After more than a year, the lady gave birth to a daughter. After the delivery, her belly still stirred, and for fifteen years, with several matrons in succession, she finally gave birth to a son. The title should have been conferred upon the direct line. The collateral branch raised an uproar, claiming the child was not of Xue blood. The officials took all the matrons into custody and subjected them to all manner of torture and interrogation, yet they all gave the same testimony without dissent. The succession was thus settled. The Zhaocheng Tiger An old woman of Zhaocheng, over seventy years of age, had only one son. One day, he entered the mountains and was devoured by a tiger. The old woman was grief-stricken and nearly lost the will to live. Wailing and weeping, she brought her complaint before the magistrate. The magistrate laughed and said, "How can a tiger be brought to justice by official law?" The old woman wailed all the more, unable to restrain herself. The magistrate scolded her, but she showed no fear. Taking pity on her age, he could not bear to show his anger, so he promised to capture the tiger. The old woman knelt and refused to leave, insisting that she would not go until the arrest warrant was issued. The magistrate had no choice but to ask among his runners who could go. One constable named Li Neng, drunk, came forward and declared, "I can do it." He took the warrant, and only then did the old woman leave. When the constable sobered up, he regretted his words; but he assumed the magistrate's order was merely a pretense, a way to placate the old woman's harassment, so he paid it little heed and returned the warrant without acting. The magistrate was furious and said, "You said plainly that you could do it — how can you now go back on your word?" The constable, greatly embarrassed, requested that he be allowed to summon the hunters with the warrant. The magistrate consented. The constable gathered the hunters and had them lie in ambush in the mountains day and night, hoping to catch a tiger and thus fulfill his duty. After over a month, he had received several hundred strokes of the cane, suffering endless injustice and having nowhere to voice his grievance. He then went to the Eastern City Temple of Mount Tai, knelt in prayer, and wept aloud. Before long, a tiger came in from outside. The constable was terrified, fearing he would be devoured. But the tiger entered, paid him no attention at all, and crouched in the gateway. The constable prayed, "If you are the one who killed that son, then lower your head and submit to my binding." He then produced a rope, looped it around the tiger's neck, and the tiger flattened its ears and submitted to being bound. He led it to the yamen. The magistrate questioned the tiger, saying, "Did you devour that son?" The tiger nodded. The magistrate said, "Killers must die — that is the fixed law of old. Moreover, the old woman had only one son, and you killed him. In her remaining years, how is she to live? If you can act as her son, I will pardon you." The tiger nodded again. So the magistrate released the bonds and sent it away. The old woman was resentful that the magistrate had not killed the tiger to compensate for her son. But at dawn the next day, when she opened her door, there lay a dead deer. She sold its meat and hide to support herself. From then on, this became a regular occurrence; sometimes the tiger would bring gold or silk and drop it in her courtyard. The old woman thus grew well-off, and her support far exceeded what her son had provided. She secretly felt grateful to the tiger. When the tiger came, it would lie under the eaves all day without leaving. Man and beast lived peacefully together, without mutual suspicion. Several years later, the old woman died. The tiger came and roared in the hall. The old woman had saved enough to amply cover her burial, and her clansmen jointly interred her. The grave mound had just been completed when the tiger came bounding over, and all the guests fled. The tiger went straight to the grave, howled with a sound like rolling thunder, and stayed for some time before leaving. The locals built a "Righteous Tiger Shrine" east of the city, and it still stands to this day. The Mantis Catches the Snake A man named Zhang was walking through a mountain valley when he heard a fierce commotion from the cliff above. He found a path and climbed up to look. There he saw a huge snake as thick as a bowl, thrashing among the thickets, lashing its tail against a willow tree and snapping its branches. Its tumbling and writhing suggested that something was grasping and restraining it, yet upon close inspection he could see nothing at all, which greatly puzzled him. Drawing nearer to observe, he saw that a mantis was perched on top of its head, gripping it with its sickle-like forelegs, and the snake could not shake it off. After a long time, the snake finally died. Looking at its forehead, the skin and flesh had been split open. Martial Arts Li Chao, styled Kuiwu, was from the western border of Zi. He was bold and generous, fond of giving alms. Once a monk came begging for alms, and Li fed him well. The monk was deeply grateful and said, "I am from Shaolin. I have some modest skill and would like to teach it to you." Li was delighted and lodged the monk in a guest room, providing generously for him, and studied with him from morning to night. After three months, his skill had improved considerably, and he was quite pleased with himself. The monk asked, "Have you made progress?" "Yes," Li replied. "Whatever you can do, Master, I can now do it all." The monk smiled and told Li to demonstrate his skill. Li then stripped off his coat, spat on his palms, and moved about like an ape in flight and a bird alighting, leaping and turning for some time, then stood proudly, looking quite pleased with himself. The monk smiled again and said, "That will do. Since you have mastered all my skill, let us have a match to see who is superior." Delighted, Li crossed arms with the monk and assumed a stance. They parried and blocked each other, and Li frequently found openings in the monk's defense. Suddenly the monk kicked out, and Li was sent flying backward more than a zhang. The monk clapped his hands and said, "You have not yet mastered all my skill!" Li placed his palms on the ground, ashamed and disheartened, and begged for further instruction. After several more days, the monk took his leave. Li thereafter gained a martial reputation and traveled north and south, finding no equal. On one occasion he happened to be in Lixia, where he saw a young Buddhist nun performing martial arts in an arena, surrounded by a packed crowd. The nun announced to the spectators, "Performing alone is quite dull. If anyone is interested, feel free to step down and spar with me." She said this three times. The crowd exchanged glances, and no one answered. Li, standing nearby, felt his skill itching within him and stepped forward with great confidence. The nun smiled and joined her palms in greeting. The moment they crossed hands, the nun called a halt and said, "This is the Shaolin school." She then asked, "Who is your master?" Li initially did not answer. Pressed further, he told her about the monk. The nun made a slight bow and said, "Is Master Han your teacher? If so, there is no need to match fists — I am willing to yield." Li begged her repeatedly to spar, but the nun refused. The crowd urged her on, and at last she said, "Since you are a disciple of Master Han, we are both of the same craft, and a bout is harmless. But let us just test each other's intentions, nothing more." Li agreed. However, seeing how slight and delicate she was, he underestimated her; moreover, being young and fond of winning, he hoped to defeat her and gain a name for himself. They were just contending when the nun abruptly stopped. Li asked why, but she only smiled and said nothing. Li thought she was afraid and pressed her to continue. The nun then rose. In a moment, Li kicked out. The nun brought her five fingers together and chopped down at his thigh. Li felt as if a knife or axe had struck him below the knee, and he collapsed, unable to rise. The nun smiled and apologized, saying, "I was rash and offended you — please do not take it amiss!" Li was carried back and did not recover for over a month. More than a year later, the monk returned, and Li related what had happened. The monk was shocked and said, "You were far too reckless! Why provoke her? Fortunately, you told her my name first; otherwise, your leg would have been broken by now!" Little People During the Kangxi reign, there was a sorcerer who carried a box. In the box he kept a small man, about a foot tall. When money was thrown to him, he would open the box and make the small man come out, sing a tune, and then withdraw. When he came to Ye, the magistrate of Ye took the box into his office and carefully interrogated the small man about his origin. At first he dared not speak; but when pressed persistently, he finally told his native place and family. He was a young student who, on his way home from school, had been bewitched by the sorcerer, who then administered a drug that caused his limbs to shrink suddenly. The sorcerer then carried him about as a performing toy. The magistrate, enraged, killed the sorcerer. He kept the boy and wanted to cure him, but had not yet found the means. Qin Sheng Qin Sheng of Laizhou was making medicinal wine when he mistakenly put in a poisonous ingredient. Unwilling to throw it away, he sealed it and set it aside. After more than a year, one night he happened to feel like drinking, but had no wine at hand. Suddenly remembering the stored wine, he opened the seal and smelled it. A rich fragrance burst forth, making his guts itch and his mouth water, unstoppably. He took a cup and was about to taste it when his wife earnestly tried to dissuade him. Qin laughed and said, "To die quickly from drinking is far better than to die of craving and thirst." After finishing one cup, he tipped the bottle to pour another. His wife overturned the bottle, and the wine spilled all over the floor. Qin lay on the ground and drank like an ox. Shortly after, he had abdominal pains and locked jaws, and died at midnight. His wife wailed and wept, prepared a coffin, and was about to lay him in it. The next night, a beautiful woman suddenly entered, no more than three feet tall. She went straight to the bier, poured water from a bowl into his mouth, and he suddenly revived. He kowtowed and asked her who she was. She said, "I am a fox fairy. My husband had just gone to the Chen household to steal wine and died drunk. I went to save him and was returning when I happened to pass by your house. He took pity on you, sir, for suffering the same affliction, so he sent me to revive you with the leftover medicine." With that, she vanished. My friend, the tribute student Qiu Xingxian, was fond of drinking. One night he craved wine, but there was none to be bought, and he tossed and turned unable to bear it any longer. He thought of substituting vinegar. He discussed it with his wife, who scoffed at him. Qiu insisted, so she heated some vinegar and brought it to him. After he had finished the pot, he undressed and slept soundly. The next day, his wife took the money for a full pot of wine and sent a servant to buy some. On the way, the servant met Qiu's younger cousin Xiangchen, who, upon learning the reason, suspected that his sister-in-law was unwilling to procure wine for his brother. The servant said, "My mistress said, 'We don't have much vinegar at home; half of it was used last night. If another pot is consumed, the vinegar supply will be cut off.'" Those who heard this all laughed. But little do they know that when the craving for wine is at its peak, even poison is sweet, let alone vinegar? This story too may be passed on. Yatou Wang Wen, a scholar from Dongchang, was honest and sincere in his youth. While travelling lightly in Chu, he passed through Liuhe and rested at an inn. He strolled outside the gate and encountered a fellow townsman, Zhao Donglou, a great merchant who often stayed away for years at a time. Seeing Wang, Zhao greeted him warmly and invited him to his lodgings. When they arrived, there was a beauty sitting in the room, and Wang, startled, stepped back. Zhao pulled him in, and called through the window for the girl to leave, whereupon Wang entered. Zhao set out wine and food and exchanged pleasantries. Wang asked, "What place is this?" Zhao replied, "This is a small brothel. I have been away from home for a long time, so I am temporarily using this bed to sleep." During their conversation, the girl frequently came and went. Wang felt ill at ease and rose to take his leave. Zhao insisted that he stay seated. Soon, a young girl passed by outside the door. Catching sight of Wang, she cast repeated glances from her autumn-bright eyes, her brows and eyes full of feeling, her bearing graceful and charming—truly a celestial being. Wang, who had always been upright, now felt utterly lost. He asked, "Who is that beauty?" Zhao said, "She is the old woman's second daughter, her childhood name is Yatou, aged fourteen. Many patrons have tried to tempt the old woman with heavy gold, but the girl stubbornly refused, causing her mother to whip and beat her. The girl pleaded her youth and was granted reprieve; she is still awaiting a betrothal." Hearing this, Wang hung his head and sat in silent stupor, his responses all amiss. Zhao teased him, "If you have any inclination, I could act as matchmaker." Wang sighed, "I dare not entertain such a thought." Yet as the day wore on toward evening, he showed no sign of leaving. Zhao again teased him with the offer. Wang said, "I am deeply grateful for your kind intention, but my purse is thin—what can I do?" Zhao knew the girl was fierce and would certainly not agree, so he promised to contribute ten gold pieces to help. Wang thanked him and hurried out. He scraped together all his money and came back with five, which he urged Zhao to present to the old woman. The old woman indeed found it too little. Yatou said to her mother, "Mother, you daily reproach me for not being a money-tree. Now let me fulfil your wish. I am just learning to be a proper person; I shall repay you in due time. Do not let such a small amount make you let a money-god go." The old woman, knowing her daughter's stubbornness, was only too pleased that she agreed, so she consented and sent a maid to invite Wang. Zhao, unable to go back on his word, added more gold and handed it to the old woman. Wang and the girl were deeply enamoured with each other. Afterwards, she said to Wang, "I am of the lowly class of courtesans and not worthy to be your match. But since we have been so tenderly bound, our attachment is of the utmost importance. You have spent all your money to buy this one night of joy—what will you do tomorrow?" Wang wept in sorrow. The girl said, "Do not grieve. I am forced to remain in this life of dust and wind, which is not my wish. But I have never met anyone as steadfast and trustworthy as you. Let us flee by night." Wang was overjoyed and rose at once; the girl also rose. The watchman's drum had already sounded the third watch. The girl quickly changed into male attire, and they slipped out together in haste. They knocked at the innkeeper's door. Wang had originally come with two donkeys, and he made an excuse of urgent business and ordered his servant to start out immediately. The girl tied talismans to the servant's leg and to the donkeys' ears, then gave the reins free rein and galloped at top speed. They could not keep their eyes open; behind their ears they only heard the wind whistling. By dawn, they reached the mouth of the Han River, where they rented a house and settled down. Wang was astonished at her magic. The girl said, "If I tell you, will you not be afraid? I am not human—I am a fox. My mother is greedy and lewd, and I suffered daily abuse, with much pent-up resentment in my heart. Now I am fortunate to have escaped the sea of bitterness. Beyond a hundred li, she will not know where we are; we may remain safe." Wang had not the least doubt or suspicion, and said calmly, "With a bedmate like a lotus flower, yet with only bare walls at home, I truly cannot comfort myself; I fear I may eventually be cast off." The girl said, "Why worry about that? All market goods can be traded. With three or four mouths, even simple fare can sustain us. We can sell the donkeys for capital." Wang did as she said, and set up a small shop in front of the door, where he and the servant worked together, selling wine and ladling out drinks. The girl made shawls and embroidered sachets, and each day they earned a surplus, so their meals and drinks were quite good. After more than a year, they gradually could afford to keep maids and old women. From then on, Wang no longer wore the short working-clothes but only supervised. One day, the girl suddenly became sad and said, "Tonight there will be trouble—what shall we do?" Wang asked her what she meant. She said, "Mother has already learned of my whereabouts and will certainly come to bully us. If she sends my elder sister, I need not worry; but I fear she may come herself." When the night was deep, she congratulated herself, saying, "No matter—my elder sister has come." Before long, the girl Nizi burst in through the door. Yatou smiled and welcomed her. Nizi scolded, "Shameless girl, to elope and hide with a man! Mother has ordered me to bind you and take you back." She produced a rope and put it around Yatou's neck. Yatou angrily said, "What crime is it to follow one husband?" Nizi grew even more furious, seized Yatou and tore her collar. The maids and old women in the household all gathered. Nizi, frightened, ran out. Yatou said, "Sister has gone back, so Mother will surely come herself. The great calamity is not far off; we must quickly make plans." She hastily packed their belongings, preparing to move again. Suddenly the old woman slipped in, her face full of fury, and said, "I knew this wretch was insolent—I had to come myself!" Yatou knelt and wept pitifully, but the old woman said nothing and seized her by the hair and dragged her away. Wang paced about in grief and sorrow, unable to eat or sleep. He hurried to Liuhe, hoping to ransom her with money. But when he arrived, the gate and courtyard were the same, but the people were changed. When he asked the residents, none knew where they had moved. Mournfully he returned. He then dismissed his servant and took his remaining funds back east. Several years later, he happened to go to the capital of Yan. Passing by an orphanage, he saw a child of seven or eight. The servant thought the boy looked remarkably like his master, and stared at him repeatedly. Wang asked, "What are you looking at the child for?" The servant smiled and told him, and Wang also smiled. He looked closely at the child, who had a handsome and open bearing. Reflecting that he had no heir, and because the boy resembled him, he took a liking to him and ransomed him. He asked the boy his name, and he said he was called Wang Zi. Wang said, "You were abandoned as an infant—how do you know your surname?" The boy said, "My former teacher once said that when he found me, there were characters on my chest, which read 'Son of Wang Wen of Shandong.'" Wang was greatly startled and said, "I am Wang Wen—how could I have a son?" He thought it must be someone else with the same name. Secretly pleased, he cherished the boy. When they returned home, anyone who saw him knew without asking that he was Wang's son. As Wang Zi grew up, he became remarkably strong and fond of hunting, not engaging in productive work, delighting in fighting and killing. Wang could not control him. He also claimed to be able to see ghosts and foxes, but no one believed him. It happened that there was a fox plague in the village, and they invited Wang Zi to go and investigate. He went and pointed out the fox's hiding place, and had several people strike at the spot he indicated. Immediately they heard the fox cry, and fur and blood fell together. From then on the place was at peace. Thereupon people regarded him with even greater wonder. Wang was strolling through the market one day when he suddenly encountered Zhao Donglou, whose kerchief and robe were disheveled, and whose appearance was haggard and gaunt. Startled, he asked what had brought him there. Zhao looked miserable and begged for a private word. Wang then took him back home and ordered wine. Zhao said, "That old woman, after taking Yatou away, subjected her to every kind of cruel abuse. After moving north, she again tried to force her to change her resolve. The girl swore she would die rather than yield, so she was imprisoned. She bore a son, who was abandoned in a back alley; I hear he is in the foundling hall, and must have grown up by now. This is your own flesh and blood." Wang wept and said, "By heaven's grace, my wayward son has already returned to me." He then recounted the whole story from beginning to end. He asked, "How have you fallen to such straits?" Zhao sighed and said, "Now I understand that affections formed in the green mansions must not be taken too seriously. What more can I say!" Earlier, when the old woman moved north, Zhao had followed her, making his living as a peddler. Goods that were heavy and difficult to transport were all sold off at low prices. Along the way, the costs of porters and provisions were endless and exorbitant, causing him great losses. Nizi was especially extravagant in her demands. After several years, his ten thousand in gold was completely gone. When the old woman saw that all the money at hand was spent, she gave him the white of her eye day and night. Nizi gradually began staying overnight in the homes of wealthy clients, often gone for many nights at a time. Zhao was so inflamed with anger he could hardly bear it, yet there was nothing he could do. Just then, the old woman went out, and Yatou called to Zhao from her window, saying, "In these pleasure quarters there is no true affection; what binds people here is nothing but money. If you cling to this place and refuse to leave, you will bring down a strange disaster upon yourself." Zhao was terrified, as if waking from a dream. Before leaving, he stole in to see the girl. She gave him a letter to deliver to Wang, and Zhao then returned home. He now recounted all these circumstances to Wang. Then he produced Yatou's letter. The letter read: "I know that Zi'er is already at your knee. My trials and tribulations, Zhao Donglou can tell you in full. This is retribution for sins in a former life—what is there to say! I am confined in a dark chamber, with no light of sun or moon; the whip cuts my skin, the pangs of hunger sear my heart. Each passing of dawn and dusk feels like the passage of years. If you have not forgotten that snowy night on the Han River, when we shared a single quilt and kept each other warm in turn, then you should plot with our son, for he will surely be able to rescue me from this suffering. Though my mother and sister are cruel, they are still flesh and blood—only bid him not to injure them mortally, that is my wish." Wang read it, and could not stop his tears. He gave Zhao gold and silk and sent him off. At this time Zi was eighteen years old. Wang told him all that had happened, and showed him his mother's letter. Zi's eyes blazed with fury as if they would split. That very day he set out for the capital, and inquired where the old woman Wu lived. There he found carriages and horses filling the place. Zi strode straight in. Nizi was just drinking with some Lake客人, and when she caught sight of Zi, she stood frozen in shock, her face turning pale. Zi rushed forward and slew her. The guests were terror-stricken, thinking him a bandit. But when they looked at the girl's corpse, it had already turned into a fox. Zi held his blade and went straight in. He saw the old woman supervising a maid as she made soup. Zi dashed toward the door of the chamber, and the old woman suddenly vanished. Zi looked all around, then quickly drew an arrow and shot at the beam above. A fox fell, pierced through the heart. He then cut off its head. He next found his mother's place, threw stones to break the lock, and mother and son both cried out in anguish. His mother asked about the old woman, and he said, "I have already executed her." His mother reproached him, saying, "Son, why did you not heed my words!" She ordered him to take the body and bury it in the countryside. Zi pretended to agree, but instead skinned the fox and hid the pelt. He searched the old woman's boxes and trunks, rolled up all the gold and valuables, and brought them back to his mother. Husband and wife were reunited, their grief and joy mingled together. When she asked about the old woman Wu, Zi said, "She is in my bag." Startled, she asked further, and he produced two hides and presented them. His mother flew into a rage and cursed him, saying, "Disobedient child! How could you do such a thing!" She wept and wailed, beating herself, tossing and turning as if she wished to die. Wang did his utmost to soothe her, and ordered the boy to bury the hides. Zi said in anger, "Now that you have found a place of comfort, have you suddenly forgotten the beatings and torture?" His mother grew even more incensed and wept without ceasing. It was only after Zi buried the hides and reported back that she was somewhat appeased. From the time his wife returned, Wang's household grew ever more prosperous. He was deeply grateful to Zhao and rewarded him with a great sum of gold. Zhao then came to know that the mother and daughter were both foxes. Zi was most filial in serving his parents; yet if they inadvertently touched him the wrong way, he would let out fierce roars. His mother said to Wang, "The boy has stubborn sinews. If they are not cut away, he will eventually kill men and ruin the family." One night, while Zi slept, she stealthily bound his hands and feet. Zi woke and cried, "I have done nothing wrong." His mother said, "I am going to cure your violence; do not flinch from the pain." Zi screamed and struggled, but could not break free. His mother took a large needle and pierced the side of his ankle-bone to a depth of three or four fen, then used a knife to cut the sinew, which snapped with a loud crack. She did the same at his elbow and on his head. Then she released the bonds and patted him to make him lie still. At daybreak, he went to wait on his parents, weeping and saying, "All through the night and into the morning I have recalled my past deeds—they were hardly human!" His parents were overjoyed. From then on he became as gentle as a maiden, and the villagers all held him in high regard. The Historian of the Strange comments: "All courtesans are foxes, but one does not expect there to be a fox who is a courtesan; and when a fox becomes a madam, that is beast mingled with bird. To destroy principle and injure human relations—what is so strange about that? As for enduring a hundred torments and a thousand grindings, and remaining steadfast unto death—that is something even human beings find difficult, yet it is found in a fox! Emperor Taizong of Tang said that Wei Zheng was all the more charming for his sternness; I say the same of Yatou." --- The Wine Insect Liu of Changshan was stout of build and excessively fond of drink. Whenever he drank alone, he would empty an entire jar. Of his three hundred mu of fields near the city wall, he would plant half with glutinous millet; yet his family was wealthy and prosperous, so his drinking did not ruin him. A certain foreign monk saw him and said that he had a strange affliction. Liu replied, "I have none." The monk said, "Do you sometimes drink without getting drunk?" Liu said, "Yes." The monk said, "That is the wine insect." Liu was startled and begged for a cure. The monk said, "It is easy." Liu asked, "What medicine is needed?" The monk said none was required. He only had Liu lie prone in the sun at midday, with his hands and feet bound; about half a chi from his head, he placed a vessel of fine wine. After some time, Liu grew parched and thirsty, and his craving to drink was extreme. The fragrance of the wine entered his nose, his craving blazed like fire, yet he was bitterly unable to drink. Suddenly he felt an intense itch in his throat, and something came heaving out of his mouth, falling straight into the wine. When the bonds were undone, they looked at it: it was a piece of red flesh about three cun long, wriggling like a swimming fish, complete with mouth and eyes. Liu, astonished, thanked the monk. He offered him money, but the monk would not accept it; he only begged for the insect. Liu asked, "What will you use it for?" The monk said, "This is the essence of wine. If you fill a jar with water and drop this insect in, stirring it, it will become fine brew." Liu had him try it, and it was indeed so. From then on, Liu loathed wine as if it were an enemy. His body gradually grew thin, and his family daily grew poorer, until in the end he could not even provide himself with food and drink. The Historian of the Strange comments: "Drinking a full shi each day did not impair his wealth; but not drinking a single dou only served to increase his poverty—could it be that eating and drinking have their allotted measure? Some say: 'The insect was Liu's fortune, not Liu's affliction; the monk fooled him in order to achieve his own art.' Is that so, or not?" --- The Wooden Carved Beauty The merchant Bai Yougong said: "On the river at Luokou, I saw a man carrying a bamboo basket and leading two large dogs. From the basket he took out a wooden carved beauty, over a chi tall, with hands and eyes that moved, and painted in brilliant adornments as if alive. He also placed a small brocade saddle on one of the dogs, and made the figure mount it. When all was arranged, he shouted and made the dog run swiftly. The beauty rose by herself, and performed various equestrian feats: she hid her belly under the saddle, bent her waist backward, trailed her tail behind, knelt, bowed, stood up—all with nimble precision without error. He also performed 'Zhaojun Leaving the Pass': he took out another wooden figure, stuck pheasant tails on it, clad it in a sheepskin coat, and had it mount a dog to follow. Zhaojun kept turning her head to look back, while the sheepskin-clad figure cracked its whip and chased after her, truly as if they were alive." --- Feng Sanniang Fan Shiyi Niang was the daughter of the Jijiu of the city. She was beautiful and talented in poetry and prose. Her parents doted on her, and whenever suitors came, they would let her choose; she often found few acceptable. On the Shangyuan Festival, the nuns at the Shuiyue Temple held a Yulanpen Assembly. That day, throngs of women gathered like clouds, and she also went. As she was wandering about, a young woman followed closely, repeatedly glancing at her, as if wanting to speak. Looking closely, she was a peerless beauty of about sixteen. Fan was pleased and took a liking to her, turning to gaze at her. The young woman smiled and said, "Are you not Fan Shiyi Niang?" She answered, "Yes." The woman said, "I have long heard of your fragrant name; people's words indeed are not false." Shiyi Niang also asked where she lived. The woman replied, "I am of the Feng family, the third daughter, and I live nearby in a neighboring village." They held arms and laughed happily, her speech gentle and warm; they grew deeply fond of each other, reluctant to part. Shiyi Niang asked, "Why do you have no companion?" She said, "My parents died early; at home there is only an old woman who guards the gate, so I could not come." When Shiyi Niang was about to return, Feng stared with tears in her eyes, and Shiyi Niang was also sad, so she invited her to visit. Feng said, "You are of a noble family; I have no connection by blood, and I fear being mocked." Shiyi Niang insisted. She answered, "Let us wait for another day." Shiyi Niang then took off a gold hairpin and gave it to her; Feng also took a green hairpin from her topknot and gave it in return. After Shiyi Niang returned, she missed her greatly. She took out the gifted hairpin; it was neither gold nor jade, and none of her family recognized it, which surprised them. She daily hoped for her arrival, and became sick with melancholy. Her parents learned the reason and sent someone to inquire in the neighboring villages, but no one knew her. At the time of the Chongyang Festival, Shiyi Niang was weak and listless; she had her maidservant help her to the garden, and they spread a mat under the eastern hedge. Suddenly a woman climbed over the wall to peer in; looking, it was Feng. She called, "Help me down?" The maidservant did so, and she came down abruptly. Shiyi Niang was overjoyed and immediately rose, pulled her to sit on the mat, reproached her for breaking her promise, and asked where she had come from. She replied, "My home is far from here; I often come to my uncle's house to play. What I said about a neighboring village was because of my uncle's home. After parting, I missed you terribly; but a poor person interacting with a noble one, before even setting foot in the door, already feels shame and fear of being looked down upon by servants and maids, so I did not come. Just now, passing by outside the wall, I heard girls' voices, so I climbed to look, hoping it might be you, and now indeed my wish is fulfilled." Shiyi Niang then told her the cause of her illness. Feng wept like rain, and said, "My coming must be kept secret. Those who make up stories will spread gossip, which I cannot bear." Shiyi Niang agreed. They went back together and slept in the same bed, pouring out their hearts. Her illness soon recovered. They swore to be sisters, and they often exchanged clothes and shoes. When people came, they would hide behind the curtains. After five or six months, her father and mother heard something about it. One day, the two were playing chess when the lady of the house entered unexpectedly. She looked closely and said in surprise, "She is truly my daughter's friend!" Then she said to Shiyi Niang, "Having a good friend in the inner chambers is a joy to both of us; why did you not tell us earlier?" Shiyi Niang then explained Feng's intentions. The lady turned to her and said, "Keeping my daughter company is most comforting to me; why hide it?" Feng blushed deeply and silently fiddled with her girdle. After the lady left, Feng said she would take her leave. Shiyi Niang begged her to stay, so she remained. One evening, Feng rushed in from outside, weeping, and said, "I knew I should not stay; now I have suffered this great humiliation!" Shiyi Niang asked in alarm. Feng said, "Just now I went out to relieve myself, and a young man came rudely to molest me; I barely escaped. How can I show my face now?" Shiyi Niang asked in detail about his appearance and then apologized, saying, "Do not be angry; that is my foolish elder brother. I will tell my mother and have him caned." Feng firmly insisted on leaving. Shiyi Niang asked her to wait until dawn. Feng said, "My uncle's house is nearby; I only need a ladder to get over the wall." Shiyi Niang knew she could not keep her, so she had two maids help her over the wall and escort her. After walking about half a li, Feng thanked them and went on alone. The maids returned, and Shiyi Niang lay on the bed grieving, as if she had lost her husband. Several months later, a maid went to the eastern village on some business and on her way back at dusk met Feng coming with an old woman. The maid was delighted and bowed to ask after her. Feng also looked sad and asked about Shiyi Niang's health. The maid took her sleeve and said, "Third Miss, please come to us. Our young lady longs for you to death!" Feng said, "I also miss her, but I do not want my family to know. Go back and open the garden gate; I will come myself." The maid returned and told Shiyi Niang; she was overjoyed and did as she said, and Feng was already in the garden. When they met, they each told of their separation and talked on and on without sleeping. Seeing that the maids were sound asleep, Feng rose and moved to share the pillow with Shiyi Niang, whispering, "I knew you were not yet betrothed. With your talent, beauty, and family status, you need not worry about getting a noble husband; but those foppish sons are not worth counting. If you want a good match, do not judge by wealth or poverty." Shiyi Niang agreed. Feng said, "At the place where we met last year, they will again hold a ceremony tomorrow; I ask you to go once more, and I will have you see a suitable gentleman. In my youth I read books on physiognomy, and I am fairly accurate." At dawn, Feng left, having agreed to wait at the temple. Shiyi Niang indeed went, and Feng was already there. After looking around for a while, Eleventh Lady invited her to share the carriage. Hand in hand they went out the gate and saw a young scholar, about seventeen or eighteen, in an unadorned cloth robe, but with a handsome and imposing bearing. Feng whispered, pointing: "This is a man of Hanlin talent." Eleventh Lady cast a brief glance at him. Feng took leave, saying: "Lady, return first; I shall follow shortly." At dusk, she indeed arrived and said: "I have just made a very careful inquiry; that man is Meng Anren from our same neighborhood." Eleventh Lady knew he was poor and did not think him suitable. Feng said: "Lady, why do you also sink into worldly views! If this man were to remain forever poor and lowly, I would pluck out my own eyes and never again appraise the scholars of the realm." Eleventh Lady said: "But what is to be done?" Feng replied: "I wish to obtain some token to take and pledge with him." Eleventh Lady said: "Sister, why so hasty! With parents alive, if things do not go as we wish, what then?" Feng said: "My doing this is precisely because I fear it may not go as we wish. If one's will is firm, how can life or death take it away?" Eleventh Lady absolutely would not agree. Feng said: "The lady's marriage fate has already stirred, but the demonic calamity has not yet dissolved. For that reason, I have come to repay our former good ties. Let me take leave now, and I will take the golden phoenix hairpin you gave me and, under false orders, present it to him." While Eleventh Lady was still planning to discuss further, Feng had already gone out the gate. At that time, Meng was poor but highly talented, and had intended to choose a match, so at eighteen he had still not been betrothed. That day, he suddenly caught sight of the two beauties and returned home lost in deep thought. As the first watch was drawing to a close, Feng Sanniang knocked at his door and entered. By lamplight, he recognized her as the one he had seen that day. Delighted, he eagerly questioned her. She said: "I am Miss Feng, the companion of Fan Shiyi Niang." The scholar was overjoyed and, without taking time to examine closely, immediately rushed forward to embrace her. Feng refused him, saying: "I am not Mao Sui, but Cao Qiusheng. Eleventh Lady wishes to form a lasting union; pray engage a matchmaker." The scholar was astonished and did not believe her. Feng then showed him the hairpin. The scholar was beside himself with joy and swore: "With such regard for me, if I cannot have Eleventh Lady, I would rather remain a bachelor all my life." Feng then left. The next morning, the scholar prevailed upon a neighboring old woman to go to Madam Fan. Madam Fan, looking down on his poverty, did not even consult her daughter and immediately refused. When Eleventh Lady learned of this, her heart fell in disappointment, and she deeply resented Feng for having misled her; but since the golden hairpin could not be retrieved, she could only vow to die over it. A few days later, a certain gentleman of rank sought a match for his son and, fearing it might not succeed, prevailed upon the county magistrate to act as go-between. At that time this gentleman held powerful influence, and Master Fan was afraid of him. He consulted Eleventh Lady, but she was unhappy. Her mother questioned her; she remained silent, only shedding tears. She secretly sent someone to tell her mother: "If not Meng Sheng, I will die rather than marry!" When her father heard this, he grew even angrier and actually consented to the gentleman's family. Moreover, suspecting that Eleventh Lady had private feelings for the scholar, he selected an auspicious day and hurried the wedding. Eleventh Lady, in anger, would not eat and only lay about all day. On the eve of the bride-groom's coming to fetch her, she suddenly rose, took up her mirror, and adorned herself. Her mother secretly rejoiced. Soon a maidservant rushed in and announced: "The young lady has hanged herself!" The whole household was shocked and wept, and their grief and regret were beyond remedy. After three days, she was buried. When Meng Sheng received the old neighbor's report, his rage and grief nearly drove him to despair. Yet he made distant inquiries, vainly hoping to reverse matters. When he learned that the fair one was already betrothed to another, the fire of anger burned within him, and all his hopes were cut off. Before long, he heard that her jade body had been buried and her fragrance interred; he was stricken with sorrow and mourned, wishing he could die with the beauty. Toward evening he went out, intending to weep at Eleventh Lady's grave under cover of night. Suddenly a person came; as she drew near, it was Feng Sanniang. She said to him: "Congratulations—the marriage can now be arranged." Meng shed tears and said: "Do you not know that Eleventh Lady is dead?" Feng said: "What I mean by 'arranged' is precisely because she is dead. Quickly summon your household to open the grave; I have a special medicine that can bring her back." The scholar followed her instructions: they opened the grave, broke open the coffin, and then resealed the pit. The scholar carried the body on his back and returned with Sanniang; they placed it on a bed, administered the medicine, and after a while she revived. Looking around, she saw Sanniang and asked: "Where is this?" Feng pointed to the scholar and said: "This is Meng Anren." She then told her the whole story, and she seemed to wake from a dream. Feng feared disclosure, so they went together fifty li away and took refuge in a mountain village. Feng wished to take leave, but Eleventh Lady tearfully begged her to stay as a companion and had her live in a separate courtyard. They sold the funerary ornaments to use for expenses, and so they had a modest livelihood. Whenever Meng came, Feng would always evade him. Eleventh Lady said calmly: "We sisters are no less than flesh and bone, but after all we cannot be together for a hundred years. I think it would be better to emulate the Ying and Huang sisters." Feng said: "In my youth I obtained a unique art; through breath control I can attain longevity, so I have no wish to marry." Eleventh Lady laughed: "The world's books on the art of nourishing life fill whole buildings, but who has ever practiced them with success?" Feng said: "What I have obtained is not known to others. What is transmitted in the world is not the true method; only Hua Tuo's 'Five Animals Play' is somewhat reliable. All cultivators simply wish to make the blood and qi flow freely. If one gets an attack of choking hiccups, doing the tiger posture stops it immediately—is that not proof?" Eleventh Lady secretly plotted with Meng; she made him pretend to be away on a distant trip. At night, she strongly urged Feng to drink; when she was drunk, Meng secretly entered and defiled her. When Sanniang woke, she said: "Little sister has harmed me! If this precept of lust had not been broken, when my cultivation was complete I would have ascended to the highest heaven. Now I have fallen into your crafty scheme—it is fate!" She then rose to take leave. Eleventh Lady told her sincerely of her feelings and apologized with tears. Feng said: "To tell you the truth: I am a fox. Because I gazed upon your beautiful countenance, I suddenly conceived love, like a silkworm wrapping itself in its own thread, and so I have come to this day. This is the calamity of the demon of passion, not a matter of human effort. If I stay longer, the demon will be reborn, and there will be no end to it. The lady's good fortune lies far ahead; take care of yourself." Having said this, she vanished. The husband and wife sighed in wonder for a long time. The following year, Meng indeed passed the provincial and metropolitan examinations and became a Hanlin academician. He sent his visiting card to call on Master Fan, who, ashamed and regretful, would not see him. Only after repeated requests did he grant an audience. When Meng entered, he performed the rites of a son-in-law and prostrated himself with great respect. Master Fan, ashamed and angry, suspected Meng of being frivolous and shallow. Meng asked for a private audience and told him the whole story. Master Fan did not fully believe it; he sent someone to investigate at their home, and only then was he greatly surprised and delighted. He secretly warned them not to divulge it, fearing calamity. Two years later, that gentleman was exposed for using influence through connections, and he and his son were sent to garrison the Liaohai army; only then did Eleventh Lady return to her parents' home. Fox Dream My friend Bi Yian was unrestrained and extraordinary, standing out from the common crowd, and took delight in his bold and free-spirited nature. He was stout and plump, with a heavy beard. He was well known among the scholarly circle. Once, for some reason, he went to the country villa of his uncle, Prefect Shi, and rested in an upper chamber. It was said that the building had long been haunted by foxes. Bi would often read the tale of Qingfeng, his heart always drawn to it, regretting only that he had never encountered one. So in that upper chamber he concentrated his thoughts in deep meditation. Afterward he returned to his study, and the day was already growing dusk. It was summertime, sultry and hot, so he lay down to sleep by the door. While sleeping, someone shook him. He woke and looked back—it was a woman, past forty, yet still retaining an elegant charm. Startled, Bi rose and asked who she was. She laughed and said, "I am a fox. I was touched that you had me in mind, and I am secretly grateful." Bi was delighted and teased her with playful banter. The woman laughed and said, "I am past my prime; even if people do not find me offensive, I myself feel ashamed. I have a young daughter who has just reached marriageable age; she can attend to your toilet and comb. Tomorrow night, do not leave anyone else in the room, and she will come." Having said this, she departed. At nightfall, he burned incense and sat waiting. The woman indeed brought her daughter. Her bearing was graceful and gentle, unmatched in the world. The woman said to her daughter, "Mr. Bi has a predestined affinity with you; you must stay here now. Return early tomorrow morning, do not oversleep." Bi took her hand and led her behind the bed curtains, and they were most intimately affectionate. When it was over, she laughed and said, "You fat fellow—so heavy and dull, one can hardly bear it!" Before dawn she left. At dusk she came again of her own accord, saying, "My sisters will hold a celebration for my new husband; tomorrow I invite you to come along." He asked, "Where?" She said, "My eldest sister is hosting the feast; it is not far from here." Bi indeed waited for her. After a long while she did not come, and he grew weary and drowsy. He had just laid his head on the desk when the girl suddenly entered and said, "I have kept you waiting long." Then she took his hand and they went together. In a flash they arrived at a large courtyard. They went straight up to the main hall, where they saw lamps and candles shining brightly, sparkling like stars. Soon the hostess arrived, about twenty years old, lightly made-up and exquisitely beautiful. She made a curtsey and offered her congratulations; then, as they were about to take their seats, a maidservant entered and announced, "The Second Lady has come." They saw a young woman enter, about eighteen or nineteen, who said with a smile to the girl, "Little sister has already had her melon broken. Is the new groom to your liking?" The girl struck her on the back with her fan and gave her a sidelong glare. The Second Lady said, "I remember when we were children and wrestled in play; you were afraid of having your ribs tickled, and I would tease you by wiggling my fingers from afar, and you would laugh uncontrollably. Then you would get angry with me, saying I was fit to marry the little prince of the Jiaoyao kingdom. I said that you, little wench, would one day marry a bearded fellow who would prick your little lips—and now it has come true!" The Eldest Lady laughed and said, "No wonder Third Sister is so angry and curses you! The groom is right here, and you still act so impudently!" After a while, they drew the wine cups together, sat close, and feasted with great merriment. Suddenly a young girl entered carrying a cat; she was about eleven or twelve, still a budding child, yet her charm was deep and captivating. The Eldest Lady said, "Little Fourth Sister also wants to see her brother-in-law? There is no place for you to sit." She then lifted her onto her knee, taking dishes and fruits to feed her. After some time, she placed her in the Second Lady's arms, saying, "You are pressing my legs sore!" The Second Sister said, "This little maid is so big, weighing like a hundred catties—I am frail and cannot bear it. Since she wants to see her brother-in-law, and he is sturdy and strong, his fat knees can well bear her weight." So she took her and put her into Bi's lap. In his arms she was fragrant and soft, light as if no one were there. Bi held her and drank from the same cup. The Eldest Lady said, "Little maid, do not drink too much; if you get drunk and lose your composure, you will make your brother-in-law laugh." The young girl beamed with smiles, playing with the cat in her hands, which gave a sharp mew. The Eldest Lady said, "Still haven't thrown it away? It will bring fleas and lice!" The Second Lady said, "Let us use the cat as the drinking rule; pass the chopsticks around, and whoever holds them when it mews shall drink." They all followed her instruction. When it came to Bi, the cat always mewed. Bi was naturally a heavy drinker, and he downed several goblets in succession. Then he realized that the little girl was deliberately making it mew, and they all burst into loud laughter. The Second Sister said, "Little sister, go to rest! You will crush the poor gentleman to death, and Third Sister will blame us." The little girl then took the cat and left. The Eldest Sister, seeing that Bi was a good drinker, took off her hairpin ornament and filled it with wine to offer him. The ornament looked like it could hold only a pint, but when he drank from it, he felt it contained several bushels. When he drained it and looked, it turned out to be a lotus leaf. The Second Lady also wanted to toast him. Bi declined, saying he could not hold any more wine. The Second Lady produced a small rouge box, larger than a pellet, and pouring from it said, "Since you cannot hold wine, let this at least convey my good will." Bi looked at it—he could drain it in one gulp; but he took a hundred gulps and still it was never empty. The girl beside him took a small lotus cup and replaced the box, saying, "Do not be fooled by that trickster." She set the box on the table, and it turned into a huge bowl. The Second Lady said, "What business is it of yours? After only three days as a wife, you are already so doting!" Bi raised the cup to his mouth and emptied it at once. He felt it was soft and smooth; examining it, it was not a cup but a tiny embroidered shoe, exquisitely made. The Second Lady snatched it and scolded, "Crafty wench! When did you steal my shoe? No wonder my feet feel cold and icy!" She then rose and went into the inner room to change her footwear. The girl then drew Bi away from the feast to take their leave. She saw him out of the village and told him to go back alone. Suddenly he awoke with a start—it had all been a dream; yet his nose and mouth were fragrant with wine, the smell still strong, and he wondered at it. At dusk, the girl came and said, "Last night, did you not drink yourself to death?" Bi said, "I was just wondering if it was a dream." The girl said, "My sisters were afraid of your wild talk, so they pretended it was a dream; in truth, it was no dream." The girl often played chess with Bi, and Bi always lost. She laughed and said, "You are so fond of this game every day—I thought you must be a great player; but now I see you are only mediocre." Bi asked for her guidance. She said, "The art of chess lies in one's own enlightenment; how can I improve you? If you practice it daily, perhaps you will become different." After several months, Bi felt he had improved somewhat. The girl tested him and laughed, saying, "Still not, still not." Bi went out to play with those he used to play with, and they all noticed a change in him, finding it remarkable. Bi was frank and straightforward, keeping nothing in his heart, and he let slip a little of the matter. The girl already knew, and reproached him, saying, "No wonder those of our kind do not associate with wild scholars! I have repeatedly told you to be discreet—why are you still like this?" Angry, she made as if to leave. Bi apologized hurriedly and profusely, and she was somewhat mollified; but from then on, her visits grew rarer. After more than a year, one evening she came, sat facing him in silence. He offered to play chess—she would not play; he offered to share the bed—she would not stay. After a long while of dejection, she said, "How do you think I compare to Qingfeng?" He said, "You surpass her." She said, "I am ashamed to say I am not her equal. But since Liaozhai is your literary friend, I beg you to trouble him to write a short biography for me—perhaps a thousand years hence there may be one who loves and remembers me as you do." Bi said, "I have long had that intention; but previously I followed your instruction and kept it secret." She said, "I gave that instruction before; now that we are about to part, what is there to hide?" He asked, "Where are you going?" She said, "I and Fourth Sister have been summoned by Xi Wangmu to serve as envoys of flowers and birds, and we shall not be able to come back. There was an elder sister of ours who, when parting from your uncle and elder brother, had already borne two daughters, who are still not yet married; fortunately, I have left you with no such burden." Bi asked her to give him a parting admonition. She said, "When your arrogance is subdued, your faults will naturally be few." Then she rose, took his hand, and said, "You may see me off." When they had gone about a li, she wiped away tears and parted from him, saying, "If both of us are of like mind, perhaps there will be a day of reunion." Then she left. On the nineteenth day of the twelfth month in the twenty-first year of the Kangxi reign, Mr. Bi and I slept together in the same room at Chuoran Hall, and he recounted these strange events in detail. I said, "If there is a fox like this, then the brush and ink of Liaozhai are indeed honored." So I recorded it. The Cloth Merchant A Certain Man of Changqing A certain man of Changqing, who made his living by selling cloth, traveled as a merchant to Tai'an. He heard that there was a skilled man who practiced the art of astrology and fate-calculation, so he called on him to inquire about his fortune. The skilled man cast his horoscope and said, "Your fate is very inauspicious; you should return home quickly." The man became frightened, packed his money, and went north. On the way he met a man in short clothes, who seemed to be a yamen clerk. Gradually he engaged him in conversation, and they became acquainted and pleased with each other. He often bought food and drink and invited the clerk to share them. The clerk felt very grateful. The man asked what business he was on. The clerk replied, "I am going to Changqing to make an arrest." Asked for whom, the clerk produced a warrant and showed it to him for his own inspection; the first name on it was his own. Startled, he said, "Why am I summoned?" The clerk said, "I am not a living person, but a clerk of the Fourth Department of the Eastern Mount Haoli in the underworld. It seems your allotted lifespan is exhausted." The man wept and begged for help. The ghost said, "I cannot. However, there are many names on the warrant, and it will still take some time to gather them all. You should hurry home and settle your affairs; I will summon you last. This is how I repay your friendship." Soon they reached the riverbank, where the bridge was broken, making crossing difficult for travelers. The ghost said, "You are about to die, and you will not take a single coin with you. Please build a bridge here to benefit travelers; though it will cost you considerably, it may not be without some small benefit to you." The man agreed. He returned home, told his wife and children to prepare his burial things. He set a date and gathered workmen to build the bridge. After a long time, the ghost still did not come. He secretly wondered about it. One day, the ghost suddenly arrived and said, "I have already reported the bridge-building to the City God, who relayed it to the netherworld office; they say this one deed can extend your lifespan. Now your name has been removed from the warrant, so I respectfully come to report." The man was delighted and thanked him. Later, when he went to Tai'an again, he did not forget the ghost's kindness, and respectfully brought paper ingots, called out the ghost's name, and poured a libation. As he came out, he saw the short-clothed man hurriedly approaching and saying, "You nearly brought disaster upon me! Just now the Lord of the office was handling affairs; fortunately he did not hear of it. Otherwise, what could I have done?" He escorted him a few paces and said, "Do not come again hereafter. If you have business going north, you should take a detour to visit me." Then they parted and went away. The Farmer There was a farmer who was weeding at the foot of a mountain; his wife brought him food in a earthenware vessel. After he ate, he placed the vessel beside the ridge. When he looked toward evening, the remaining porridge in the vessel was all empty. This happened repeatedly. He became suspicious, so he watched closely out of the corner of his eye. A fox came and stuck its head into the vessel. The farmer took his hoe and crept up silently, striking it with all his might. The fox, startled, fled. But the vessel stuck on its head, and it struggled in vain to get free; the fox stumbled, knocked the vessel broken, and got its head out. Seeing the farmer, it fled even faster and ran over the mountain. Several years later, a daughter of a noble family south of the mountain suffered greatly from fox harassment; exorcism charms were of no avail. The fox said to the girl, "What can paper talismans and spells do to me?" The girl deceived it, saying, "Your magical arts are indeed profound; I am fortunate to have your lasting affection. But I wonder if there is anything you fear in your life?" The fox said, "I fear nothing. But ten years ago, when I was at the North Mountain, I once stole food from a field, and a man wearing a broad-brimmed bamboo hat and carrying a curved-handled weapon nearly killed me; even now I still tremble at the memory." The girl told her father. Her father thought of employing the thing it feared, but he did not know the man's name or residence, and there was no way to inquire. It happened that a servant went to a mountain village on business and casually mentioned this. A bystander exclaimed in surprise, "This exactly matches an event I encountered years ago; could it be that the fox I chased then is now able to work mischief?" The servant was astonished, returned, and told his master. The master was delighted, and at once ordered the servant to fetch the farmer on horseback, and respectfully told him what was wanted. The farmer laughed and said, "It is true that I encountered something like that in the past, but it is not necessarily this creature; and since it can transform and play tricks, how could it still fear a farmer?" The noble family insisted, making him dress and wear a hat as he had done that day, then enter the room, plant his hoe on the ground, and shout, "I have been looking for you day and night but could not find you, and here you are hiding in this place! Now that we meet, I will certainly kill you without mercy!" As soon as he finished speaking, the fox was heard crying inside the room. The farmer made his manner even more fierce and angry. The fox then pleaded piteously for its life. The farmer shouted, "Go quickly! I'll spare you." The girl saw the fox scurry away with its head down like a rat, and from then on she was safe. Zhang Aduan Weihui’s Qi Sheng, a cultivated young man of reserve and spirit, was bold and willing to take responsibility. At that time a great clan had a large mansion where ghosts appeared in broad daylight, and deaths followed one after another, so they wished to sell it cheaply. Sheng, finding the price low, bought it and moved in. But the house was vast and thinly peopled; in the eastern courtyard’s pavilions and kiosks, mugwort and brambles grew into a forest, which he left abandoned for the time. The household servants started in fright at night, constantly raising clamour about ghosts. Within two months, they lost a maidservant. Before long, Sheng’s wife went to the pavilion one evening; after returning, she fell ill and in a few days died. The household grew more terrified and urged Sheng to move elsewhere. Sheng would not listen. Yet he remained alone without a mate, grieving and desolate. The servants and maids also kept pestering him with strange occurrences. Angered, Sheng in a fury wrapped up his bedroll and lay alone in the desolate pavilion, keeping a candle lit to observe any strangeness. After a long while nothing happened, and he finally fell asleep. Suddenly someone reached a hand into his quilt and felt about repeatedly. Sheng woke and looked—it was an old serving-woman, with twisted ears and dishevelled hair, grossly corpulent. Knowing she was a ghost, he seized her arm and pushed her away, laughing, “Your noble appearance is unfit for instruction!” The old servant, ashamed, withdrew her hands and shuffled off. Shortly after, a young lady emerged from the northwest corner, with a charming and delicate expression; she boldly came up to the lamp and angrily cursed, “What mad fellow is this, who dares to lie here so loftily?” Sheng rose and laughed, “This young student is the master of this mansion; I am waiting for you to pay your house-rent.” Then he stood up, naked, and seized her. The girl hurriedly fled. Sheng first ran to the northwest corner to block her way back. The girl, having no way out, sat down on the bed. He drew near and looked at her by the candlelight—she was like an immortal; gradually he embraced her. The girl laughed, “Madman, are you not afraid of ghosts? I will bring you to your death!” Sheng forcibly undid her skirt and jacket, and she did not resist very much. Afterwards she explained herself: “I am of the Zhang clan, my personal name is Aduan. I was unfortunately married to a wanton man, obstinate and unkind; he heaped abuses upon me, and I died of chagrin and depression, buried here for over twenty years. Under this house are all graves.” He asked, “Who is that old servant?” She replied, “She is also a former ghost, serving me. When living people dwell above, ghosts are restless in their night-quarters; I just sent her to drive you away.” He asked, “What was she feeling about for?” She laughed, “That servant has not known the way of man for thirty years; her condition is pitiable, but she is also too unself-aware. In short: the timid and fearful are more bullied by ghosts; the resolute are not dared to be offended.” Hearing the neighbouring bells finish their chime, she dressed and got off the bed, saying, “If you do not distrust me, I will come again at night.” At nightfall she indeed came, and their intimacy grew even more joyful. Sheng said, “My wife unfortunately passed away; I am grieved and cannot forget her. Can you bring her to me?” The girl, hearing this, grew more sorrowful, saying, “I have been dead twenty years—who has ever thought of me? You are indeed tender-hearted; I will do my utmost. But I hear she is already assigned to be reborn; I do not know if she is still in the underworld.” The next evening she told Sheng, “Your lady is to be born into a noble family. But because in her former life she lost an earring and struck a maid, who hanged herself, that case is not yet settled, hence the delay. She is now lodged in the corridor of the Medicine King, with guards. I sent my servant to bribe them; perhaps she may come.” Sheng asked, “Why are you so at leisure?” She said, “All ghosts who die unjustly do not present themselves; the Heavenly King Yama does not know of them.” Near the end of the second watch, the old servant indeed led Sheng’s wife in. Sheng grasped her hand and wept bitterly. His wife, with tears, could not speak. The lady took her leave, saying, “You two may talk of old times; I will see you another night.” Sheng consoled and asked about the maid’s death. His wife said, “It is nothing; it will soon be settled.” They got into bed and embraced, with all the tenderness of their former happiness. From then on this became their regular practice. After five days, his wife suddenly wept, saying, “Tomorrow I must go to Shandong; the separation will be long and bitter—what can I do?” Sheng, hearing this, shed tears in streams, unable to bear his grief. The lady urged, “I have a plan that may let you be together for a while.” They both dried their tears and asked her. The lady asked for ten strings of paper money, to be burned under the apricot tree in the southern hall, to bribe the officer in charge of her rebirth, so that he would delay the term. Sheng did as she said. That evening his wife came and said, “Thanks to Duan-niang, I now have ten days’ reprieve.” Sheng was delighted, and begged the lady not to leave, keeping her to share their bed; from dusk till dawn they feared only that their joy would end. After seven or eight days, Sheng, as the deadline approached, wept with his wife all night. They asked the lady for a plan. She said, “It is hard to scheme again. But let me try; nothing less than a million nether-coins will do.” Sheng burned that amount. The lady came and said joyfully, “I sent someone to negotiate with the rebirth officer; at first it was very difficult, but when he saw the large sum, his heart began to waver. Now he has substituted another ghost in your wife’s place.” From then on she did not leave even in daytime; she had Sheng block the doors and windows, and kept lamps burning without cease. Thus passed over a year, when the lady suddenly fell ill with dizziness and confusion, morose and dazed, as if seeing ghosts. His wife soothed her, saying, “This is a ghost-sickness.” Sheng said, “Duan-niang is already a ghost—what ghost could make her ill?” His wife said, “Not so. When a person dies, they become a ghost; when a ghost dies, it becomes a jian. Ghosts fear jian just as people fear ghosts.” Sheng wanted to hire a shaman-doctor. She said, “How can a ghost be treated by a human? The old woman Wang next door now practices her arts in the underworld; we can summon her. But she is more than ten li away; my feet are too weak to go, so please burn a straw horse for me.” Sheng obeyed. As soon as the horse was set alight, they saw a maidservant leading a red stallion and handing the reins in the courtyard; in an instant it vanished. After a short while, she came riding double with an old crone; they tied the horse to a pillar in the corridor. The crone entered, pressed the lady’s ten fingers. Then she sat upright, tossing her head and making gestures. She fell to the ground for a time, then sprang up and declared, “I am the Great King of Black Mountain. This lady’s illness is very grave; fortunately she has met this minor deity—no small fortune! It is the mischief of a karmic ghost; no matter, no matter! But once her illness is cured, you must give me generous offerings: a hundred gold ingots, a hundred strings of cash, and a grand banquet—not a single item may be lacking.” His wife shouted her assent to each. The crone fell down again and revived, then scolded the sick one and stopped. Then she wished to leave. His wife saw her out into the courtyard, presented her with the horse, and she departed joyfully. They went in and looked at the young lady; she seemed somewhat clearer. Husband and wife were greatly pleased and stroked her, asking how she felt. The lady suddenly said, “I fear I shall never tread the human world again. Whenever I close my eyes I see the wronged ghost—it is fate!” And she wept. The next night her illness grew more serious; she curled up and trembled, as if seeing something. She pulled Sheng to lie beside her, burying her head in his bosom, as if afraid of being seized. If Sheng so much as stirred, she shrieked in terror. For six or seven days thus, husband and wife could think of no way. It happened that Sheng went out, and returned after half a day to hear his wife weeping. Alarmed, he asked, and found that Duan-niang had already expired on the bed, her cast-off body still there. He opened it—there were clearly white bones. Sheng wept bitterly and buried her with the rites due to the living, beside his ancestral graves. One night, his wife sobbed in her dreams. He shook her and asked; she answered, “I just dreamt that Duan-niang came and said her husband had become a jian ghost, angry that she had changed her constancy in the underworld, and had gone off with a grudge to take her life; she begged me to hold a requiem service.” Sheng rose early and was about to do as instructed. His wife stopped him, saying, “Delivering a ghost is not something you can help with.” Then she rose and left. After a while she came back and said, “I have sent someone to invite monks. First burn paper money to prepare the rites.” Sheng obeyed. At sunset, the monks all assembled, with golden cymbals and dharma drums, just as in the human world. His wife often said it hurt her ears, but Sheng heard nothing. When the service was over, his wife again dreamt that Duan-niang came to thank her, saying, “The grievance is resolved; I am to be reborn as the daughter of a city god. Please convey this to him.” They lived there for three years. At first the servants were frightened, but gradually grew accustomed. When Sheng was not there, they would report through the window. One night, his wife wept to Sheng, saying, “The former rebirth officer has now had his corruption exposed; the investigation is urgent—I fear we cannot stay together long.” A few days later she indeed fell ill, saying, “Where my heart is fixed, I would rather die forever than live. Now we must part forever—is it not fate?” Sheng panicked and sought a plan. She said, “Nothing can be done.” He asked, “Will you be punished?” She said, “A slight penalty. But the crime of stealing life is great; the crime of stealing death is small.” Having spoken, she lay still. On close inspection, her face and form gradually dissolved away. Sheng often slept alone in the pavilion, hoping for some encounter, but in the end all was silent, and people’s hearts were put at ease. The Old Woman of Botuo Han Sheng had lived in his villa for half a year and only returned when the year was ending. One night, his wife had just lain down when she heard the sound of someone walking. She looked, and the coal fire in the stove was blazing brightly. She saw an old woman of perhaps eighty or ninety, with wrinkled skin and a humped back, her sparse white hair countable. She said to the woman, “Would you like some botuo?” The wife was frightened and dared not answer. The old woman then used iron tongs to stir the fire, set a pot upon it, and poured in water. Soon the water was heard boiling. The old woman lifted her robe, opened the pouch at her waist, took out several dozen botuo, and dropped them into the boiling water, each making a distinct sound. She muttered to herself, “I must find chopsticks.” Then she went out the door. Taking advantage of the old woman’s departure, the wife quickly rose, seized the pot, and poured its contents behind the bamboo sleeping mat, then covered herself with the quilt and lay down. After a short while, the old woman returned and pressed her about where the pot and its broth had gone. The wife, greatly terrified, cried out. All the family awoke, and only then did the old woman leave. When they lifted the mat and looked by lamplight, they found dozens of ground beetles piled up within. Jin Yongnian Jin Yongnian of Lijin, at eighty-two, had no son, and his wife was also seventy-eight. They had given up all hope. Suddenly he dreamt that a god told him, “You were destined to have no heirs, but because your trading has been fair and even, I grant you a son.” When he woke, he told his wife. She said, “This is truly a vain fantasy. We are both about to enter the coffin; how could we bear a child?” Not long after, however, her belly stirred; after ten months, she actually bore a boy. Huaguzi An Youyu was a bagongsheng from Shaanxi. By nature he was free-spending and righteous, and he delighted in releasing living creatures. Whenever he saw hunters catch birds or beasts, he would spare no expense to buy and set them free. Once, when his maternal uncle’s family held a funeral, he went to help carry the ropes of the bier. Returning at dusk, he passed by Mount Hua and lost his way among the valleys. He was greatly afraid. About a hundred paces away, he suddenly saw a lamp, and hurried toward it. After a few steps, he came upon an old man, stooped and leaning on a staff, walking briskly along a slanting path. An stopped, about to ask a question, but the old man first asked who he was. An told him he was lost and said that the light must be from a mountain village where he could seek shelter. The old man said, “This is no place of safety. Luckily I have come; you may follow me, and my humble hut can offer you a place to sleep.” An was overjoyed and followed him for about a li, when he saw a small village. The old man knocked on a thorn-branch gate, and an old woman came out, opened it, and said, “Has the young gentleman come?” The old man said, “Yes.” Once inside, the dwelling was cramped and narrow. The old man lit the lamp and bade him sit, then told the woman to prepare whatever food was at hand. He also said to her, “This is no stranger; he is our benefactor. Since you cannot walk about, call Huaguzi to warm the wine.” Soon a young girl brought in the dishes and stood beside the old man, casting sidelong glances with her autumn-bright eyes. An looked at her: her youthful face and tender age were almost like a heavenly immortal. The old man turned and told her to heat the wine. In the western corner of the room was a coal stove; the girl went into the room and stirred the fire. An asked, “Who is this gentleman?” The old man replied, “My surname is Zhang. In seventy years I have had only this daughter. Our farm household has few servants, but because you are no outsider, I dared to bring out my wife and present my child—I hope you will not laugh at us.” An asked, “Where is her husband’s family?” The answer was, “Not yet betrothed.” An praised her intelligence and beauty without end. The old man was modestly deflecting the compliments, when suddenly they heard the girl cry out in alarm. The old man rushed in, and found the wine boiling over and the fire flaring. He put it out and scolded, “Clumsy wench! Do you not know how to tend a raging fire?” Turning back, he saw beside the stove a stalk of sorghum pith with an unfinished paper Zigu doll stuck into it, and scolded again, “With your hair all disheveled, you still play like a child!” He took it and showed it to An, saying, “She was so absorbed in this pastime that she let the wine boil over. And with you praising her so much—would she not die of shame!” An examined it closely: the eyebrows, eyes, robes, and hat were all exquisitely crafted. He praised it, saying, “Though it is a child’s play, it also shows a clever mind.” They drank for some time, and the girl frequently came to serve wine, smiling charmingly, without the least shyness. An gazed at her, his heart stirred. Suddenly he heard the old woman call, and the old man left. Seeing that no one else was there, An said to the girl, “Seeing your immortal countenance has made my soul lose itself. I wish to send a matchmaker, but I fear it will not succeed—what should I do?” The girl held the wine jar toward the fire, silent as if she had not heard; he asked repeatedly, but she did not answer. An gradually moved into the room. The girl rose and said with a stern look, “What are you doing, wild fellow, entering the inner chamber?” An knelt and pleaded with her. The girl made for the door to leave. An suddenly rose and blocked her way, pressing close and touching her lips. The girl screamed in a trembling voice, and the old man hurried in to ask what was wrong. An let go and stepped back, deeply ashamed and afraid. The girl calmly said to her father, “The wine boiled over again; had it not been for the young gentleman, the jar would have melted.” Hearing the girl’s words, An’s heart was set at ease, and he felt all the more grateful to her. His soul was overturned, and he lost all his usual composure. Thereupon he feigned drunkenness and left the table; the girl also withdrew. The old man spread out a mattress and quilt, closed the door, and went out. An could not sleep; before dawn he called out his farewell. When he reached home, he immediately sent a close friend to go and propose marriage, but the friend returned at the end of the day, having been unable to find her dwelling or village. An then ordered his servants and horses and went himself to follow the route. When he arrived, there were only sheer cliffs and precipitous crags—no village at all. Inquiring in the neighboring areas, he found that the surname Zhang was extremely rare. He returned disappointed and forgot both food and sleep. From this he fell ill with a dizzy disorder: he could barely swallow soup or congee, and when forced, he would spit it out; in his delirium, he constantly called out “Huaguzi.” His family did not understand, but they kept watch around him all night, and his condition grew perilous. One night, the watchers grew weary and all fell asleep. In his daze, An felt someone pressing and shaking him. He opened his eyes slightly and saw Huaguzi standing beside the bed; his spirit and consciousness immediately cleared. Gazing intently at the girl, he shed tears. The girl bent her head and laughed, saying, “How has a fool like you come to this?” Then she mounted the bed, sat astride An’s thighs, and pressed his temples with both hands. An felt an extraordinary fragrance of musk and borneol penetrating through his nose and into his bones. After massaging for several moments, he suddenly felt sweat covering his forehead and gradually spreading over his limbs. She whispered, “There are too many people in this room; I cannot stay. In three days I shall come to see you again.” Then she took from her embroidered sleeve several steamed cakes and placed them by the head of the bed, and quietly departed. By midnight, An was sweating and felt hungry; he felt for the cakes and ate them. He did not know what filling they contained, but they were exceptionally delicious, and he finished all three. Then he covered the remaining cakes with his clothes and fell into a deep, oblivious sleep, waking only at the chen hour, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from him. Three days later, the cakes were finished, and his spirit was doubly refreshed. He then dismissed his household servants. Also, fearing that the girl might come but not find the door open, he stealthily went out to the courtyard of his study and removed all the locks and bolts. Before long, the girl indeed arrived, and said with a laugh: “Foolish lad! Do you not thank the matchmaker?” An was overjoyed, embraced her, and they were tender and intimate, their affection reaching its peak. Presently she said: “I have risked danger and endured shame; the reason I came is to repay your great kindness. Truly I cannot forever harmonize as qin and se—I hope you will early seek another match.” An was silent for a long while, then asked: “We have never known each other before; where did I have old ties with your family? I truly cannot recall.” The girl did not answer, but only said: “You yourself think it over.” He earnestly begged for everlasting union. The girl said: “To come by night repeatedly is certainly not acceptable; to always be husband and wife is also impossible.” Hearing this, An grew melancholy and grieved. The girl said: “If you must have union, tomorrow night please come to my home.” An then put away his grief and rejoiced, asking: “The road is far and long; with your delicate steps, how can you come here?” She said: “I have not yet returned home. The deaf old woman at the eastern end is my aunt’s generation; for your sake, I have lingered here till now. My family likely suspects and wonders.” An shared the same quilt with her, and felt that her breath, her skin, her whole body was fragrant everywhere. He asked: “What perfume do you fumigate that it penetrates to flesh and bone?” The girl said: “I have been so since birth; it is not from fumigation or adornment.” An marveled all the more. The girl rose early to say farewell. An worried about losing his way; the girl promised to wait for him on the road. An rode off at dusk, and the girl was indeed waiting; together they went to the former place. The old man and old woman welcomed them joyfully. The wine and dishes were not fine; they served mixed coarse greens. Afterward they invited the guest to retire. The girl did not pay him much attention, which aroused some suspicion in him. When the night was deep, the girl finally came and said: “My parents chattered on and did not sleep, causing you to wait long.” They passed the whole night in close union, and she said to An: “This night’s meeting is a farewell of a hundred years.” An asked in alarm. She replied: “Father, because the small village is lonely, is about to move far away. Our happy union ends with this night.” An could not bear to let her go; he bowed his head and raised it in grief. While he clung to her, the night gradually grew light. Suddenly the old man burst in and cursed: “Wench, you have defiled my pure gate and made me die of shame!” The girl turned pale and fled hastily. The old man also went out, cursing as he went. An, terrified and cowardly, had nowhere to hide himself, and secretly fled back home. For several days he paced about, his heart nearly unable to endure. He then thought of going at night, climbing over the wall to see how matters stood. The old man had indeed spoken of gratitude; even if the affair were exposed, there should be no great punishment. So he stole away by night, wandering in the mountains, bewildered and not knowing where to go. He grew greatly frightened. Just as he sought the way back, he saw in the valley dimly some houses; delighted, he approached them, and found tall and imposing gates, like those of a noble family; the heavy doors were not yet locked. An asked the gatekeeper about the Zhang family’s residence. A servant in blue came out and asked: “At night, who inquires about the Zhang family?” An said: “They are my relatives; I have lost my way to their dwelling.” The servant in blue said: “A man should not ask about Zhang. This is her aunt’s house; Hua Gu is now here; allow me to inform her.” He entered and soon came out to invite An. As soon as An stepped into the corridor, Hua Gu hurried out to welcome him, and said to the servant in blue: “Master An has traveled all night; he must be exhausted; prepare a bed for him to rest.” After a little while, she took his hand and led him behind the curtain. An asked: “Why is there no one else in your aunt’s house?” The girl said: “My aunt has gone out and left me to keep house in her stead. Happily I meet you—is this not a predestined bond?” Yet as they leaned together, he felt a strong fishy smell and suspected something amiss. The girl embraced An’s neck and suddenly licked his nostrils with her tongue, piercing through to his brain like a needle. An was terrified beyond measure and urgently tried to escape; but his body was bound as if by a great rope. In a short while, he lost consciousness and knew nothing. An did not return, and his family searched everywhere for traces. Someone said they had met him at dusk on a mountain path. The family entered the mountains and found him naked, dead beneath a steep cliff. Startled and unable to discover the cause, they carried him home. As the crowd gathered weeping, a young woman came to offer condolences, wailing loudly as she entered from outside the gate. She stroked the corpse, pressed its nose, and let her tears and mucus fall on it, crying: “Heavens! Heavens! Why were you so foolish and benighted!” She wept until her voice was hoarse, and after some time she stopped. She told the family: “Keep him for seven days; do not encoffin him.” None knew who she was; they were about to ask, but she proudly made no courtesy, and with tears went straight out. They tried to detain her, but she did not look back; they followed her, and in a blink she had vanished. They suspected she was a spirit and carefully obeyed her instruction. She came again at night and wept as before. On the seventh night, An suddenly revived, turning over and groaning. The whole family was terrified. The woman entered and faced him, sobbing. An raised his hand and waved the crowd away. The woman produced a bundle of green grass, boiled about a pint of broth, and administered it at his bedside; in a moment he could speak. He sighed and said: “To kill me, it was only you; to bring me back to life, it was only you as well!” Then he related what he had encountered. The woman said: “That was a snake spirit masquerading as me. The lamplight you saw when you lost your way earlier was that creature.” An said: “How can you raise the dead and flesh the bones? Are you not an immortal?” She said: “I have long wished to tell you, but feared to startle you. Five years ago, on the Huashan road, did you buy a hunted roe deer and set it free?” He said: “Yes, that did happen.” She said: “That was my father. The great virtue I spoke of before was for that reason. A few days ago you had already been reborn into the family of the Assistant Minister Wang in the west village. I and my father sued before King Yanmo, and King Yanmo did not approve. My father was willing to ruin his cultivation to die in your place, and after seven days of pleading, he finally obtained permission. This encounter now is fortunate. But although you are alive, you will surely be paralyzed and insensate; if you get snake blood mixed with wine and drink it, the disease can be removed.” An gnashed his teeth in hatred, yet worried he had no means to capture it. The woman said: “It is not difficult. But it will destroy many lives and delay my ascent for a hundred years. Its cave is in the old cliff; you can gather dry grass at the hour of Shen and burn it, while outside set strong crossbows on guard, and the monster can be taken.” Having said this, she took leave: “I cannot serve you to the end—truly this grieves me. But for your sake, my virtuous deeds have already been diminished by seven-tenths; I pray you to pity and forgive me. For the past month I have felt a slight movement in my belly; I fear it is a root of ill fate. Whether male or female, a year from now I will send it to you.” She went away in tears. After a night, An felt that everything below his waist was dead; scratching and pinching caused no pain or itch. He then told his family what the woman had said. The family went and, following her words, kindled a great fire in the cave. A huge white snake rushed out through the flames. Several crossbows shot together and killed it. When the fire died, they entered the cave; there were several hundred snakes, large and small, all charred and stinking. The family returned and offered the snake blood to An. After taking it for three days, his legs gradually could turn and move; after half a year he rose again. Later, as he walked alone in the valley, he met an old woman who handed him a baby wrapped in a swaddling cloth, saying: “My daughter sends her regards to you.” He was about to ask, but in a flash she was no longer seen. He opened the wrappings and saw it was a boy. He carried him home and never married again. The Historian of the Strange remarks: “What distinguishes man from beast is slight—this is not a fixed conclusion. When one is so grateful as to knot grass in repayment, even to the end of life, then there are men who should be ashamed before beasts. As for Hua Gu: at first she lodged her wisdom in folly, and in the end she lodged her affection in detachment. Thus one knows that folly is the extreme of wisdom, and detachment is the utmost of feeling. Immortal, immortal!” Martial Filial Incorruptible The martial *xiaolian* Shi, a certain Shi, carrying funds in his purse, proceeded to the capital to seek appointment. Arriving at Dezhou, he was suddenly struck by a violent illness, spat blood, and could not rise, lying long in the boat. His servant stole the money and fled. Shi was greatly enraged, his illness worsened, and his provisions were cut off. The boatman plotted to abandon him. It happened that a woman in a boat came at night to moor nearby; hearing of it, she volunteered to carry Shi in her boat. The boatman was pleased and helped Shi board the woman's vessel. Shi looked at her: she was a woman over forty, dressed in bright and splendid clothes, and her spirit and appearance were still elegant. He groaned his thanks. The woman leaned over to examine him and said, "You have long had a consumptive root; now your soul and spirit are already wandering among ruins and graves." Hearing this, Shi cried out in sorrow. The woman said, "I have a pill that can raise the dead. If your illness is cured, do not forget me." Shi wept and swore an oath. The woman then gave the medicine to Shi; after half a day, he felt somewhat recovered. The woman served him delicacies by his couch, with more solicitude than a husband and wife. Shi was all the more grateful to her. After over a month, the illness was completely cured. Shi crawled forward on his knees and revered her as if she were his mother. The woman said, "I am solitary and without support; if you do not despise me for fading looks, I wish to serve you as your wife." At that time Shi was over thirty and had been widowed for a year; hearing this, his delight exceeded his hopes, and they became intimate. The woman then brought out hidden gold and sent him to the capital to manage his affairs, agreeing that he would return and they would go back together. Shi went to the capital and through connections was selected as the military commandant of his own province; with the remaining gold he bought saddles and horses, and his cap and carriage were resplendent. Then he reflected that the woman's age was already advanced, and she was not a good match after all; therefore he used a hundred taels of gold to betroth the daughter of the Wang family as his second wife. In his heart he was fearful and apprehensive, afraid the woman would learn of it, so he avoided the Dezhou road and took a roundabout way to assume his post. For over a year, there was no communication. A maternal cousin of Shi happened to come to Dezhou and lived as a neighbor to the woman. The woman learned of it and called on him to ask after Shi's circumstances. The cousin told her the truth. The woman cursed loudly, and then told him the whole story. The cousin also felt indignant on her behalf and consoled her, saying, "Perhaps his official duties are numerous and he has not yet found leisure. Please write a short letter, and I will send it to him for you, sister-in-law." The woman followed his words. The cousin respectfully delivered it to Shi, but Shi paid it no heed whatsoever. After another year, the woman went to Shi herself, stopping at an inn, and entrusted the receptionist of the official residence to announce her name. Shi ordered them to reject her. One day, as he was feasting, he heard a loud cursing voice; putting down his cup and listening intently, the woman had already lifted the curtain and entered. Shi was greatly terrified, his face ashen. The woman pointed and cursed, "Heartless man! Are you comfortable? Think where your wealth and rank came from! My affection for you was not slight; even if you wished to take concubines, if you had consulted me, what harm would there have been?" Shi stood cowering and holding his breath, unable to make a sound. After a long time, he knelt prostrate and surrendered himself, using specious words to beg forgiveness. The woman's anger subsided somewhat. Shi discussed with Wang-shi, making her greet the woman as a younger sister. Wang-shi was quite unwilling; but Shi earnestly pleaded with her, so she went. Wang bowed, and the woman returned the bow. She said, "Sister, do not fear; I am not a violent or jealous person. What happened before was truly unbearable for human feelings; even you, sister, should not wish to have such a man." Then she related the whole matter from beginning to end for Wang. Wang was also indignant and angry, and so they both cursed Shi together. Shi could not defend himself and only begged to redeem himself, and so they settled down in harmony. At first, before the woman's entry, Shi had warned the gatekeeper not to admit her. Now, he was angry at the gatekeeper and secretly questioned and reproached him. The gatekeeper insisted that the locks had not been opened and no one had entered, refusing to admit it. Shi suspected something but dared not ask the woman; although they exchanged smiles and talk, he was ultimately not pleased. Fortunately the woman was gentle and accommodating, and did not compete for his nights. After the three meals, she closed the door and went to bed early, never asking where her husband stayed at night. Wang at first still felt endangered; seeing her like this, she respected her all the more. At dawn she would go to pay her respects, as if serving her mother-in-law and father-in-law. The woman managed her subordinates with leniency, harmony, and propriety, yet her discernment was divine. One day, Shi lost his official seal and ribbon; the entire office was in an uproar, bustling back and forth, with no plan to offer. The woman smiled and said, "Do not worry; drain the well and you will find it." Shi followed her, and indeed found it. When asked for the reason, she only smiled and did not speak. Vaguely, she seemed to know the name of the thief, but ultimately she would not disclose it. Having lived with her for a full year, he observed that her actions were often strange. Shi suspected she was not human, and often after she retired had people spy and listen; but they only heard the sound of shaking clothes on the bed all night long, and did not know what she was doing. The woman and Wang were extremely fond of each other. One night, Shi had gone to the provincial judge's office and not returned; the woman drank with Wang, and inadvertently became overly drunk, lay down on the mat, and transformed into a fox. Wang pitied her and covered her with a brocade quilt. Shortly, Shi entered, and Wang told him of the strange occurrence. Shi wanted to kill her. Wang said, "Even if she is a fox, how has she wronged you?" Shi did not listen and hastily sought his waist-knife. But the woman had already awakened, and cursed, "With the deeds of vipers and the heart of wolves, you surely cannot stay long! That medicine you swallowed before, I beg you to give it back!" Then she spat on Shi's face. Shi felt a piercing cold as if drenched with ice water, and his throat itched unbearably; he vomited it out, and the pill was as before. The woman picked it up, angrily went straight out, and when pursued, she had vanished. In the middle of the night, Shi's old illness recurred, with incessant bloody coughs, and he died within half a year. The Historian of the Strange says: "Shi the *xiaolian* was elegant as a scholar. Some said he humbled himself and could treat scholars with deference, speaking to others as if afraid of hurting them. He died in his prime, and the scholarly circle mourned him. But when one hears of this matter of his betraying the fox-woman, how is he any different from Li Shilang?" The Lord of West Lake Chen Bijiao, styled Mingyun, was a man of Yan. His family was poor, and he served as a scribe under the deputy general Jia Wan. They anchored their boat on Lake Dongting. Just then a zhupolong floated on the water's surface; Jia shot it and hit its back. A fish held onto the dragon's tail and would not let go, so they caught it together. They locked it and placed it between the mast stays; it was barely breathing, but its dragon mouth opened and closed as if begging for rescue. Chen's heart was moved with pity; he pleaded with Jia and released it. He had some golden-wound medicine with him; playfully he applied it to the wound, then let it go into the water. It floated and sank for over a quarter of an hour before disappearing. More than a year later, Chen was returning north and again passed Lake Dongting, when a great wind capsized his boat. Fortunately he grasped a bamboo basket and drifted the whole night, until he snagged on a tree and stopped. As he climbed ashore, a floating corpse drifted up—it was his servant boy. He pulled him out with great effort, but he was already dead. Grief-stricken and at a loss, he sat opposite and rested. He saw only small hills rising green, slender willows waving blue, and very few passersby; there was no one to ask for directions. From dawn until after the hour of Chen, he wandered disconsolately. Suddenly the servant's limbs moved slightly; delighted, he felt him. Before long, he vomited several pints of water and revived, fully awake. Together they dried their clothes on the rocks; it was nearly noon before they were dry enough to wear. But their empty stomachs growled and they could not bear the hunger. So they crossed the hills and hurried on, hoping to find a village. They had just reached halfway up the mountain when they heard the whistle of arrows. As they were wondering where the sound came from, two young ladies came riding on fine horses, galloping like scattering beans. Each wore a red silk turban, had pheasant tails stuck in their chignons, purple jackets with narrow sleeves, and green brocade sashes around their waists; one carried a pellet bow, the other had a blue leather armguard. When they passed over the ridge, there were dozens of riders hunting in the thickets—all beautiful women, dressed identically. Chen dared not go forward. A man on foot, apparently a groom, came along, so he asked him. The man replied, "This is the West Lake Lord hunting on Shou Mountain." Chen told him where he came from and mentioned his hunger. The groom undid his provisions and gave them to him, saying, "You should leave at once; to offend the royal procession means death!" Chen was frightened and hurried down the mountain. In the dense woods there were hidden halls and pavilions, which he took for a monastery. Drawing near, he saw pink walls enclosing the area, with a stream flowing across; a vermilion gate was half open, and a stone bridge led to it. Peering through the gate, he saw terraces and pavilions encircling the clouds, comparable to the imperial parks; he suspected it was a nobleman's garden. He entered hesitantly; creeping vines blocked the path, and fragrant flowers assailed his face. After passing several zigzag railings, he came to another courtyard with dozens of weeping willows, their tops brushing the red eaves. When a mountain bird sang, flower petals flew all at once; when a light breeze passed through the deep garden, elm seeds fell of themselves. It delighted his eyes and heart, almost beyond the human world. Passing through a small pavilion, he saw a swing whose top reached the clouds; but the ropes hung still and silent, with no trace of anyone. He suspected the place was near the women's quarters and, fearful, dared not go deeper. Soon he heard horses neighing at the gate and seemed to hear girls laughing and talking. Chen and the servant hid among the thick flowers. Before long, the laughter drew nearer. He heard one girl say, "Today's hunting was poor—very few game taken." Another said, "If it weren't for the princess shooting down that wild goose, we would have tired our horses and servants for nothing." Shortly, several ladies in red escorted a young girl to the pavilion to sit. She wore a short-sleeved military costume and was about fourteen or fifteen. Her coiled hair was like gathering mist, her waist slender enough to startle the wind—even jade stamens and琼英 (flower petals) could not compare. The attendants offered tea and burned incense, splendid as heaped brocade. After a while, the girl rose and descended the steps. One attendant said, "Princess, you are tired from riding—can you still work the swing?" The princess smiled and agreed. Then some supported her shoulders, some held her arms, some lifted her skirt, some held her shoes, and they helped her up. The princess stretched her white wrists, stepped into her light shoes, and, light as a flying swallow, kicked up into the clouds. Then they helped her down. The group said, "The princess is truly a celestial being!" and left laughing. Chen stared for a long time, his spirit soaring. When the voices had died away, he came out to the swing and paced about, lost in thought. He saw a red kerchief under the fence; knowing it had been dropped by the beauties, he joyfully put it in his sleeve. He went up to the pavilion and saw writing materials on the table; so he inscribed on the kerchief a poem: "Who plays this graceful game, like a half-immortal? Clearly the jade maidens scatter golden lotus. The moon palace ladies must envy her, Do not trust the wave-treading one who soars to the ninth heaven." After writing it, he recited it and came out. He then sought the former path, but the inner gates were locked and bolted. He hesitated, at a loss; turning back, he had wandered through nearly all the towers and pavilions. A girl slipped in, startled, and asked, "How did you get here?" Chen bowed and said, "I am a lost traveller; I pray you may save me." The girl asked, "Did you pick up a red kerchief?" Chen said, "I have it. But it has been defiled—what can be done?" And he produced it. The girl was greatly alarmed and said, "You are doomed! This is what the princess always uses; to scribble on it like this—how can you make amends?" Chen turned pale and begged her to help him escape. The girl said, "Secretly spying on the palace ceremonies is already an unpardonable crime. Considering that you are a scholar of refined bearing, I wished to spare you by my private indulgence; but now you have brought this upon yourself—what plan can be made?" Then she hurriedly took the kerchief and left. Chen's heart palpitated and his flesh crawled; he wished he had wings, but could only stretch his neck and await death. After a long while, the girl came again and secretly congratulated him, saying, “There is hope for your life now! The princess looked at the kerchief three or four times, and with a slight smile, showed no angry expression. She may well let you go. You should patiently wait and keep still; do not climb trees or burrow through walls, for if discovered, you will not be forgiven.” As dusk fell, he could not be certain of his fate—whether good or ill; but hunger burned within him, and he was tormented with anxiety, nearly dying of it. Before long, the girl came carrying a lamp, and a maid brought a pot and wine-vessel, setting out food and drink for the scholar. He urgently asked for news. The girl said, “Just now I took an opportunity to say: ‘The scholar in the garden, if he may be pardoned, then release him; otherwise, he will starve to death.’ The princess pondered and said, ‘In the dead of night, where would I send him?’ So she ordered that food be given to you. This is not bad news.” He paced restlessly through the night, in great peril and unease. When the morning hour of Chen was nearly over, the girl brought food again. He begged her to intercede for him. The girl said, “The princess has neither ordered your death nor ordered your release. We of the lower rank, how dare we fretfully importune her?” Then the sun slanted westward, and as he gazed anxiously, the girl came rushing in breathless, saying, “It is dreadful! A loose-tongued person has leaked the matter to the王妃; she threw the kerchief to the ground, cursing loudly at the wretched boor—misfortune is not far off!” The scholar was greatly alarmed, his face ashen, and he knelt long to beg for instructions. Suddenly he heard a hubbub of voices; the girl waved her hand and withdrew. Several persons entered with ropes, noisily. Among them a maidservant looked at him closely and said, “Whom did we think it was? Is it not Master Chen?” Then she stopped those with ropes, saying, “Wait, wait—let us first report to the王妃.” She turned and hurried away. After a short while she came back and said, “The王妃 invites Master Chen to enter.” Trembling with fear, he followed her. Passing through several dozen gates and doors, they arrived at a palace with emerald curtains and silver hooks. Then a beautiful attendant raised the curtain and announced, “Master Chen has arrived.” Above sat a lovely woman in splendid robes. He prostrated himself and knocked his head to the ground, saying, “A solitary subject from a myriad li away, I beg that my life be spared.” The王妃 rose hastily and pulled him up herself, saying, “If it were not for you, my lord, I would not be what I am today. The ignorant maidservants unknowingly offended a distinguished guest—how can their crime be atoned for?” She then set out a sumptuous feast and poured wine in a carved cup. The scholar was utterly at a loss as to the reason. The王妃 said, “For your grace that gave me a new life, I恨 that I have nothing to repay. My daughter was favored by your inscribing a verse on her kerchief—that must be a heavenly bond. Tonight I shall send her to attend upon you.” The scholar had never expected such fortune; his spirit was confused and adrift. As dusk fell, a maidservant came forward and said, “The princess has finished her toilet.” Thereupon she led him to the bridal chamber. Suddenly pipes and drums clamored; the steps were all covered with flowered carpets; halls, gates, and even privies were everywhere lit with caged candles. Dozens of enchanting maidens supported the princess as they performed the bridal obeisance. The fragrance of musk and orchids filled the palace hall. Then they entered the curtained bed together, and both were deeply enamored. The scholar said, “I am a traveller and a subject; in my life I never knew how to pay court. I defiled the fragrant kerchief and was fortunate to escape execution—that was already luck beyond measure; but to be granted this marriage union is truly more than I dared hope.” The princess said, “My mother is the consort of the Lord of the Lake—she is the daughter of the King of Yangjiang. Last year when she returned to her parents’ home, she happened to wander on the lake and was struck by a stray arrow. Thanks to your lordship’s rescue and your gift of the powdered medicine, our whole house has cherished gratitude and never forgotten it in our hearts. Do not doubt me because I am not of your kind. I have obtained from the Dragon Lord the secret of long life, and I wish to share it with you.” Then he realized they were divine beings. He asked, “How did that maidservant recognize me?” She said, “On that day on the Dongting boat, there was a small fish that followed the stern—that was this very maid.” He asked again, “Since you did not mean to kill me, why did you delay so long in releasing me?” She laughed and said, “I truly admired your talent, but I could not act on my own. I was torn all night; no one else knew of it.” He sighed and said, “You are my鲍叔. And who was it that brought me food?” She said, “A'Nian—she is also my confidante.” He said, “How shall I repay such kindness?” She laughed and said, “I shall be attending you for days; there will be time enough to consider how to discharge that debt.” He asked, “Where is the King?” She said, “He has gone with Guan Sheng to campaign against Chiyou and has not yet returned.” After several days, the scholar worried that his family had no news of him and was extremely anxious, so he first sent a servant back with a letter reporting his safety. His family, hearing that his boat had capsized on Dongting, had been wearing mourning garments for over a year. When the servant returned, they learned he was not dead; but communications were blocked, and they still feared he might never return. Half a year later, the scholar suddenly arrived, with fine furs and horses, and his bags filled with precious jade. From then on he possessed vast riches, and his style of life in music and women and luxury surpassed even that of noble houses. In seven or eight years, he had five sons. Every day he entertained guests, and his feasts and furnishings were of the utmost magnificence. When asked about his adventures, he told them without concealment. There was a childhood friend named Liang Zijun, who had served as an official in the south for over ten years. On his way back, he passed by Dongting and saw a painted pleasure-boat with carved rails and vermilion windows, from which faint music of flutes and songs arose, drifting gently over the misty waves. At times a beautiful woman leaned out the window and gazed. Liang fixed his eyes on the boat and saw a young man, bare-headed, sitting cross-legged; beside him two exquisite maidens were caressing and leaning upon him. He thought it must be some noble of the Chu region, though his retinue was very small. Gazing intently, he recognized Chen Mingyun. Unable to restrain himself, he leaned over the railing and called out loudly. Hearing the call, Chen stopped his oars, came out to the prow, and invited Liang over to his boat. Liang saw the table strewn with leftovers and the fumes of wine still heavy. Chen immediately ordered them cleared away. In a little while, three or five beautiful maids brought wine and brewed tea, with rare delicacies from mountain and sea that Liang had never seen. Liang exclaimed in surprise, “In ten years, how have you become so wealthy and honored?” Chen laughed and said, “Do you think so little of a poor scholar that he cannot make his fortune?” Liang asked, “Who was that drinking with you just now?” Chen said, “It was my wife.” Liang was even more astonished. He asked, “Where are you taking your family?” Chen replied, “I am going to cross westward.” Liang wanted to question further, but Chen immediately ordered singing to accompany the wine. No sooner had he spoken than thunderous music burst forth—drums and pipes and stringed instruments all jumbled together—so that no further words or laughter could be heard. Liang, surrounded by beauties, boldly said in his cups, “Master Mingyun, can you make me truly lose my soul?” Chen laughed and said, “You are drunk, my friend! But I have the price of a beautiful concubine to give to an old friend.” He then ordered a serving maid to bring a pearl, saying, “A Green Pearl would not be hard to buy—this shows I am not stingy.” Then he urged parting, saying, “Small matters press me; I cannot stay long with my old friend.” He saw Liang back to his boat, cast off the hawsers, and went straight away. When Liang returned home, he went to Chen’s house and found Chen drinking with guests—which made him all the more puzzled. He asked, “Yesterday on Dongting, why did you return so quickly?” Chen said, “I did no such thing.” Liang then recounted what he had seen, and all present were astounded. Chen laughed and said, “You are mistaken—how could I have the art of dividing my body?” They all found it strange, but none could explain the reason. Later Chen died at the age of eighty-one. When they encoffined him, they were surprised that the coffin was light; when they opened it, it was empty. The Historian of the Strange comments: “The bamboo box did not sink; the red kerchief bore inscribed verses—in these there were indeed spirits and gods; yet they were all communicated through a single thought of compassion. But then, to have at once palaces, wives, and concubines, and to enjoy both worlds in one person—that is again inexplicable. In old times there were those who wished for a beautiful wife and fair concubines, noble sons and worthy grandsons, and also long life without death, but they obtained only half. Could it be that among immortals there are also men like Fen Yang and Ji Lun?” Filial Son South of Dongxiang Mountain in Qingzhou, there was a man named Zhou Shunting, who served his mother with utmost filial piety. His mother developed a huge carbuncle on her thigh, the pain unbearable, and she groaned and moaned day and night. Zhou attended to her sores and applied medicines, forgetting sleep and meals. After months without recovery, Zhou was so anguished that he could think of no remedy. He dreamed that his father told him, “Your mother’s illness depends on your filial devotion. But this sore cannot be healed except by applying human fat; your anxious grief is futile.” He awoke, startled by the dream. He rose and cut a piece of flesh from his side with a sharp knife; the flesh came off, and he felt little pain. He quickly bound his waist with cloth, and the blood did not flow. Then he cooked the flesh, took the fat, and applied it to his mother’s sore. The pain ceased immediately. His mother was delighted and asked, “What medicine is so efficacious?” Zhou answered evasively. The sore soon healed. Zhou always concealed the wound on his side, so that even his wife and children did not know. After it healed, there was a scar as large as a palm. His wife questioned him, and only then did she learn the truth. The Historian of the Strange comments: “Cutting one’s own flesh is an act harmful to life, and the gentleman does not esteem it. Yet how would ignorant common folk know that harming one’s body is unfilial? They merely act according to what their hearts cannot restrain. With such a man, we know that true filial sons still exist in this world. Those who oversee moral instruction have many weighty duties and have no leisure to make such deeds known; thus to bring to light what is obscure and manifest what is subtle depends on these humble words.” Lion Siam sent a tribute lion. Wherever it stopped, onlookers formed a wall. Its appearance was utterly different from the embroidered pictures handed down in tradition. Its fur was blackish-yellow, several inches long. When someone threw it a chicken, it would first seize it with its paws and blow upon it; with one blow, all the feathers fell off as if swept away—a strange principle indeed. King Yama Li Jiuchang, a man of Linqu, was carrying his wine flask in the countryside when he saw a whirlwind blowing briskly along. He respectfully poured out a libation in offering. Later, while traveling elsewhere for some reason, he saw by the roadside a great mansion with splendid halls and pavilions. A servant in black came out from within and invited Li in. Li firmly declined. The servant pressed him most insistently. Li said, "I have never had the honour of your acquaintance—could this be a mistake?" The servant replied, "No mistake," and then gave Li's surname and personal name. Li asked, "Whose house is this?" The answer came: "You will know once you enter." He went in, and after passing through one gate, he saw a woman whose hands and feet were nailed to the door panels. Drawing closer, he recognized her as his sister-in-law. He was greatly shocked. Li had a sister-in-law who had a malignant ulcer on her arm and had been bedridden for over a year. He thought to himself how she could possibly have come here. Then he began to suspect that the intention behind this invitation was malevolent, and fear made him hesitate and draw back. The servant urged him on, and so he entered. He reached the main hall, where a figure sat above, wearing a cap and girdle like a king, with a fierce and imposing bearing. Li knelt prostrate, not daring to look up. The king ordered him to be raised to his feet and comforted him, saying, "Do not be afraid. I only wished to see you and thank you for the wine you once offered me in the wilds—there is no other reason." Li's mind began to settle, though he still did not understand the matter. The king added, "Do you not recall the time you poured libation in the fields?" Li suddenly realized that this was a spirit, and kowtowed, saying, "I just now saw my sister-in-law suffering this harsh punishment. For the sake of blood kinship, my heart is truly grieved. I beg Your Majesty to show mercy and pardon her!" The king said, "This woman is extremely fierce and jealous—such punishment is fitting. Three years ago, when your elder brother's concubine gave birth with a prolapsed intestine, she secretly pierced the intestine with a needle, causing the woman constant pain in her bowels to this day. Is this any way for a human being to act?" Li pleaded with him persistently. The king then said, "For your sake, I shall pardon her. When you return, you should urge that shrew to reform her ways." Li thanked him and went out, and the door panels were now empty of anyone. Returning home, he looked in on his sister-in-law, who lay on her bed, with blood from her sores soaking the mat. At that moment, because the concubine had displeased her, she was in the middle of cursing her. Li at once advised her, saying, "Sister-in-law, do not act thus any more! The torment you suffer today all comes from your usual jealousy." She angrily retorted, "What a fine man you are, little brother! And your wife at home is as virtuous as Mother Meng, letting you bed where you will in the east or sleep where you will in the west without daring to make a sound. Of course you, little brother, are a fine upholder of the husband's authority—but that doesn't mean you can take your elder brother's place in subduing this old woman!" Li smiled faintly and said, "Sister-in-law, do not be angry. If I speak the truth of the matter, I fear you will have no time even for weeping." She said, "I have never stolen a thread from the Queen Mother's basket, nor have I so much as winked at one of the Jade Emperor's record-keepers. My heart is open and untroubled—where would I find cause for tears?" Li said in a low voice, "Piercing a person's bowels with a needle—what punishment should that deserve?" His sister-in-law suddenly changed colour and asked where he had heard such words. Li told her the whole story. She trembled without cease, tears and mucus streaming down her face as she wailed, "I dare not do it again!" Before her tears had dried, she felt the pain suddenly cease, and within ten days she was healed. From then on, she thoroughly changed her former ways and came to be called virtuous and gentle. Later, when the concubine gave birth again, the bowels prolapsed once more, and the needle was plainly visible there. It was removed, and the bowel pain was cured. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Some say that under heaven there are no few fierce and jealous women like this one, and regret that the net of the underworld has so many gaps. I say: not so. The punishments of the infernal courts are likely no less severe than nailing to door panels—it is only that there is no news sent back." Clay Figure There was a man of Yishui named Ma, who married a woman of the Wang family. Their union was most harmonious. Ma died young. Wang's parents wished to force her to remarry, but Wang vowed she would never take another. Her mother-in-law, pitying her youth, also urged her, but Wang would not listen. Her mother said, "Your resolve is fine indeed; but you are still very young, and you have borne your husband no child. I have often seen those who force themselves to remain chaste at first only to bring shame upon themselves later—it is surely better to remarry early, as is the common way." Wang replied with a solemn countenance that she would die rather than break her vow, and her mother finally left her to her own will. The woman had a sculptor make a clay image of her husband, and at every meal she offered wine and food before it as if he were still alive. One evening, as she was about to retire, she suddenly saw the clay figure stretch and yawn, then descend from its place. She stared in terror, and in that instant it had grown to the size of a man, truly her husband. Afraid, she called for her mother, but the ghost stopped her, saying, "Do not do that. I am moved by your devotion, and in the dark depths of the earth it has been bitter and sorrowful. When a single household possesses such loyalty and chastity, generations of ancestors are all honoured. My father committed deeds that diminished his virtue in life, and he should have had no heir—hence my youth was cut short. But the infernal court, mindful of your bitter constancy, has permitted me to return and beget a son with you to carry on the line of succession." She was moved to tears, and they were intimate as in former days. At cockcrow, he left the bed. After a month of this, she felt a slight movement in her belly. The ghost then wept and said, "My allotted time is complete; from this point we part forever!" And he vanished. At first Wang told no one; but soon her belly grew large, and when she could no longer conceal it, she secretly told her mother. Her mother suspected she had been up to something improper; yet observing that Wang had no other relations, she was utterly perplexed. After ten lunar months, she indeed gave birth to a son. When she told people about it, all who heard snickered behind their hands, and Wang could offer no proof to clear herself. A village headman who had long been on bad terms with Ma reported the matter to the county magistrate. The magistrate summoned the neighbours for questioning, but they had nothing unusual to say. The magistrate said, "I have heard that a ghost's child has no shadow—if it has a shadow, it is a fraud." He held the child in the sunlight, and its shadow was faint as light mist. He also pricked the child's finger and smeared the blood on the clay figure, where it sank in at once without a trace; when he took other clay and smeared it on, it wiped off with a single rub. On this evidence he believed the story. As the child grew to several years of age, his features, voice, and bearing were in every way like Ma's, and only then did all doubts dissolve. The Woman of Changzhi Chen Huanle, a native of Changzhi in Lu. He had a daughter who was both clever and beautiful. A Daoist priest who was begging alms glanced at her and then left. From that day on, he daily carried his bowl near the market. Just then a blind man came out of the Chen household, and the Daoist caught up with him and walked alongside, asking where he had been. The blind man said, "I just passed by the Chen house to cast his fate." The Daoist said, "I hear his family has a young lady; she is a cousin of mine on my mother's side. I wish to propose a match, but I do not know her birth year and hour." The blind man related them, and the Daoist then took his leave. After several days, the girl was embroidering in her room when she suddenly felt her feet grow numb, gradually spreading to her thighs, then to her waist and belly; in a moment she swooned and fell over. After a full quarter-hour, she was just able to stand again in a daze, and was about to go tell her mother. But as she went out the door, she saw vast black waves with a path like a thread running through them; terrified, she drew back, and her gate, house, and dwelling had already been submerged by the black water. Looking again at the road, there were very few passersby—only the Daoist walking slowly ahead. So she followed him at a distance, hoping to see someone from her village to speak with. After walking several li, she suddenly caught sight of a village dwelling, and looking at it, it was her own family gate. Greatly startled, she said, "I have run so far, yet here I am still in the village. How could I have been so lost and bewildered before!" Joyfully she entered the gate, but her parents had not yet returned. She went again to her own room; the embroidered shoes she had been working on were still on the couch. Feeling utterly exhausted from her rushing about, she rested on the couch. Suddenly the Daoist entered, and the girl, greatly frightened, tried to flee. But the Daoist seized and pressed her down. The girl tried to cry out, but her throat was mute and she could not make a sound. The Daoist quickly took a sharp knife and cut open the girl's heart. The girl felt her soul float away and stand apart from her body. Looking around, the whole house and home had changed entirely; there was only a collapsing cliff like an overturned roof. She saw the Daoist take her heart's blood and dot it onto a wooden puppet, then fold his fingers in incantation; the girl felt the wooden puppet fuse with her. The Daoist commanded, "From now on you shall obey my orders, and do not make mistakes!" He then wore it on his person. The Chen family lost their daughter and the whole household was frantic with confusion. They traced their way to Niutou Ridge and only then heard the villagers say that a girl had been found dead with her heart cut out at the foot of the ridge. Chen rushed to verify it, and it was indeed his daughter. Weeping, he lodged a complaint with the magistrate. The magistrate arrested the residents at the foot of the ridge and tortured nearly all of them, but found no clue. He provisionally held the group of suspects pending further review. The Daoist, several li away, sat beneath a willow by the roadside and suddenly said to the girl, "Now I send you on your first errand: go spy on the trial proceedings in the county. When you get there, hide on the warm loft. If you see the official magistrate use his seal, you must quickly evade—remember this well! You are limited to leave at chen hour and return by si hour. If you are one ke late, I will pierce your heart with one needle and make you suffer sharp pain; two ke, two needles; at three needles, I will extinguish your soul entirely." When the girl heard this, her whole body trembled in terror, and she drifted away. In an instant she reached the magistrate's office and, as ordered, crouched hidden on the loft. At that time, the people from the ridge were kneeling in rows below in the hall, and the interrogation had not yet begun. Just then the magistrate was about to affix his seal to an official document; the girl did not have time to evade, and the seal had already left its box. The girl felt her body grow heavy and limp, as if the paper lattice could not bear her weight, and with a popping sound it made a noise. Everyone in the hall looked up in astonishment. The magistrate ordered the seal to be lifted again, and it made the same sound; the third time, it flipped over and fell to the ground. Everyone heard it. The magistrate rose and prayed, "If there is a wronged spirit here, you should speak plainly, and I will seek justice for you." The girl, sobbing, came forward and related in full how the Daoist had killed her and sent her on these errands. The magistrate dispatched runners who galloped off and reached the willow tree, where the Daoist was indeed there. They arrested him and brought him back; once interrogated, he confessed. The prisoners were then released. The magistrate asked the girl, "Now that your wrong is redressed, where will you go?" The girl said, "I will follow you, my lord." The magistrate said, "My office has nowhere to accommodate you; you had best return to your family for now." After a long silence, the girl said, "Your official residence is my home; I will enter now." The magistrate asked again, but the sound had already faded. He withdrew into his private quarters, and there his wife had given birth to a daughter. The Righteous Dog A certain man of Lu'an, whose father was imprisoned and facing death, scraped together all his savings and obtained a hundred taels of silver. He was going to the prefectural city to bribe officials. As he rode out on his mule, the black dog he kept followed him. He shouted and drove it back; but when he went on, it followed again, and though he whipped it, it would not turn back. It followed him for several dozen li. The man dismounted and went to the roadside to relieve himself. Then he threw stones at the dog, and the dog finally ran off; but once the man set out again, the dog suddenly reappeared and bit the mule's tail and feet. The man angrily whipped it. The dog kept yelping and would not stop. Suddenly it leaped forward and furiously bit the mule's head, as if trying to block his way. The man thought this was inauspicious and grew even angrier, turned his mount and chased it away. Seeing that the dog was already far off, he turned back and rode on at full speed; he reached the prefectural city by dusk. When he felt for the pouch at his waist, half the silver was gone. Cold sweat poured down, and he was stupefied. He tossed and turned all night, then suddenly realized that the dog's barking must have had a reason. He waited for the city gates to open at dawn and rode out, carefully examining the road he had come by. He also reflected that this was a busy north-south thoroughfare with passersby as numerous as ants—how could lost silver possibly remain? He hesitated along the way until he reached the place where he had dismounted, and there he saw the dog lying dead in the grass, its fur drenched with sweat as if washed. He lifted its ears and looked, and the sealed silver was still there, intact. Moved by the dog's loyalty, he bought a coffin and buried it. People called it the Mound of the Righteous Dog. The God of Poyang Zhai Zhanchi, while serving as judicial commissioner in Raozhou, passed by Lake Poyang. On the lake shore there was a shrine to a god; he stopped his carriage and went in to look around. Inside were carved images of Ding Pulang and other ministers who had died in loyal service, and one image of a god surnamed Zhai sat in the lowest seat. Zhai said, "He is of my clan—how can he be placed below!" So he moved it to a higher seat. Soon after, he boarded his boat; a great wind snapped the sail, and the mast tilted over, the whole family wailing in terror. In a moment a small boat came breaking through the waves; once it drew near the official boat, it hurriedly pulled Zhai onto the small boat, and then all his family boarded as well. Looking closely at the man, he was no different from the god surnamed Zhai. Before long, the waves subsided, and when they looked for him, he had vanished. Wu Qiuyue Wang Ding of Qinyou, styled Xianhu. He was generous and strong, traveled widely, and had many friends. At eighteen, he was not yet married, having lost his betrothed. Whenever he traveled afar, he would often stay away for years without returning. His elder brother Nai was a famous scholar north of the Yangtze and deeply devoted to fraternal affection. He urged his younger brother not to travel and said he would find a match for him. Ding would not listen, and had a boat take him to Zhenjiang to visit a friend. His friend was away, so he rented quarters in an inn's upper pavilion. The river's clear waves, with Jinshan in view, gladdened his heart. The next day, the friend came and invited Ding to move to his house; he declined and did not go. After more than half a month, he dreamed one night of a young lady, about fourteen or fifteen, of splendid and exquisite countenance, who came to his bed and coupled with him. When he awoke, he had had an emission. He found it rather strange, but took it as a chance occurrence. Come night, he dreamed of her again. This continued for three or four nights. Greatly disturbed in mind, he dared not put out his candle; though he lay abed, he kept wary and alert. The moment his eyelids closed, the girl came again in his dream; just as they were frolicking, he suddenly started awake in fright; quickly opening his eyes, he saw the young lady, like a fairy, still plainly in his embrace. Seeing him awake, she at once grew shamefaced and timid. Though Ding knew she was not human, he was quite pleased; without time to question her, he truly joined with her in wild abandon. The girl seemed unable to bear it, saying, "So violent—no wonder one dare not tell you openly." Ding then questioned her. She answered, "I am Wu Qiuyue. My late father was a renowned scholar, deeply versed in the Changes. He cherished me greatly; but said I would not live long, so he would not betroth me to anyone. At fifteen I indeed died young, and was buried in a niche east of this pavilion, leveled with the ground. There was no grave mound or marker, only a small stone tablet set beside the coffin, reading: 'The girl Qiuyue, buried without a mound; in thirty years, she shall marry Wang Ding.' Now thirty years have passed, and you have come just in time. Overjoyed, I wished to offer myself; yet shyness held me back, so I came to you in dreams." Wang was also delighted, and again sought to complete the matter. She said, "I need a little more yang vitality to seek rebirth; I truly cannot endure this wind and rain just yet. There will be endless joy in days to come—why must it be tonight?" So she rose and left. The next day she came again, and they sat facing each other, laughing and jesting, as happy as if they had known each other all their lives. They put out the candle and went to bed; she was no different from a living person; but when the girl rose, there would be emissions and leakage, staining the mats and covers. One night, the bright moon shone clear; they took a short walk in the courtyard. Ding asked her, "Are there cities and walls in the underworld?" She replied, "They are the same. The city of the dead is not here; it is about three or four li away. But there, night is day." He asked, "Can the living see it?" She answered, "They can." Ding asked to go see it, and the girl consented. They set off by moonlight; the girl floated like the wind, and Wang strained to follow. Swiftly they arrived at a place; the girl said, "It is not far now." Ding looked out but saw nothing at all. The girl spat on his two eyes; when he opened them, his sight was twice as keen as usual, and the night appeared no different from daylight. Suddenly he saw battlements in the dim haze; pedestrians on the road were hurrying about as at a market fair. Soon two bailiffs led three or four bound men past; the last one strangely resembled his elder brother. He hurried closer and indeed it was his brother. In alarm he asked, "Brother, how did you come here?" His brother, seeing him, shed tears and said, "I myself do not know why, but I was forcibly arrested and imprisoned." Wang angrily said, "My brother is a man of propriety and virtue—how could he be put in chains like this!" He then addressed the two bailiffs, hoping they would be lenient and release him. The bailiffs would not consent and were quite arrogant. Wang, enraged, wished to argue with them. His brother stopped him, saying, "This is an official order; one should also obey the law. But I lack funds, and they demand bribes most grievously. When you return, you should make arrangements." Wang grasped his brother's arm and wept aloud. The bailiff, angered, violently jerked the neck-chain, and his brother fell to the ground. When Wang saw this, rage filled his chest; unable to restrain himself, he drew his side-knife and immediately severed the bailiff's head. The other bailiff shrieked, and Wang cut him down as well. The girl cried out in great alarm, "Killing an official messenger—there is no pardon for this crime! Delay, and disaster will overtake you! Please find a boat at once and head north; when you get home, do not remove the funeral streamers, bolt your doors and admit no one—after seven days, you need have no fear." Wang then took his brother and bought a small boat by night, hurrying north with all speed. When he reached home, he saw mourners at the gate and knew his brother had indeed died. He locked the gate and only then entered. When he looked, his brother had vanished; entering the chamber, the deceased had already revived, and called out, "I am starving! Quickly prepare some soup and noodles." By then he had been dead two days, and the whole household was astounded. Wang then told them everything that had happened. After seven days he unbarred the gate and removed the funeral streamers; only then did people know that he had come back to life. Relatives and friends gathered to ask, but he merely gave evasive answers. Then his thoughts turned to Qiuyue, and he missed her deeply. So he went south again, arrived at the old pavilion, lit a candle and waited long, but the girl did not come. Just as he was drowsing and about to sleep, he saw a woman come and say, "The young lady Qiuyue sends her regards to you, sir: earlier, because the official messenger was killed, and the murderer fled, they seized the young lady and took her away; she is now in custody. The jailers treat her cruelly. She looks for you day and night—you should find a way to arrange things." Wang, grief-stricken and indignant, followed the woman. They arrived at a city; entering the western quarter, she pointed to a gate and said, "The young lady is temporarily lodged here." Wang entered and saw many buildings, with numerous prisoners confined, but no Qiuyue. He went further through a small door and saw a tiny room with a lamp. Wang drew near the window to look, and there sat Qiuyue on a couch, covering her face with her sleeves, sobbing. Two attendants were beside her, clutching her chin and catching her shoes, teasing and mocking her. The girl wept all the more bitterly. One attendant pulled her neck and said, "Since you are a criminal, do you still preserve your chastity?" Wang was furious, and without a word, knife in hand, he rushed straight in, cutting down one attendant with each stroke, as if mowing hemp, and seized the girl and carried her off. Fortunately no one noticed. He had barely reached the inn when he suddenly awoke. Just as he was wondering at the ominousness of the dream-vision, he saw Qiuyue standing there with downcast eyes. Startled, he rose and drew her to sit, telling her of his dream. The girl said, "It was real, not a dream." Wang exclaimed in alarm, "Then what are we to do!" The girl sighed, "This is ordained. I was to wait until the end of the month—that was the time for my rebirth; now that things are as they are, how can I wait in haste? You must quickly open the burial place, take me with you home, and call my name frequently each day; in three days I may live. But since the time is not yet full, my bones will be soft and my feet weak, and I cannot yet do the household chores for you." Having spoken, she hurriedly prepared to leave. Then she turned back and said, "I nearly forgot—what of the underworld pursuit? In life, my father taught me talismanic writing, saying that after thirty years it could be worn by a married couple." She asked for a brush and quickly wrote two talismans, saying, "One you wear yourself; the other paste on my back." She saw him out; he marked the place where she vanished, dug about a foot, and there saw the coffin, already decayed. Beside it was a small stele, exactly as the girl had said. Opening the coffin, he saw that the girl's complexion was as in life. He carried her into the room; her clothes turned to dust with the wind. After pasting the talisman on her, he wrapped her tightly in quilts, carried her to the riverbank, hailed a moored boat, and falsely said his younger sister had fallen suddenly ill and he was taking her home. Fortunately the south wind blew strong; by dawn they had reached his village gate. He carried the girl inside and settled her, then told his elder brother and sister-in-law. The whole household looked on in astonishment, not daring to openly question this strange affair. Ding opened the quilt, called out "Qiuyue" repeatedly, and at night he would embrace the corpse as he slept. Gradually it grew warm. After three days she revived; in seven days she could walk. She changed her clothes and paid respects to her sister-in-law, as ethereal and lovely as an immortal. But beyond ten paces she had to be supported; otherwise she would sway in the wind and often threaten to topple. Those who saw her thought this ailment only made her more alluring. She often urged Ding, saying, "Your sins are too deep; you should accumulate virtue and recite scriptures to atone. Otherwise, your lifespan may not be long." Ding had never been a devotee of the Buddha, but from then on he turned to the faith with great piety. Afterwards, no misfortune befell him. The Historian remarks: "I wish to submit a proposal for the law: 'Whoever kills an official messenger shall have his penalty reduced by three degrees from that for killing an ordinary person.' For there is no such person who may not be killed. Thus one who can root out such parasitic functionaries is a good official; even if somewhat harsh, it cannot be called cruelty. Moreover, in the underworld there is no fixed law; if there be an evil person, the knife, saw, cauldron, and tripod are not deemed too cruel. What pleases men's hearts is what the King of Hell approves. How could one, having incurred guilt and brought down underworld pursuit, hope to escape by chance?" Lotus Princess Jiaozhou Dou Xu, style name Xiaohui. He was taking a midday nap when he saw a man in brown standing before his couch, pacing about with a fearful look, as if he wished to speak. The student asked him what it was. He answered, "My lord invites you." "What lord?" he asked. He said, "Nearby in the neighboring district." He followed him out. They turned past walls and houses, and he was led to a place of stacked pavilions and multiple towers, with myriad rafters joined together, and they went along winding ways. He felt that the myriad doors and thousand gates were utterly unlike the human world. He also saw palace ladies and female officials moving about in great numbers, and they all asked the brown-clad man, "Has Master Dou come?" The brown-clad man assented. Presently, a noble official came out and greeted him with great respect. After they entered the hall, the student raised the question, saying, "Since we have had no former acquaintance, I have been remiss in paying my respects. That you should so graciously receive me fills me with deep wonder." The noble official said, "Our sovereign, admiring your pure lineage and your family's generations of virtue, has long inclined toward you and deeply wishes to meet you." The student was all the more alarmed and asked, "What king is this?" The answer was, "You will know presently." Before long, two female officials arrived and led the student onward with paired banners. Passing through a double gate, he saw a king on a hall above, who, seeing the student enter, descended the steps to welcome him and performed the rites of host and guest. When the rites were done, they took their places at a feast, and the spread of delicacies was sumptuous. Looking up, he saw a tablet on the hall reading "Guifu." The student, constrained and ill at ease, could not find words to speak. The king said, "As a near neighbor, our affinity is already deep. You should open your heart freely; do not harbor doubts or fears." The student assented. After several rounds of wine, pipes and songs arose below, but gongs and drums did not sound, and the music was soft and faint. After a while, the king suddenly looked left and right and said, "I have a line; may I trouble you to match it: 'A gifted one ascends Guifu.'" The four seated guests were still pondering when the student responded at once, "The gentleman loves the lotus." The king was greatly pleased and said, "How marvelous! Lianhua is my daughter's childhood name—how should it match so aptly? Is this not a destiny from former lives? Tell the princess that she must come out to meet the gentleman." After some time, the sound of jade pendants drew near and the rich fragrance of orchids and musk filled the air—then the princess arrived. She was sixteen or seventeen, exquisitely beautiful beyond compare. The king bade her make obeisance to the student, saying, "This is my little daughter Lianhua." She made her bow and withdrew. The student gazed at her, his spirit shaken, and sat rigidly lost in thought. The king raised his goblet and urged him to drink, but his eyes did not even see it. The king seemed to notice his intent faintly and said, "My daughter should be a fitting match, but I am ashamed she is not of equal station—what do you think?" The student, disconsolate as if dazed, again did not hear. Those beside him nudged him and said, "The king made you a sign and you did not see it; the king spoke to you and you did not hear it?" The student, bewildered and at a loss, abashed and ashamed, rose from his seat and said, "I have been overwhelmed by your favor and have unwittingly drunk too much; my bearing has lost all order. I beg your leniency. But the day is late and your majesty is occupied; I shall take my leave." The king rose and said, "Having met you, I am truly pleased in my heart—why must you speak of leaving so soon? Since you will not stay, I dare not force you. If your thoughts linger, I shall invite you again." He then ordered the inner attendants to lead him out. On the way, one of the inner attendants said to the student, "Just now the king said you would make a fitting match and seemed to wish to contract a marriage—why did you remain silent without a single word?" The student stamped his foot in regret, and with every step his remorse grew, until he had reached home. Suddenly he awoke; the setting sun's afterglow was already fading. He sat in silent recollection, and everything was vividly before him. That evening after supper he put out the lamp, hoping that his former dream might be recovered, but the road to Handan was remote; he could only sigh in regret. One night, while sharing a couch with a friend, he suddenly saw the former inner attendant arrive, bearing the king's summons. Delighted, the student followed him. When he saw the king, he prostrated himself. The king drew him up and made him sit in a corner, saying, "Since we parted, I know you have been troubled by longing. I have presumptuously given my little daughter to serve you in garments; I trust you will not find it too objectionable." The student immediately bowed in thanks. The king ordered the academic ministers to attend the banquet and drink with him. When the wine was nearly done, a palace lady came forward and announced, "The princess has finished her toilet." Soon several tens of palace ladies escorted the princess out. A red brocade covered her head; with tiny steps like rippling waves she was led onto the carpet, where she exchanged bows with the student and completed the rites. Afterward they were escorted to the guest quarters. The bridal chamber was warm and pure, exquisite and fragrant to the utmost. The student said, "With you before my eyes, truly one might be so happy as to forget death. But I fear that this encounter today is but a dream." The princess covered her mouth and laughed, saying, "Clearly it is I and you—how could it be a dream?" The next morning, just as they rose, he playfully applied powder and yellow paint to the princess's face; then he took a belt and measured her waist, and spread his fingers to gauge her foot. The princess laughed and asked, "Are you mad, my lord?" He said, "I have been deceived by dreams too often, so I mark them carefully. If this should be a dream, it will still be enough to stir my longing." While they were still jesting, a palace lady rushed in and said, "A monster has entered the palace gates; the king has taken refuge in a side hall—great calamity is not far off!" The student was greatly startled and hurried to see the king. The king took his hand and said tearfully, "Since you have not rejected us, I was planning a lasting union. Who could have foreseen that disaster would descend from heaven and our dynasty be on the verge of ruin—what is to be done!" The student asked in alarm what he meant. The king took a memorial from the table and gave it to the student to open and read. The memorial said: "Your subject Hei Yi, Grand Academician of the Hanxiang Hall, on the matter of extraordinary portents, prays that you will move the capital early to preserve the life of the state: According to reports from the Yellow Gate, since the sixth day of the fifth month, a giant python a thousand zhang long has taken up residence outside the palace, devouring both officials and commoners inside and without, numbering thirteen thousand eight hundred persons; all the palaces it has passed have been reduced to ruins, etc. Your subject, pressing forward boldly to observe, has clearly seen the monstrous python: its head is like a mountain, its eyes like rivers and seas; when it raises its head, it swallows halls and pavilions together; when it stretches its body, it covers all towers and walls. Truly this is a calamity unseen in a thousand ages, a disaster unencountered in ten thousand generations! The altars of state and the ancestral temples are in imminent peril! We beg Your Majesty to lead the palace ladies and your household quickly and move to a place of safety." So the text ran. When the student had finished reading, his face was ashen. Then palace ladies rushed in and announced, "The monster has come!" All in the hall cried out in lamentation, and the scene was appalling, as if heaven and earth were darkened. The king, in his panic, did not know what to do, but said tearfully, "My little daughter has now involved you, sir." The student, gasping, returned. The princess, with her attendants, was weeping with her head in her hands; seeing him enter, she clutched his robe and said, "Where will you put me, my lord?" The student, heartbroken and desperate, took her wrist and thought, saying, "I am poor and lowly, and ashamed I have no golden chamber. I have a thatched cottage of three or four rooms—shall we flee and hide there for the time?" The princess, with tears, said, "In this urgency, how can one choose? I beg you, take me quickly!" The student then supported her and led her out. Before long they reached home. The princess said, "This is a great and safe dwelling, far better than my former kingdom. But since I have come with you, to whom shall my father and mother turn? Please build a separate house, and the whole nation will follow." The student found this difficult. The princess wailed, saying, "If you cannot help others in their urgent need, of what use are you, my lord!" The student tried to comfort her a little, and then went inside. The princess flung herself on the bed and wept bitterly, inconsolable. As he was racking his wits and could find no way, he suddenly awoke and knew it was a dream. Yet the sound of weeping at his ear still murmured without ceasing. He listened carefully; it was not a human voice at all, but two or three bees, flying and humming on his pillow. He cried out in astonishment. His friend questioned him, and he told him the dream. The friend too was amazed at the strangeness. Together they rose and looked at the bees, which clung to his clothes and sleeves and would not be brushed away. The friend urged him to build them a hive. The student did as he was asked and supervised the work of construction. He had just raised two walls when a swarm of bees came from outside the wall, in an endless stream like flies. Before the top of the hive was closed, they had gathered in a swarm filling a peck measure. Tracing where they came from, it was the old garden of the neighbor to the west. In that garden was a bee hive, more than thirty years old, and the bees had multiplied greatly. Someone told the old man of the student's affair. When the old man went to look, the bee entrance was silent. He opened the wall, and found a snake coiled within, more than a zhang long. He caught and killed it. Then he knew that the monstrous python was this creature. The bees entered the student's house and multiplied even more vigorously, nor did any other strange event occur. The Green-clothed Girl Yu Sheng, named Jing, styled Xiaosong, was a man of Yidu. He studied at Liquan Temple. One night as he was reading aloud, he suddenly heard a woman outside the window praise him, saying, "Master Yu studies diligently indeed!" He thought to himself, where in these deep mountains could a woman come from? While he was still puzzling over this, the woman had already pushed open the door and entered with a smile, saying, "Diligent in study!" Yu rose in surprise and looked at her—she wore a green jacket and a long skirt, exquisitely lovely beyond compare. Yu knew she was not human, yet pressed her for her place of origin. The woman said, "Do you think I look like one who could bite and devour you? Why trouble yourself with such exhaustive questioning?" Yu took a liking to her, and so lay with her. When she undid her silk jacket, her waist was so slender he could barely encircle it with his hands. As the night watch was about to end, she flitted away. From then on, she came every night without fail. One evening they drank together, and in their conversation she revealed a subtle understanding of music and rhythm. Yu said, "Your voice is delicate and sweet—if you would sing a tune, it would surely enchant the soul." The woman laughed and said, "I dare not sing a tune, for I fear it might indeed enchant your soul." Yu pressed her repeatedly. She said, "It is not that I am stingy, but I fear others might overhear. If you must have it, I shall make a poor attempt—but only in the faintest voice, just to convey the feeling." She then lightly tapped the foot of the bed with her lotus-hooked foot and sang: "The tallow bird in the tree, Has lured me away at midnight. I do not complain that my embroidered shoes are wet, I only fear my lover has no companion." Her voice was as faint as a fly's buzz, barely distinguishable. Yet when one listened closely, it was mellifluous and piercing, stirring the ear and moving the heart. After the song, she opened the door and peered out, saying, "Beware of someone outside the window." She circled the house and looked all around before coming back in. Yu said, "Why are you so deeply suspicious and fearful?" She laughed and said, "As the proverb goes: 'Stolen-born ghosts are always afraid of people.' That is me." Then they retired to bed, but she was uneasy and displeased, saying, "My allotted span in this life—is it to end here?" Yu urgently asked what she meant. She said, "My heart is troubled; my allotted years are spent." Yu comforted her, saying, "A fluttering heart and twitching eyes are common things—why speak so suddenly of this?" She was somewhat comforted, and they were intimate again. When the night-watches had ended, she put on her clothes and rose from the bed. Just as she was about to open the door, she lingered and turned back, saying, "I do not know why, but I am seized with terror. I beg you to see me out." Yu indeed rose and saw her outside the gate. She said, "Stand here and watch me; I will climb over the wall, and then you may return." Yu said, "Yes." He watched her turn past the corridor, and then she was gone without a trace. He was about to return to bed when he heard her crying for help in great distress. Yu ran toward the sound. He looked all around but saw no trace; the voice came from under the eaves. He looked up and saw a spider as large as a pellet clutching something, which was crying out in a hoarse voice. Yu broke the web and poked it down, removing the binding, and found it was a green bee, barely alive. He brought it back into the room and placed it on the table. It recovered for a while before it could walk. Slowly it climbed onto the inkstone, dipped its body into the ink, came out and lay on the desk, and traced the character for "thanks." It spread its wings several times, then flew out through the window. From then on, it never came again. THE LI FAMILY Xie Zhongtiao of Longmen was frivolous and dissolute. When he was past thirty, his wife died, leaving him with two sons and a daughter, who cried and wailed from morning to night, making his life burdensome and miserable. He sought to marry again, but negotiations for a suitable match fell through. He temporarily hired an old maid to look after the children. One day, as he was strolling along a mountain path, a woman suddenly appeared behind him. He stole a glance at her—she was a fine young woman, about twenty years old. His heart delighted in her, and he teased, "Mistress, walking alone—are you not afraid?" The woman walked on without answering. He said again, "Mistress, with your delicate steps, the mountain paths are very difficult." The woman still paid him no heed. Xie looked around and saw no one, so he drew near her side, seized her wrist, and dragged her into a secluded valley, intending to force himself upon her. The woman cried out in anger, "What ruffian is this, who comes to assault me without cause!" Xie pulled her along and did not stop. The woman stumbled and staggered, being in dire straits with no way out. She then said, "If you seek a tryst, must it be like this? Release me, and I shall consent." Xie agreed. They went together into a quiet ravine, and after their coupling in the wilds, they took pleasure in each other. The woman asked him his place of residence and surname, and Xie told her the truth. He then asked her in turn. The woman said, "I am of the Li family. Unhappily, I was widowed early, and my mother-in-law has also passed away; I am all alone with no one to rely on, and so I often go to my mother's home." Xie said, "I too am a widower—would you be willing to follow me?" The woman asked, "Do you have children?" Xie said, "To tell you the truth: when it comes to matters of the bed, I have had no shortage of companions. But the crying of children is more than I can bear." The woman hesitated and said, "That is a great difficulty! Judging by the style of your clothes, socks, and shoes, they are only passable—I believe I could manage such things. But a stepmother is hard to be; I fear I could not bear the reproaches." Xie said, "Please do not doubt or hold back. If I say nothing, what business is it of others?" The woman began to acquiesce slightly, then turned to worry and said, "Since our bodies have touched, how could I refuse? But I have a fierce brother-in-law, who always regards me as a rare commodity to be sold. I fear he will not consent—then what shall we do?" Xie too grew anxious, and proposed that they flee together. The woman said, "I have thought it through thoroughly. My fear is that my family might divulge it, which would be bad for both of us." Xie said, "That is a small matter. There is only one old maid in my house—I shall send her away at once." The woman was pleased, and they returned together. He first hid her in an outer room; then he went in, dismissed the old maid, swept the bed, and welcomed the woman, delighting in her exceedingly. The woman set to work, mending clothes for the children and toiling most diligently. Xie, having obtained this wife, doted on her beyond measure, spending his days behind closed doors with her, receiving no visitors at all. After more than a month, he happened to go out on official business, locking the door behind him. When he returned, the inner gate was tightly shut; he knocked but received no answer. He forced the door open and went in, but there was no trace of anyone. As he reached the bedroom, a huge wolf burst through the door and leaped out, nearly frightening him to death! When he went in and looked, the children were all gone, the floor was soaked with fresh blood, and only three heads remained. He turned and gave chase to the wolf, but it had already vanished without a trace. The Historian of the Strange says: "A scholar who lacks conduct will meet with a bitter retribution. Those who marry again are all inviting wolves into their houses—how much more so when they seek a virtuous wife through wild copulation and flight!" LOTUS FLOWER THIRD LADY Huzhou had a scholar named Zong Xiangruo. One autumn day, while inspecting the fields, he saw the grain in a lush patch shaking violently. Suspicious, he crossed the footpath to look, and there saw a man and woman coupling in the open. He smiled and was about to turn back, when the man, looking abashed, tied his belt and hurried off. The woman also rose. On closer inspection, she was very graceful and pretty. His heart pleased, he wished to dally with her, yet felt ashamed of such base conduct. So he drew near and lightly brushed off her clothes, saying, "Was your sport among the mulberries pleasant?" The woman smiled but did not answer. Zong stepped closer and parted her garment; her skin was smooth as lard. He then rubbed and fondled her all over. The woman laughed, "You stale scholar! Whatever you want, just do it—why this frantic groping?" When he asked her name and family, she said, "A single spring encounter, then we part east and west—why trouble to inquire? Do you mean to leave my name for a chastity monument?" Zong said, "Sporting among dewy weeds in the wild fields is what mountain herdsmen do; I am not used to it. With such fair beauty as yours, even a private tryst should be conducted with dignity—why stoop to such slovenliness?" The woman, hearing this, gave him great approval. Zong said, "My humble study is not far; please come and stay a while." The woman said, "I have been out long; I fear arousing suspicion. Wait until nightfall." She asked in detail about the layout and landmarks of Zong's house, then turned onto a side path and went swiftly away. At the first watch, she indeed arrived at Zong's study. They delighted in rain and clouds, sharing every intimacy. Days and months passed, and no one knew of it. Then a foreign monk came to lodge at the village temple. Seeing Zong, he started and said, "Your person bears a demonic aura—what have you encountered?" Zong answered, "Nothing." After a few days, Zong quietly fell ill. The woman brought fine fruits to him each evening, tending him with affectionate solicitude, like a loving wife. Yet after he lay down, she would insist that he join with her. Zong, weakened by illness, could hardly endure it. He began to suspect she was not human, but had no way to make her leave. So he said, "The monk earlier said I was bewitched by a demon; now I am indeed ill—his words have proven true. Tomorrow I shall invite him here and ask for talismans." The woman's face changed with dismay. Zong grew more suspicious. The next day, he sent a servant to tell the monk the situation. The monk said, "This is a fox. Her skill is still shallow and she is easy to bind." He wrote two talismans and gave them with instructions: "Go home, take a clean earthen jar, place it before the bed, and paste one talisman on the jar's mouth. When the fox flees into it, quickly cover it with a basin. Then paste the other talisman on the basin, put it in a cauldron of boiling water over a fierce fire, and in a moment she will perish." The servant returned and did exactly as the monk instructed. Late at night, the woman arrived and was reaching into her sleeve for golden tangerines to bring to the bedside, when suddenly a whistling sound came from the jar's mouth, and the woman was sucked inside. The servants sprang up, covered the mouth and pasted the talisman, and were about to boil it when Zong, seeing the golden tangerines scattered all over the floor, recalled their past affection. Moved with sorrow, he suddenly ordered them to release her. He removed the cover and tore off the talisman, and the woman emerged from the jar, haggard and near collapse. She bowed her head and said, "I was about to complete the Great Way, yet in one moment I was nearly reduced to ashes! You are a humane man; I swear I will repay you." Then she departed. A few days later, Zong grew worse and seemed on the verge of death. His family hurried to market to buy wood for a coffin. On the way they met a young woman who asked, "Are you a servant of Zong Xiangruo?" They answered yes. She said, "Master Zong is my cousin. I heard he is gravely ill and intended to visit him, but have pressing business and cannot go. Here is a packet of efficacious medicine—trouble you to deliver it." The servant took it home. Zong reflected that among his cousins he had no sisters, and knew this was the fox repaying him. He took the medicine, and indeed recovered greatly; in ten days he was restored. Grateful in his heart, he prayed to the void, wishing to see her once more. One night, after closing his door and drinking alone, he suddenly heard a tap at the window. He drew the bolt and went out to look—it was the fox girl. Overjoyed, he took her hand and thanked her, inviting her in to drink together. The girl said, "Since we parted, I have been troubled, thinking of no way to repay your great kindness. Now I have found a fine match for you—will this suffice to discharge my debt?" Zong asked who it was. She said, "You do not know her. Tomorrow at the hour of the Dragon, go early south of South Lake. If you see a lotus-gatherer wearing a cape of ice-silk, hurry your boat after her. If you lose track of her, look by the embankment for a short-stemmed lotus flower hidden among the leaves; pick it and bring it home. Burn its stem with a wax flame, and you shall obtain a beautiful wife, along with a long life." Zong respectfully took the instruction. Then she took leave, and Zong urged her to stay. She said, "Since suffering that calamity, I have suddenly awakened to the Great Way. Why should I use the love of blankets and pillows to invite people's enmity?" With stern countenance she departed. Zong did as told. At South Lake, he saw many fair maids in the lotus marshes. Among them a maiden with hanging tresses, clad in ice-silk, was unrivalled in beauty. He urged his boat close, but suddenly she vanished. He then parted the lotus thickets, and indeed found a single red lotus with a stem less than a foot long; he broke it off and returned home. He entered the door, set it on the table, and was paring wax beside it to light a fire, when with a turn of his head it had transformed into a lovely maiden. Zong, overjoyed, prostrated himself in worship. The maiden said, "Foolish boy! I am a fox spirit—I will bring misfortune upon you!" Zong paid no heed. She said, "Who taught you this?" He replied, "I knew you myself; need anyone teach me?" He grasped her arm and pulled her toward him. At his touch she transformed into a strange stone, about a foot tall, exquisitely perforated on all sides. He took it and set it on his altar, burned incense, bowed twice, and prayed to it. At night he barred the doors and stopped every crevice, fearing it might escape. At dawn he looked—it was no longer stone, but a gauze cape, from which a distant fragrance wafted; spreading it open, at the collar and hem there still remained traces of her creamy skin. Zong wrapped the cape in his quilt and lay down with it. At dusk he rose to light the lamp; when he returned, there was the maiden with hanging tresses on his pillow. Delirious with joy, yet fearing she would change again, he pleaded piteously before joining her. The maiden laughed, "You fiend! I know not who gossiped, letting this reckless fellow pester me to death!" Then she no longer refused. Yet in their tenderness, she seemed unequal to the effort and repeatedly begged to stop. Zong would not listen. She said, "If so, I shall transform again!" Zong, frightened, desisted. From then on their affection was harmonious. Gold and silks often filled his chests, and he knew not whence they came. The maiden, when meeting others, was meek and seemed unable to speak; Zong also kept her strangeness secret. After more than ten months of pregnancy, when the time came for birth, she entered the inner chamber, told Zong to close the doors and admit no one, then herself cut open her lower belly with a knife, took out the child, and had Zong tear silk to bind her wound; after a night she recovered. After another six or seven years, she said to Zong, "My debts from former lives are fully repaid; I beg leave to say farewell." Zong wept at this and said, "When you came to me, I was poor and could not stand on my own; thanks to you, I have some prosperity—how can you bear to speak of leaving so suddenly? Besides, you have no homeland; and in days to come, for our son not to know his mother would also be a grievance." The woman too was wistful and sad, saying, "Meetings must have partings—that is the constant way. Our son has a blessed countenance, and you too will live to a hundred—what more do you seek? My original surname is He. If you should cherish remembrance, take my old possession and call out, 'Third Lady Lotus!'—then you shall see me." Having said this, she lifted herself, saying, "I am going." As Zong started in amazement, she had already flown higher than his head. He leaped up and pulled at her, catching one of her shoes. The shoe slipped off and fell to the ground, turning into a stone swallow; its color redder than cinnabar, transparent inside and out like crystal. He picked it up and hid it. Examining his chests, he found the ice-silk cape she had worn on her first arrival still there. Whenever he missed her, he would embrace it and call "Third Lady Lotus," and there would appear a lovely maiden, her joyful face and smiling brows exactly as in life—but she did not speak. --- The Duck Curse A certain resident of Bai Family Village west of the county stole a neighbor's duck and cooked it. That night, he felt his skin itch. At dawn he looked, and fine duck-down had sprouted all over him; it hurt when touched. Terrified, he knew no cure. In a dream a man told him, "Your illness is Heaven's punishment. You must get the owner to curse you, and then the down will fall." But the old neighbor was by nature magnanimous; in all his life, when he lost things, he never showed anger in word or look. The thief deceitfully told the old man, "The duck was stolen by so-and-so. He is very afraid of being cursed—if you curse him, it will also warn him for the future." The old man laughed and said, "Who has the spare temper to curse a scoundrel?" He did not curse. The thief grew more distressed, so he confessed the truth to the neighbor. The old man then cursed him, and his illness was completely cured. The Historian of the Strange comments: "How fearsome is the thief! One theft and duck-down grows! How cautionary is the curser! One curse and the thief's guilt is lessened! Yet there is a skill in doing good—that old neighbor, by cursing, practiced kindness." Jiaozhou Liu Xichuan was the chief accounting servant of Fa Neishi. He was over forty when he had a son, whom he doted on to the extreme. He indulged him in everything, only fearing to thwart his wishes. When the son grew up, he became extravagant and unruly, exceeding all bounds, and the father’s accumulated savings were all spent. Before long, the son fell ill. The father had always kept a fine mule. The son said, “That mule is fat and good for eating. Kill it and let me eat it, and my illness will be cured.” Liu was about to slaughter a lesser donkey, but when the son heard of this, he flew into a rage and cursed him, and his sickness worsened. Liu, in fear, killed the mule and served it to him. The son was then pleased. But after tasting one piece, he threw it away. The illness did not abate at all, and soon he died. Liu grieved and lamented as if he would die himself. Three or four years later, villagers formed a pilgrimage society and went up Mount Tai. Halfway up the mountain, they saw a man riding a mule coming swiftly toward them, who strangely resembled Liu’s son. When he drew near, it was indeed he. He dismounted, bowed to all, and exchanged greetings. The villagers were all terrified, yet they dared not question him about his death. They only asked, “What are you doing here?” He replied, “Nothing much—just galloping about east and west.” Then he asked for the name of the innkeeper where they were staying, and they told him. Liu’s son clasped his hands and said, “I have a small matter just now; I have no time to chat about old times. I will call on you tomorrow.” He mounted his mule and left. When the villagers returned to their inn, they thought he might not necessarily come. But at dawn they watched for him, and he indeed arrived. He tied his mule to a post in the stable, came in briskly, and spoke with a smile. They said, “Your respected father misses you day and night—why not go home once to visit and attend on him?” The son asked in surprise, “Of whom do you speak?” They answered, “Liu.” At this, his expression and complexion changed completely. After a long while, he said, “Since he thinks of me, please take back this message: On the seventh day of the fourth month, I will await him here.” Having said that, he took his leave. The villagers returned and conveyed the situation to the old man. Liu wept bitterly and set out on the appointed day, telling his own story to the innkeeper. The innkeeper stopped him, saying, “Previously I observed the young gentleman’s manner—it was cold and distant, and it seemed he had no good intentions. Judging by my experience, you probably should not see him.” Liu wept and would not believe him. The innkeeper said, “I do not mean to hinder you, but spirits and ghosts are unpredictable; I fear you may meet with harm. If you are determined to see him, please hide inside a chest. When he comes, observe his words and expression; if it seems safe, then come out.” Liu followed his advice. Soon after, the son did arrive and asked, “Has that Liu come?” The innkeeper replied, “No.” The son said angrily, “That old beast—why hasn’t he come!” The innkeeper exclaimed in surprise, “Why do you curse your father?” He answered, “What father is he to me! At first I formed a companionship with him as a traveling merchant, never imagining he would harbor a treacherous heart, conceal my blood-earned money, and stubbornly refuse to return it. Now I wish to get my satisfaction from him—how is he my father!” With that, he went out, saying, “He got off easy!” Liu, hidden in the chest, heard everything clearly, sweat streaming down to his heels, not daring to breathe. When the innkeeper called him out, he came out and returned home in abject disgrace. The Strange Historian remarks: “To acquire much gold by violence—what joy is there in that? What is hard to bear is the repayment. Even after squandering it all, he still does not forget it in the Night Terrace—how deep is the venom of resentment against men!” --- **The Immortal** In the third month of the year Guihai, I went with Gao Jiwen to Jixia, and we stayed at the same inn. Jiwen suddenly fell ill. It happened that Gao Zhenmei had also come to the prefecture with Mr. Nian Dong, so we consulted about medicine and treatment. We heard from one Yuan Lin that in the southern suburb there was a family named Liang that had a fox immortal skilled in “the art of Chang Sang.” So we went together to call on them. The woman of the Liang family was in her forties, with a graceful, foxlike air. Entering her chamber, we saw that in the inner room hung a red curtain. Peering through the curtain, we saw on the wall an image of Guanyin, and two or three other scrolls depicting figures on horseback with spears, surrounded by attendants. Against the north wall was a table; on the table was a small seat, less than a foot high, covered with a small embroidered cushion—it was said that when the immortal arrived, he sat there. We all burned incense and bowed in line. The woman struck a chime three times and murmured indistinct words. After the prayers, she courteously invited us to sit on the outer couch. She stood by the curtain, combing her hair and resting her chin on her hand as she spoke with us, telling in detail the miraculous deeds of the immortal. After a long while, the day grew dusk. We feared it would be too late to return, so we begged her to pray again. She then struck the chime and repeated the invocation. Turning around, she stood again and said, “The Immortal loves night talks most; at other times one often cannot meet him. Last night there was a candidate waiting for the examinations who brought wine and food to drink with the Immortal; the Immortal also brought out fine brew to treat the guests, composing poems and laughing merrily. When they dispersed, the night watch was nearly at its end.” Before she finished speaking, we heard within the room a fine, dense rustling, like the fluttering of bats. As we listened intently, suddenly something fell on the table like a huge stone, with a loud crash. The woman turned and said, “You nearly frightened me to death!” Then we heard a sighing and exclaiming sound from the table, like that of a robust old man. The woman used a banana-leaf fan to screen the small seat. From the seat a loud voice said, “What fate! What fate!” Then in a strong tone he invited us to be seated, and seemed to make a bow with clasped hands. After that he asked the guests, “What instruction have you come for?” Gao Zhenmei, following Mr. Nian Dong’s intent, asked, “Have you seen the Bodhisattva?” The voice replied, “The Southern Sea is a familiar path to me—how could I not see it?” Again they asked, “Does Yama also change periodically?” He said, “It is the same as in the world of the living.” “What is Yama’s surname?” “His surname is Cao.” Then they asked for medicine for Jiwen. He said, “When you return, tonight offer tea and water in sacrifice. I will obtain medicine from the Great Being and present it to you—what ailment would not be cured?” Each of us had questions, and he resolved all of them. Then we took our leave and returned. After a night, Jiwen recovered somewhat. I packed and left with Zhenmei first, so we had no time to visit again. --- **Hou Jingshan** Mr. Nian Dong, the Junior Minister, said: “During the Chongzhen reign, there was a monkey immortal named Jingshan. He attached himself to an old man in Hejian and conversed with people on poetry and prose, and determined good and ill fortune, talking on and on without weariness. He would have fruits and nuts placed on the table, and he ate and drank ravenously, scattering the remains, but he could not be seen.” At that time, Mr. Nian’s grandfather was ill in bed. Someone sent a letter saying, “Hou Jingshan is a man of a hundred years—you must meet him.” So he sent servants and horses to fetch the old man. The old man arrived and a day passed, yet the immortal had not come. They burned incense and prayed to him. Suddenly they heard from the roof a loud voice of praise: “What a fine house!” Everyone looked up in alarm. Then from the eaves the voice spoke again. The old man rose and said, “The Great Immortal has arrived.” All followed the old man, who doffed his cap and went out to receive him. Again they heard the sound of saluting with clasped hands. When he entered the room, he burst into loud laughter and talked freely. At that time, Mr. Nian’s brothers were still candidates and had just returned from the examinations. The immortal said, “Your two excellencies’ examination papers were good; but you are not yet familiar with the Classics—you must work harder, and the Cloud Road is not far off.” The two gentlemen respectfully asked about their grandfather’s illness. He said, “Matters of life and death are great; their principles are hard to fathom.” Thus they all understood it was inauspicious. Before long, the elder Mr. Nian passed away. Formerly, there was a monkey-trainer who performed with a monkey in the village. The monkey broke its chain and escaped, unable to be caught, and fled into the mountains. Decades later, people still saw it. It moved with incredible swiftness; when it saw people, it fled. Later it gradually came into the villages, stealing fruits and pastries, but no one noticed it. One day, it was spotted by a villager, who chased it into the fields and shot it dead. But the monkey’s ghost did not know it was dead; it only felt its body as light as a leaf, and could travel a hundred leagues in a single breath. It then went to attach itself to the old man of Hejian, saying, “If you can serve me, I will make you rich.” Thus it called itself Jingshan. In Changsha there was a monkey with a golden chain around its neck, which often came and went among the homes of officials and gentry. Whoever saw it was sure to have some happy event. If offered fruit, it would eat it. No one knew where it came from, nor where it went. A man over ninety said, “When I was a child, I still saw on its chain a tablet with the insignia of a former Ming princely establishment.” It must have been an immortal as well. --- **Money Flowing** Liu Zongyu of Yishui said: His servant Du He happened to be in the garden when he saw money flowing like water, about two or three feet deep and wide. Du, startled and delighted, scooped up two handfuls and then lay face down on top of it. When he rose to look, the money had all vanished; only what he held in his hands remained. --- **Guo Sheng** Guo Sheng, a native of Dongshan in the county, loved to read when young. But in the mountain village he had no one to correct him, and by the time he was past twenty, many of his characters and strokes were erroneous. Previously, his household had been plagued by a fox; clothing, food, utensils, and articles were constantly lost, causing them great distress. One night as he read, with his scroll laid on the desk, it was scribbled over by the fox; in worse places, the lines and ink were so disordered they could not be distinguished. He then selected the somewhat cleaner pieces and compiled them for reading, getting only sixty or seventy pieces. He was deeply angry and resentful, but could do nothing. He also accumulated more than twenty of his school exercises, awaiting submission to famous scholars. When he rose in the morning, he saw them spread out on the desk, with thick ink splashed over them, nearly all ruined. He was very indignant. Just then a certain Mr. Wang, who had come to the mountains for some reason, and had long been on good terms with Guo, called on him. Seeing the defaced manuscripts, he asked about them. Guo told him all his troubles, and also showed Wang the remnants of his exercises. Wang examined them carefully; the parts that the fox had blotted out or left seemed to have a hidden judgment. He also looked over the smeared pages, which appeared cluttered and redundant, fit for deletion. He said in surprise, "The fox seems to have purpose. Not only should you not worry about it, you should immediately take it as your teacher." After several months, Guo looked back at his old compositions, and suddenly felt that the markings had been quite correct. So he composed two new pieces on set topics and placed them on the desk to observe any further signs. By dawn, they were marked again. After over a year, the fox stopped marking; but it made large dots with thick ink, splattering the whole page. Guo found this strange and took it to show Wang. Wang examined it and said, "The fox is truly your teacher; your fine pieces can now be sold." That year, he indeed entered the county school. Guo was grateful to the fox for this, and always set out chicken and millet to provide for the fox's eating and drinking. Whenever he bought examination model essays, he did not choose them himself but left the decision to the fox. Because of this, he placed among the top names in both examinations and entered the provincial contest as an alternate. At that time, the compositions of Masters Ye and Miao were elegant and gorgeous, and were recited in every household. Guo had a handwritten copy, which he treasured greatly, when suddenly a bowlful of thick ink was poured over it, staining it so that hardly a character remained. Also, when he drafted compositions on set topics and felt pleased with them, they were all recklessly blotted out. So he gradually ceased to trust the fox. Not long after, Master Ye was arrested for rectifying the literary style, and Guo somewhat conceded the fox's foresight. But every time he composed an essay, after painstaking effort, it would be smeared. Since he had repeatedly been ranked at the top, his self-esteem was quite high, and he increasingly doubted the fox's correctness. So he copied out the pieces that had previously received many splatters and tested them; the fox again splashed them all over. He laughed and said, "This is truly nonsense! Why were you right before and wrong now?" So he stopped providing food for the fox, and locked his reading materials in a box. In the morning he saw that the seals were intact, but when he opened it, the scroll's face had four strokes drawn on it, thicker than a finger; the first chapter had five strokes, the second also five, and after that nothing. From then on the fox was completely silent. Later Guo received one fourth-class grade and two fifth-class grades; only then did he realize that the strokes had already foreshadowed the outcome. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Pride invites loss, modesty brings benefit—this is the Way of Heaven. When one's fame is slightly established, one then deems oneself infallible, clinging to the leftover habits of Ye and Miao, and persisting without change; the momentum will not stop until total defeat and ruin. Such is the harm of pride!" Jin Shengse Jin Shengse was a native of Jinning. He married a daughter of the Mu family from the same village. They had a son just one year old. Jin suddenly fell ill, and judged that he would surely die. He said to his wife, "If I die, you must remarry—do not remain a widow!" Hearing this, his wife made sweet vows and solemn oaths, pledging that she would rather die. Jin waved his hand and called to his mother, saying, "If I die, I beg you to look after the child—do not make her keep widowhood." His mother wept and agreed. Shortly after, Jin indeed died. Old Madam Mu came to offer condolences; after weeping, she said to Jin's mother, "Heaven has sent this grievous misfortune, and your son-in-law has suddenly met his fate. My daughter is too young and weak—what is to be done?" Jin's mother, in the midst of grief, heard the old woman's words and could not contain her indignation. She replied with heat, "She must keep widowhood!" Old Madam Mu was abashed and desisted. That night, as she slept beside her daughter, she said privately, "Any man can be a husband. With such fine limbs, why should my daughter worry about not finding a good match? To not marry off a young girl early, but to stare obsessively at this swaddled thing—is that not folly? If she is forced to keep widowhood, we need not show pleasant faces to one another." Jin's mother passed by and overheard some of these words, and became even angrier. The next day, she said to Old Madam Mu, "My dead son left a will—he never wanted his wife to keep widowhood. Now that you are so impatient, I insist that she must keep it!" Old Madam Mu left in anger. That night, Jin's mother dreamed that her son came weeping and urging her, which she found strange. She sent word to the Mu family, agreeing that after the funeral the wife might remarry as she pleased. But upon consulting geomancers, the burial orientation for that year was inauspicious. The wife, however, thought to display herself for a new match; even in mourning garb she did not forget to apply cosmetics. At home she still dressed plainly; but whenever she went to visit her parents, she would appear in fresh, striking finery. Her mother-in-law knew of this and disapproved, but since the woman was to become another's wife, she endured it. Thus the wife grew even more brazen. In the village there was a scoundrel named Dong Gui, who saw her and fancied her. He bribed a neighboring old woman with gold to seek a liaison with the wife. At night, he climbed over the wall from the old woman's house to reach the wife's chambers, and there they had intercourse. This went on for some ten days, and scandal spread everywhere; only the mother-in-law was unaware. The wife had only a young maidservant at night, who was her confidante. One evening, as the two were in the height of pleasure, they heard a rumbling from the coffin, like the crack of firecrackers. The maidservant, sleeping on an outer couch, saw the dead man emerge from behind the funeral curtain, wearing a sword, and enter the bedchamber. Soon she heard the two cry out in terror. Shortly after, Dong fled out naked. Before long, Jin emerged, dragging the wife by her hair. The wife screamed loudly. The mother, startled awake, saw the wife running away naked and was about to open the door. She called out but received no answer. She went out to look, but heard nothing, and the wife had vanished completely. Entering the wife's room, the lamp was still lit. She saw a man's shoes and called for the maid; only then did the maid tremblingly come out and relate the strange events. They were both astonished. Dong fled to the neighbor's house and cowered in a corner of the wall. After some time, hearing the human sounds gradually subside, he rose. He was completely naked and suffered terribly from the cold, shivering; he was about to borrow clothes from the old woman. Seeing a room in the courtyard with its double doors ajar, he stepped inside. Groping on the bed, he touched a woman's foot and recognized her as the neighbor's daughter-in-law. Lust suddenly seized him; taking advantage of her sleep, he secretly had his way with her. The woman awoke and asked, "Have you come?" He answered, "Yes." The woman suspected nothing and was most affectionate. Now the neighbor's son had gone to North Village on some business, and had told his wife to bolt the door and wait for his return. When he came back, he heard sounds within and, suspicious, listened carefully; the voices and postures were utterly obscene. Enraged, he took a spear and entered the room. Dong, terrified, scuttled under the bed. The son struck him dead. Then he wanted to kill his wife. She wept and told him of the mistake, and he released her. But he could not explain who the man under the bed was. He roused his mother, and together they brought a light; they could barely make out the identity. Looking closely, the man still had a faint breath; when questioned about his origin, he still managed to confess. But blood flowed incessantly from several wounds, and soon he died. The old woman, frantic, said to her son, "If you catch an adulterer and kill only him, what then?" The son had no choice but to kill his wife as well. That night, Old Man Mu was asleep when he heard a clattering noise outside the door. Looking out, he saw flames blazing at the eaves, and the arsonist still loitering nearby. The old man shouted, and all the household gathered. Fortunately the fire had just started and was easy to extinguish. He ordered men to take bows and crossbows and pursue the arsonist. They saw a man agile as an ape, who vaulted over the wall and disappeared. Beyond the wall was the old man's peach orchard, surrounded on all sides by high, sturdy walls. Several men climbed ladders to look, but found no trace; only beneath the wall something lumpish stirred slightly. When they called out, there was no reply; when they shot at it, it was limp. Opening the gate to investigate, they found a woman lying naked, with an arrow through her chest and skull. Examining her closely by lamplight, it was the old man's daughter—Jin's wife. Terrified, they informed the master. The old man and his wife were frantic with grief, not understanding the cause. The girl's eyes were closed, her face ashen, and her breath thinner than a thread. They tried to pull out the arrow from her skull, but could not; they had to brace a foot against her head and neck to extract it. The girl gave a faint moan, blood gushed profusely, and her breath stopped. The old man was panic-stricken and at a loss. At dawn, he told the truth to Jin's mother, prostrating himself and begging for mercy. But Jin's mother showed no anger, merely told him the circumstances and bade him arrange the burial himself. Jin had an uncle's son named Shengguang, who angrily went to the old man's door and reviled him for his past wrongs. The old man, ashamed and dejected, bribed him to desist. But in the end, no one knew the name of the woman's paramour. Soon the neighbor's son surrendered himself for killing the adulterer; after a light penalty, he was released. But the woman's brother, Ma Biao, was habitually litigious and filed a complaint about his sister's injustice. The officials arrested the old woman; terrified, she revealed the whole story from beginning to end. They also summoned Jin's mother; she pleaded illness and sent Shengguang to testify, who gave all the details. Thereupon the previous complaints were all brought together, implicating Old Man Mu and his wife entirely, and the facts were fully investigated. Mu was punished for failing to instruct his daughter and for conniving in licentiousness, and was sentenced to caning; he had to redeem himself by payment, and his family property was wiped out. The neighbor's old woman, who had abetted the adultery, was beaten to death with the staff. Thus the case was closed. 異史氏曰：「金氏子其神乎！諄囑醮婦，抑何明也！一人不殺，而諸恨並雪，可不謂神乎！鄰嫗誘人婦，而反淫己婦；木媼愛女，而卒以殺女。鳴呼！『欲知後日因，當前作者是』，報更速於來生矣！」 Yi Shi Shi said: "Jin's son—is he not divine! How clearly he earnestly admonished the remarried woman! He killed not a single person, yet all grievances were avenged—can one not call that divine? The old neighbor woman seduced another's wife, but in turn her own wife was debauched; the old woman Mu loved her daughter, but in the end it caused her daughter's death. Alas! 'To know the cause of future days, look at what the present doer is'—retribution comes even faster than in the next life!" 彭海秋 Peng Haiqiu 萊州諸生彭好古，讀書別業，離家頗遠。中秋未歸，岑寂無偶。念村中無可共語；惟丘生者，是邑名士，而素有隱惡，彭常鄙之。月既上，倍益無聊，不得已，折簡邀丘。飲次，有剝啄者。齋僮出應門，則一書生，將謁主人。彭離席，肅客人。相揖環坐，便詢族居。客曰：「小生廣陵人，與君同姓，字海秋。值此良夜，旅邸倍苦。聞君高雅，遂乃不介而見。」視其人，布衣潔整，談笑風流。彭大喜曰：「是我宗人。今夕何夕，遘此嘉客！」即命酌，款若夙好。察其意，似甚鄙丘；丘仰與攀談，輒傲不為禮。彭代為之慚，因撓亂其詞，請先以俚歌侑飲。乃仰天再咳，歌「扶風豪士之曲」，相與歡笑。客曰：「僕不能韻，莫報陽春。倩代者可乎？」彭言：「如教。」客問：「萊城有名妓無也？」彭答云：「無。」客默然良久，謂齋僮曰：「適喚一人，在門外，可導入之。」僮出，果見一女子逡巡戶外。引之入。年二八已來，宛然若仙。彭驚絕，掖坐。衣柳黃帔；香溢四座。客便慰問：「千里頗煩跋涉也！」女含笑唯唯。彭異之，便致研詰。客曰：「貴鄉苦無佳人，適於西湖舟中喚得來。」謂女曰：「適舟中所唱『薄倖郎曲』，大佳。請再反之。」女歌云：「薄倖郎，牽馬洗春沼。人聲遠，馬聲杳；江天高，山月小。掉頭去不歸，庭中生白曉。不怨別離多，但愁懽會少。眠何處？勿作隨風絮。便是不封侯，莫向臨邛去！」客於襪中出玉笛，隨聲便串；曲終笛止。彭驚歎不已，曰：「西湖至此，何止千里，咄嗟招來，得非仙乎？」客曰：「仙何敢言，但視萬里猶庭戶耳。今夕西湖風月，尤盛曩時，不可不一觀也，能從遊否？」彭留心欲覘其異，諾言：「幸甚。」客問：「舟乎，騎乎？」彭思舟坐為逸，答言：「願舟。」客曰：「此處呼舟較遠，天河中當有渡者。」乃以手向空招曰：「舡來舡來！我等要西湖去，不吝償也。」無何，彩船一隻，自空飄落，煙雲繞之。眾俱登。見一人持短棹；棹末密排修翎，形類羽扇；一搖羽清風習習。舟漸上入雲霄，望南游行，其駛如箭。踰刻，舟落水中。但聞絃管敖曹，鳴聲喤聒。出舟一望，月印煙波，游船成市。榜人罷棹，任其自流。細視，真西湖也。客於艙後，取異肴佳釀，懽然對酌。 Peng Haogiu, a scholar of Laizhou, studied in a separate villa, quite far from home. He had not returned for the Mid-Autumn Festival; he was lonely and without companion. Thinking there was no one in the village worth talking to—only Mr. Qiu, a famous scholar of the district, but who had always had hidden vices, and Peng often looked down upon him. When the moon had risen, he felt even more bored; having no alternative, he wrote a note to invite Qiu. While they were drinking, there came a knocking. The study boy went out to answer the door, and there was a scholar who wished to see the host. Peng left his seat and ushered the guest in. They bowed and sat around, and then he inquired about his clan and residence. The guest said: "I am a young man from Guangling, of the same surname as you, and my style is Haiqiu. On this fine night, I find it doubly bitter in the inn. Hearing of your refinement, I have come without introduction to see you." Peng looked at the man: his plain clothes were neat and clean, and his conversation and laughter were elegant. Peng was overjoyed and said: "He is of my clan. What evening is this, that I encounter such a fine guest!" He at once ordered wine and treated him as if they were old friends. Observing his manner, he seemed to greatly disdain Qiu; when Qiu tried to engage him in conversation, he would always be arrogant and refuse to show courtesy. Peng felt embarrassed on Qiu's behalf, and so he interrupted their talk and asked permission to first sing a rustic song to accompany the wine. Then he looked up to the sky, cleared his throat twice, and sang the tune "Song of the Gallant Man of Fufeng"; they all laughed together. The guest said: "I cannot compose verses, so I cannot repay your 'Spring of the Sun' song. May I ask someone to sing on my behalf?" Peng said: "As you instruct." The guest asked: "Are there any famous courtesans in Lai city?" Peng replied: "There are none." The guest was silent for a long while, then said to the study boy: "I just called for someone; she is outside the door—you may bring her in." The boy went out and indeed saw a woman lingering outside the door. He led her in. She was about sixteen or so, appearing like an immortal. Peng was astonished and helped her to a seat. She wore a willow-yellow cape; fragrance filled the whole room. The guest then asked solicitously: "You have taken the trouble to travel a thousand li!" The woman smiled and assented. Peng, finding it strange, pressed for details. The guest said: "Your locality is sorely lacking in beautiful women; I just now summoned her from a boat on West Lake." He said to the woman: "The song 'The Fickle Lord' that you sang on the boat just now was very good. Please sing it again." The woman sang: "The fickle lord, by the spring moor, leads his horse to wash. Far off are men's voices, the horse's hoofbeats fade; The river's sky is high, the mountain moon is small. He turns his head and goes, never to return; In the courtyard dawn breaks white. I do not complain of many partings, But only grieve that joyful meetings are few. Where do you sleep? Do not be as willow-down blown by the wind. Even if you are not enfeoffed as a marquis, Do not go to Linqiong!" The guest took out a jade flute from his sock and accompanied the melody; when the song ended, the flute stopped. Peng was unstinting in his wonder and said: "From here to West Lake is more than a thousand li—yet you summoned her in a snap. Are you not an immortal?" The guest said: "How dare I claim immortality? But I regard ten thousand li as but the courtyard and the door. Tonight the wind and moonlight at West Lake are even finer than before; we must not miss seeing them. Can you come with me?" Peng, wishing to observe his marvels, agreed: "I would be most fortunate." The guest asked: "By boat, or by horse?" Peng thought that sitting in a boat would be more comfortable, so he replied: "I would prefer a boat." The guest said: "Calling a boat from here is rather far; there should be ferrymen in the Milky Way." Then he raised his hand and beckoned to the sky, saying: "Boat, come! Boat, come! We want to go to West Lake; we will not be stingy with the fare." Before long, a painted boat drifted down from the sky, surrounded by mist and clouds. All boarded. They saw a man holding a short oar; at the end of the oar were closely set long feathers, shaped like a feather fan; with one shake of the feathers, a refreshing breeze arose. The boat gradually rose into the clouds, heading southward, and sped along like an arrow. After a moment, the boat descended into the water. They heard only the clamour of string and wind instruments, a loud and jangling noise. Coming out of the boat and looking around, the moon was reflected in the misty waves, and pleasure boats formed a market. The boatman stopped plying the oar and let the boat drift on its own. Looking closely, it was truly West Lake. The guest took out rare delicacies and fine wine from the cabin, and they happily drank together. 少間，一樓船漸近，相傍而行。隔窗以窺，中有二三人，圍棋喧笑。客飛一觥向女曰：「引此送君行。」女飲間，彭依戀徘徊，惟恐其去，蹴之以足。女斜波送盼。彭益動，請要後期。女曰：「如相見愛，但問娟娘名字，無不知者。」客即以彭綾巾授女，曰：「我為若代訂三年之約。」即起，托女子於掌中，曰：「仙乎，仙乎！」乃扳鄰窗，捉女人，窗目如盤，女伏身蛇遊而進，殊不覺隘。俄聞鄰舟曰：「娟娘醒矣。」舟即蕩去。遙見舟已就泊，舟中人紛紛並去，游興頓消。遂與客言，欲一登岸，略同眺矚。纔作商榷，舟已自攏。因而離舟翔步，覺有里餘。客後至，牽一馬來，令彭捉之。即復去，曰：「待再假兩騎來。」久之不至。行人已稀；仰視斜月西轉，天色向曙。丘亦不知何往。捉馬營營，進退無主。振轡至泊舟所，則人船俱失。念腰橐空匱，倍益憂皇。天大明，見馬上有小錯囊；探之，得白金三四兩。買食凝待，不覺向午。計不如暫訪娟娘，可以徐察丘耗。比訊娟娘名字，並無知者，興轉蕭索。次日遂行。馬調良，幸不蹇劣，半月始歸。 After a short while, a tower boat gradually drew near and sailed alongside. Peering through the window, there were two or three people inside, playing weiqi and laughing noisily. The guest raised a goblet to the woman and said: "Drink this to see you off." While the woman was drinking, Peng, reluctant and lingering, feared she would leave, and nudged her with his foot. The woman cast him a sidelong glance. Peng was even more moved and asked for a future appointment. The woman said: "If you truly love me, just ask for the name Juan Niang—no one will not know it." The guest then took Peng's silk kerchief and gave it to the woman, saying: "I will make a three-year pact on your behalf." Then he rose, placed the woman in the palm of his hand, and said: "Immortal, O immortal!" Then he grasped the neighbouring window; the window opening was as large as a plate; the woman bent her body and slithered in like a snake, not feeling cramped at all. Soon they heard from the neighbouring boat: "Juan Niang is awake." The boat then drifted away. From afar they saw that boat already moored, and the people in it all left one after another. Their pleasure in the outing suddenly waned. So he said to the guest that he wished to go ashore for a little sightseeing. Just as they were discussing it, the boat had already pulled in. So they left the boat and strolled about, feeling they had gone more than a li. The guest came later, leading a horse, and told Peng to hold it. Then he left again, saying: "Wait while I borrow two more horses." A long time passed and he did not return. The passers-by grew few; looking up, the slanting moon was turning westward, and the sky was approaching dawn. Qiu was also nowhere to be seen. Peng held the horse and fretted, at a loss what to do. He shook the reins and went to the place where the boat had been moored, but both people and boat were gone. Thinking that his waist-pouch was empty, he became even more anxious. When it was fully light, he saw a small embroidered pouch on the horse; he searched it and found three or four taels of white silver. He bought some food and waited fixedly, and before he knew it it was noon. He reckoned it would be better to inquire after Juan Niang for the time being, and that way he could gradually learn news of Qiu. But when he asked for the name Juan Niang, no one knew it; his spirits turned even more dejected. The next day he set out. The horse was well-trained and fortunately not lame or slow; it was half a month before he returned. 方三人之乘舟而上也，齋僮歸白：「主人已仙去。」舉家哀涕，謂其不返。彭歸，繫馬而入。家人驚喜集問，彭始具白其異。因念獨還鄉井，恐丘家聞而致詰；戒家人勿播。語次，道馬所由來。眾以仙人所遺，便悉詣廄驗視。及至，則馬頓渺，但有丘生，以草韁縶櫪邊。駭極，呼彭出視。見丘垂首棧下，面色灰死，問之不言，兩眸啟閉而已。彭大不忍，解扶榻上，若喪魂魄。灌以湯，稍稍能咽。中夜少蘇，急欲登廁；扶掖而往，下馬糞數枚。又少飲啜，始能言。彭就榻研問之。丘云：「下船後，彼引我閒語。至空處，戲拍項領，遂迷悶顛踣。伏定少刻，自顧已馬。心亦醒悟，但不能言耳。是大辱恥，誠不可以告妻子，乞勿洩也！」彭諾之，命僕馬馳送歸。彭自是不能忘情於娟娘。 Just as the three had gone up in the boat, the study boy returned and reported: "The master has gone off as an immortal." The whole household wept in sorrow, saying he would not return. When Peng came back, he tied the horse and entered. The family, surprised and delighted, gathered to question him; Peng then told them in full about the marvels. Then, reflecting that he had returned alone to his native place, he feared that Qiu's family might hear and make enquiries; he cautioned his family not to spread the news. In the course of conversation, he mentioned where the horse had come from. Everyone, thinking it was left by the immortal, all went to the stable to examine it. When they got there, the horse had suddenly vanished, and there was only Mr. Qiu, tied to the manger with a grass halter. Extremely startled, they called Peng out to look. They saw Qiu hanging his head under the rack, his face ashen and deathlike; when asked he did not speak, only his two eyes opened and closed. Peng could not bear it, and untied him and helped him onto a couch, where he seemed to have lost his soul. They poured broth into him, and gradually he could swallow. In the middle of the night he revived a little and urgently needed to go to the privy; they supported him there, and he passed several horse dung pellets. After drinking a little more, he was finally able to speak. Peng questioned him closely by the couch. Qiu said: "After we disembarked, he led me aside for idle talk. When we reached an empty place, he playfully slapped my neck, and I became dazed and fell over. After lying still for a while, I saw that I had become a horse. My mind was clear, but I could not speak. This is a great shame, truly I cannot tell my wife and children; I beg you not to divulge it!" Peng promised, and ordered a servant to take a horse and send him home swiftly. From then on, Peng could not forget Juan Niang. Another three years passed, and because his elder sister's husband was appointed magistrate of Yangzhou, he went there to visit. In the prefecture there was a young Master Liang, who was on close terms with the Peng family, and he gave a banquet and invited them to drink. At the feast there were several singing girls, all of whom came to pay their respects. The young master asked for Juan-niang, and the servants reported that she was ill. The young master angrily said, "This slave girl thinks too highly of herself—go bind her with a rope and bring her here!" Peng, hearing Juan-niang's name, asked in surprise who she was. The young master said, "She is a courtesan, the foremost in Guangling. Because she has a slight reputation, she has become arrogant and discourteous." Peng suspected it was merely a coincidence of names, yet his heart beat wildly with anxiety, and he greatly wished to see her. Before long, Juan-niang arrived, and the young master scolded her with great vehemence. Peng looked closely and saw that she was indeed the one he had seen at Mid-Autumn. He said to the young master, "This woman has ties with me; I beg you to pardon her." Juan-niang gazed fixedly at Peng, and seemed equally startled. The young master had no leisure to inquire further, and at once ordered the wine-cups to be passed. Peng asked, "Do you still remember the 'Song of the Fickle Lover'?" Juan-niang was even more alarmed; her eyes rested on him for a long while before she began to sing that old song. Hearing her voice, it was exactly as it had been that Mid-Autumn night long ago. When the feast ended, the young master ordered her to attend the guest's sleeping quarters. Peng took her hand and said, "The three-year vow—is it only now to be fulfilled?" Juan-niang said, "That day I was following someone on West Lake, and after drinking but a few cups, I suddenly felt as if drunk. In a daze, I was taken away by a man and placed in a village. A page led me inside; there were three guests at the table, and you were one of them. Afterwards we took a boat to West Lake, and he sent me back in through the window lattice, holding my hand with deep affection. Whenever I pondered it, I thought it was all an illusory dream—yet the silk kerchief was still there, and to this day I keep it wrapped in many layers." Peng told her the whole story, and together they sighed in wonder. Juan-niang yielded her body into his embrace and said, sobbing, "The immortal has already acted as a good matchmaker—do not, because I am one of the dusty world, abandon the thought of this sufferer in the bitter sea!" Peng said, "The vow made on the boat has never for a single day left my heart. If you are willing, then I would not begrudge emptying my purse or selling my horse." The next morning, he told the young master; he also borrowed money from the sub-prefect, and with a thousand taels had her name struck from the register, and brought her home with him. Once, happening to visit his country estate, she could still recognize the place where they had drunk that year. The Historian of the Strange comments: "If a horse becomes a man, surely he must have been a man who was like a horse; if he is made into a horse, one truly resents that he was not a man. Lions, elephants, cranes, and rocs all receive the whip and spur—how can one say this is not the benevolence and love of the divine beings? Even the making of a three-year pact is but a crossing of the bitter sea." Kan Yu The family of Song, Vice-Minister of the Court of Judicature and Revision, of Yizhou, had long practiced geomancy; even the women of the inner chambers could read its books and understand its principles. When Lord Song died, his two sons each set up their own households and sought a burial site for their father. Hearing of any who were skilled in the arts of the Green Crow, they would spare no distance and vie to summon them. Thus the two households gathered over a hundred geomancers; day after day they rode out in company through the countryside, going in and out by separate east and west roads, like two armies. After more than a month, each had found an auspicious "cow-sleeping" ground—this one saying it would bring a marquisate, that one saying it would bring a chancellorship. The two brothers would not yield to each other, and out of obstinacy refused to consult together, each building his own funerary enclosure, with brocade canopies and colorful banners, both fully prepared. When the funeral carriage reached the fork in the road, the two brothers each led their retainers in dispute, from dawn until sunset, unable to decide. The guests all departed. The bearers changed shoulders ten times over, and being exhausted and unable to carry it further, they together abandoned the coffin at the roadside. Thereupon they stopped the burial, hired workmen to build a shelter to keep off wind and rain. The elder brother built a house beside it and left servants to keep watch; the younger brother likewise built a house. The elder built another, and the younger built another again, until in three years it had become a village. After many years had passed, the brothers died one after another; the elder's wife and the younger's wife at last joined plans, resolutely setting aside the former fiery disputes, and rode together into the countryside to inspect the two sites each had chosen. They pronounced both unsatisfactory, and together prepared betrothal gifts and hired a geomancer to make a fresh survey. Whenever a site was found, a plan was drawn up and submitted to the inner chambers, where they would judge its merits. Each day several plans were presented, and they found fault with every one. After more than ten days, they at last selected a plot. The elder's wife looked at the plan and said joyfully, "This will do," and showed it to the younger's wife. The younger's wife said, "This ground ought first to produce a military juren of filial conduct." After the burial, three years later, the eldest grandson of the family indeed passed the provincial examination as a military xiucai. The Historian of the Strange comments: "The arts of the Green Crow may have some basis in reason; but to be obsessed and blindly believe in them is foolishness. Moreover, to quarrel out of stubborn pride and abandon the coffin by the roadside—this shows no regard for the principles of filial piety and fraternal duty. How can one hope by geomancy to bring blessings to one's children and grandchildren? As for the sisters-in-law of the inner chambers, they were truly refined and worthy of being handed down." Miss Dou Nan Sanfu was of a noble clan in Jinyang. He had a country estate ten li from his residence, and every day he would ride there once. One time he encountered rain; on the road there was a small village, and seeing a farmhouse with a spacious gateway, he took shelter there. The people of the nearby villages all held Nan in great awe. After a short while, the master of the house came out to invite him in, bowing with great deference. The house was as small as a bushel. Once the guest was seated, the master took a broom and busily swept clean. Then he made tea with honey. Only when bidden did he dare sit. When asked his name, he said, "My name is Tingzhang, and my surname is Dou." Before long, wine and roast chicken were brought, and he attended to everything with thorough care. A girl of hairpin age served the food, sometimes stopping outside the door and slightly revealing half her person—she was fifteen or sixteen, elegant and incomparably lovely. Nan's heart was stirred. When the rain stopped he returned home, but his thoughts were most intently fixed on her. The next day he took grain and silk to repay the hospitality, using this as a step to advance. After that he often visited the Dou household, always bringing wine and delicacies and lingering with them. The girl grew familiar and no longer avoided him much, often running about before him. When he stole glances at her, she would lower her head and smile. Nan became ever more infatuated, and no three days passed without his going there. One day, when Dou was not at home, he sat for a long while and the girl came out to receive him. Nan seized her arm and was familiar with her. The girl flushed with shame and anger, firmly refusing, saying, "Though I am poor, I still must be properly wed—how can you, noble and haughty sir, thus insult a person?" Now Nan was a widower, and he bowed to her, saying, "If I am granted your affection, I will surely not marry another." The girl demanded an oath; Nan pointed to heaven and swore by the sun, making firm his eternal pledge, and the girl then consented. From that time on, whenever he saw that Dou was out, he would go and enjoy secret trysts. The girl urged him, saying, "Assignations in the mulberry grove cannot last long. Every day under the shelter of your protection—if you would deign to grant me the bond of marriage, my parents would surely count it an honor, and there would be no reason it should not be agreed to. You should make plans quickly!" Nan promised. Yet in his heart he thought, how could a farming family be a proper match? He made evasive excuses to put it off. Just then a matchmaker came to propose a marriage with a great family; at first he hesitated, but when he heard the girl was beautiful and wealthy, his mind was made up. The girl, being with child, pressed him ever more urgently, and Nan ceased visiting her entirely. Before long, the girl gave birth to a son. Her father beat her in anger. The girl told him everything, saying, "Nan has promised to marry me." Dou then released her and sent someone to question Nan, but Nan flatly refused to acknowledge it. Dou abandoned the child and beat the girl all the more. The girl secretly entreated a neighbor woman to tell Nan of her suffering, but Nan ignored her. The girl fled by night; seeing the abandoned child still alive, she picked him up and ran to Nan's house. Knocking on the gate, she said to the porter, "If I can but have one word from the master, I need not die. Even if he does not care for me, does he not care for the child?" The porter reported all to Nan, but Nan ordered him not to admit her. The girl leaned against the door weeping bitterly; by the fifth watch, her voice was heard no more. At dawn they looked and saw the girl sitting there, holding the child, frozen stiff. Dou, enraged, brought suit before the authorities, and all condemned Nan for his faithlessness, intending to punish him. Nan, in fear, bribed with a thousand taels and was spared. The great family's daughter dreamed that the girl, with hair disheveled and holding her child, came to tell her: "You must not promise yourself to that faithless man; if you do, I will surely kill you!" But the great family, coveting Nan's wealth, finally consented. After the wedding, her trousseau was rich and abundant, and the new bride was also pretty and fine. Yet she was given to sorrow, and all day long never showed a joyful face; in the bedchamber she would often weep. Asked why, she would not speak. After several days, her father came; as soon as he entered the gate he began to weep. Nan had not yet time to ask the reason when they went together into the room. Seeing the bride, he cried out in alarm, "Just now in the rear garden I saw my daughter hanging dead from a peach tree—who is this in the room now?" At these words, the bride's countenance suddenly changed, and she fell down dead. Looking at her, it was Miss Dou. He hurried to the rear garden, and there the new bride had indeed hanged herself. In great terror, he went and reported it to Dou. Dou opened his daughter's grave, and when the coffin was opened, the body was gone. The old anger not yet assuaged, now doubly grieved and enraged, he again brought suit before the magistrate. The magistrate, finding the matter fantastical, deliberated but could not decide the case. Nan again lavished gifts on Dou and begged him to drop the suit; the magistrate also accepted bribes and pressure, and so the matter ended. But Nan's household from that time gradually declined. Moreover, because of these strange events, for several years no one dared to betroth a daughter to him. Nan had no choice but to engage the daughter of Jinshi Cao from over a hundred li away. Before the wedding rites could be completed, a false rumor spread among the people that the imperial court was about to select daughters of good families to fill the palace harem. For this reason, all those who had daughters sent them back to their husbands' families. One day, an old woman led a palanquin to the gate, claiming to be someone from the Cao family delivering the bride. She helped the girl into the chamber and said to Nan, "The matter of selecting consorts is urgent; in this haste we cannot observe proper rites, so I have brought the young lady here." Nan asked, "Why are there no guests?" She replied, "There is a modest trousseau, which will follow behind." The old woman hurried off directly. Nan looked at the girl and found her quite attractive, so he jested and laughed with her. The girl hung her head and toyed with her sash, her manner strikingly similar to that of Dou. Nan felt a revulsion in his heart, but dared not speak of it. The girl mounted the bed, drew the quilt over her head, and lay down to sleep. Nan took this to be the usual behavior of a new bride and thought nothing of it. As dusk fell, no one from the Cao family had arrived, and he began to suspect something. He lifted the quilt and called to the girl, but she was already cold as ice, her breath gone. Startled and bewildered, unable to fathom the cause, he sent a servant in haste to inform the Cao family. It turned out that the Cao family had never sent a daughter at all—all agreed it was strange. At that time, the daughter of Xiucai Yao had recently been buried, and the very next night her grave was robbed by thieves, who broke open the coffin and took the corpse away. When Yao heard of Nan's strange affair, he went to Nan's place to verify, and indeed it was his daughter. He lifted the burial quilt and looked—her limbs were completely bare. Yao flew into a rage and lodged a complaint with the authorities. The magistrate, knowing Nan's previous dissolute conduct and detesting him for it, charged him with opening a grave and exposing a corpse, and sentenced him to death. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "To seduce a woman first and then marry her in the end is not virtuous; how much less so when one has sworn oaths at the outset only to break them later! When she was beaten in the chamber, he let it be; when she wept at his gate, he still let it be—how utterly ruthless! And yet the retribution that befell him was even more cruel than that which befell Li Shilang!" Liang Yan Liang Yan of Xuzhou suffered from sneezing fits that would not cease for a long time. One day, as he lay down, he felt an extraordinary itch in his nose, rose abruptly, and let out a great sneeze. Something shot out and fell to the ground, resembling the roof-tile dog figurines on eaves, about the size of a fingertip. He sneezed again, and another one fell. Four sneezes yielded four objects in all. They squirmed about sluggishly, gathered together, and sniffed at one another. Soon the stronger one bit and devoured the weaker; with each one eaten, its body grew longer. In an instant, after devouring the rest, only one remained, larger than a zokor. It extended its tongue all around, licking its own snout. Liang was greatly alarmed and stamped at it. The creature crawled up his sock, gradually reaching his thigh. He grabbed his clothes and shook them, but it clung fast and would not come off. Soon it entered the hem of his robe and crawled about his waist and flanks, scratching. Terrified, he quickly stripped off his clothes and threw them to the ground. Feeling for it, he found the creature had plastered itself to his waist. He pushed it—it would not move; he pinched it—it hurt. It had become a wen, its mouth and eyes closed, like a crouching rat. Dragon Meat Senior Grand Secretary Jiang Yuxuan said: "Beneath Dragon Mound, if one digs a few feet into the earth, there is dragon meat in abundance filling the ground. Anyone may cut and take it, but one must not utter the word 'dragon.' If someone says, 'This is dragon meat,' then thunder and lightning will burst forth violently and strike the speaker dead." The Senior Grand Secretary had himself eaten this meat, and it was indeed true.