Volume 2

Volume 2

# Jin Shicheng

Jin Shicheng was a native of Changshan. He had always been a man of restrained conduct. Suddenly he left home to become a wandering ascetic. He behaved like a madman, regarding unclean things as delicacies. When dogs or sheep left their filth before him, he would prostrate himself and devour it. He styled himself a Buddha. Foolish men and women, marveling at his strange behavior, became his disciples by the tens of thousands. Jin would order them to eat excrement, and none dared disobey. He built halls and pavilions at incalculable expense, yet people gladly contributed to the costs. The county magistrate, Lord Nan, abhorred his perversity, had him arrested and flogged, and set him to repairing the Temple of the Sage. His followers cried out to one another, "The Buddha has met with calamity!" and vied to raise funds to rescue him. The palace-temple was completed in a single month, and the speed with which money gathered was far more impressive than the summons of the harshest tax collector.

The historian of anomalies remarks: "I have heard that everyone addressed the Daoist Jin by his name, calling him 'Jin Shicheng Becomes Buddha.' As for his degeneracy in eating filth, it had reached its utmost. A flogging was insufficient to shame him; punishing him happened to serve a useful purpose—how excellent was Magistrate Nan's method of dealing with him! Yet that the schoolhouse should fall to ruin and require the labor of a sorcerer—this too is a shame upon the gentlemen and officials of the realm."

# Dong Sheng

Dong Sheng, courtesy name Sixi, was a man from the western border of Qingzhou province. One evening in the twelfth month, he spread his bedding on the bed and lit a charcoal brazier. Just as he was about to light the lamp, a friend invited him out for a drink, so he bolted the door and left. At his friend's house there was a physician present, skilled in the art of Tai Su pulse-reading, who felt the pulses of all the guests in turn. Last of all he looked at Wang Jiusi and Dong and said, "I have examined many men, but none have pulses as extraordinary as yours: noble omens accompanied by signs of lowliness, long-life omens accompanied with signs of early death. This is beyond what a humble man like myself dares to know. Yet Master Dong's case is the more serious." They were startled and asked what he meant. He replied, "I have reached the limits of my art and dare not guess rashly. I only hope you two will take care of yourselves." At first the two men were greatly alarmed, but then they dismissed it as vague talk and paid it no mind.

In the middle of the night Dong returned home and found his study door ajar, which filled him with suspicion. Recalling his drunken state, he concluded that he must have been in such haste when leaving that he forgot to bolt the door properly. Entering, before he had time to relight the brazier, he thrust his hand into the bedclothes to feel whether they were warm. The moment his hand touched inside, he felt something soft—someone lying there. Greatly startled, he withdrew his hand. He hurriedly lit the lamp, and found a beautiful girl, with a radiant face and youthful features, no different from an immortal. Overjoyed, he playfully reached down to touch her lower body, and felt a bushy tail. Terrified, he tried to flee, but the girl had already awakened and seized his arm, asking, "Where are you going?" Dong grew still more afraid and trembled as he begged, "I beg the immortal's mercy and forgiveness!" The girl laughed and said, "What did you see that frightens you so?" Dong said, "I am not afraid of your head, but of your tail." The girl laughed again and said, "You are mistaken. What tail?" She took Dong's hand and forced him to reach down again, and he felt flesh as smooth as lard and a round, smooth rump. She laughed and said, "Well? In your drunken stupor you saw God-knows-what, and so you slander me like this." Dong had been delighted by her beauty, and now he was utterly captivated, reproaching himself for his mistake. Yet he wondered how she had come to be there. The girl said, "Do you not remember the yellow-haired girl in the neighboring house to the east? Counting the years since we moved away, it has been ten years. At that time I had not yet put up my hair in a knot, and you still wore your hair in tufts." Dong said with sudden recognition, "Are you Zhou's Asuo?" The girl said, "Yes." Dong said, "Now that you mention it, I seem to remember. Ten years since we've seen each other, and you have grown so slender and graceful! But how did you manage to come here?" The girl said, "I was married to a foolish husband for four or five years. My parents-in-law both died one after another, and then, unhappily, I was widowed like Wenjun. Left all alone, with no one to rely upon, I remembered that from childhood the only one I had known was you, so I came to seek you out. When I arrived at your gate it was already dark, and just then your drinking companion arrived, so I hid and waited for you to return. I waited so long that my feet grew cold and my flesh goose-pimpled, so I borrowed your bedding to warm myself—I hope you will not suspect me." Dong was delighted, and they undressed and lay together, and he felt thoroughly pleased with himself. After a month or so, he gradually grew thin and emaciated. His family asked him what was wrong, but he always said he did not know. After a long time his face became increasingly haggard, and then he grew frightened and went again to the physician skilled in pulse-reading for an examination. The physician said, "This is a demon's pulse. The sign of death I noted before has been confirmed—the disease is beyond remedy." Dong wept bitterly and would not leave. The physician had no choice but to needle his hands and moxibust his navel, and gave him medicine. He instructed him, "If you encounter her again, you must resolutely break off relations." Dong too was now frightened for himself. When he returned home, the girl laughingly enticed him. He said angrily, "Do not trouble me again—I am going to die!" and walked away without looking back. The girl was deeply mortified and also angry. She said, "Do you still wish to live?" That night Dong took his medicine and lay down alone. The moment he closed his eyes, he dreamed of coupling with the girl, and when he woke he had already lost his emission. More terrified than ever, he moved his bedchamber to the inner quarters, where his wife and children kept watch by lamplight with him. Yet the dream was the same. He looked about and the girl had vanished. After several days, Dong vommed over a dou of blood and died.

Wang Jiusi was in his study when a woman appeared. Delighted by her beauty, he slept with her. When he asked where she came from, she replied, "I am a neighbor of Xiasi. He was once close to me, but he died after being bewitched by a fox. The demonic aura of such creatures is fearsome—scholars should be on their guard."

Wang admired her all the more and treated her with increasing affection. After several days, he grew muddled and wasted with illness. Suddenly he dreamed of Dong, who said, "The one who has been intimate with you is a fox. She killed me, and now she means to kill my friend as well. I have lodged a complaint with the underworld tribunal to vent this hidden grievance. On the seventh night, light incense outside your door—do not forget!"

Wang woke and found this strange. He told the woman, "I am gravely ill. I fear I shall be cast into a ditch. Some advise me to refrain from relations with women." She said, "If fate decrees long life, relations will not harm you; if not, abstaining will not save you." They sat together bantering. Wang could not restrain himself and again gave himself to her. He regretted it afterward but could not break free of her.

At dusk, he stuck incense above the door. The woman came and pulled it out, discarding it. That night he dreamed again of Dong, who reproached him for disobeying the instruction. The next night he secretly instructed his servants to light the incense after he had retired. The woman was on the bed when she suddenly started and said, "Has incense been placed again?" Wang said he did not know. She rose quickly, found the incense, and snuffed it out. She came in and asked, "Who told you to do this?" Wang said, "Perhaps my wife, worried about my illness, consulted a shaman to perform a rite of exorcism."

The woman paced about, displeased. The servants, seeing the incense had been snuffed, lit it again. The woman suddenly sighed, "Your fortune is truly abundant. I wrongfully harmed Xiasi and fled to you—that was indeed my fault. I shall go with him to plead my case before the underworld court. If you do not forget our former bond, do not destroy my skin and body." She hesitated, descended from the bed, and fell to the dead. When they examined her by candlelight, she was a fox. Fearing she might still be alive, Wang hastily called his servants, who flayed her and hung up the hide.

Wang's illness grew severe. He saw the fox come and say, "I brought my case before the tribunal of the law. The tribunal ruled that Lord Dong, being moved by lust, deserved his death; but they found that I should not have bewelled others. They took away my golden elixir and ordered me to be restored to life. Where is my skin?" Wang said, "My servants did not know—they have already removed it." The fox said with a grim expression, "I have killed many people; it is already too late for me to die. But how cruel you are!" She departed in bitter resentment. Wang nearly died of his illness and only recovered after half a year.

Gnawing Stone

In Xincheng, at the residence of Grandfather Wang Qinwen, there was a groom surnamed Wang. As a youth he had entered Mount Lao to study the Way. After a long time he abandoned cooked food, eating only pine nuts and white stones. His whole body grew hair. Several years later, thinking his mother was old, he returned home and gradually resumed eating cooked food, but still continued to gnaw stones as before. When he looked at a stone in sunlight, he could tell whether it was sweet, bitter, sour, or salty, as readily as if he were eating a taro. After his mother died, he returned to the mountain, where he has now been for another seventeen or eighteen years.

The Temple Ghost

Wang Qihou, a registered student of Xincheng, was the great-grandson of Wang Xiangkun, styled Zhongyu, who had served as a Provincial Administration Commissioner. He saw a woman enter his chamber—her face was fat, dark, and uncomely. She smiled and drew close to his bed, her intentions clearly indecent. Wang refused her, but she would not leave. From then on, whether he sat or lay down, he always saw her. Yet his resolve remained firm and was never shaken. The woman grew angry and slapped his cheek with an audible sound, though it did not hurt much. She tied a rope to a beam and dragged him up to hang beside her. Wang, without realizing it, threw himself beneath the headrope and stretched his neck as if to hang. People saw his feet not touching the ground, his body standing stiffly in midair, and yet he could not die.

From then on he suffered bouts of madness. Suddenly he would say, "She is going to drag me to drown in the river!" and would dash toward the river in a frenzy; they had to seize him to stop him. Such episodes occurred in a hundred different ways, several times a day, with no medicine or spell proving effective.

One day he suddenly saw a warrior enter, carrying chains, and angrily shout, "You are a simple, honest fellow—how dare she molest you!" He seized the woman by the neck and led her out through the window lattice. The moment they reached the window, the woman no longer had human form: her eyes flashed lightning, and her mouth was red like a basin of blood. Wang recalled that there were four clay demons in the gate of the City God Temple, and this one was exactly like one of them. His illness then vanished as if it had never been.

The Judge of the Underworld

In Lingyang, there was a man named Zhu Erdan, styled Xiaoming. His character was bold and uninhibited, but by nature he was rather dull. Though he studied diligently, he was not yet known for his learning. One day, the members of his literary society were drinking together. Someone teased him, saying, "You have a reputation for boldness. If you can go to the Hall of the Ten Kings in the deep of night and bring back the standing judge from the left corridor, we will pool our money to host a feast for you."

In Lingyang there was indeed a Hall of the Ten Kings, where the gods and ghosts were all carved of wood and decorated to look as if alive. In the eastern corridor stood a judge with a green face and red beard, his visage especially fierce. At night one could sometimes hear the sounds of interrogation from the two corridors. Those who entered found all their hair standing on end. So the others used this to challenge Zhu. Zhu laughed, rose, and went straight there.

Before long, there was a great shout outside the door: "I have invited the bearded master!" Everyone got up. Soon he came in carrying the judge, placed him on the table, raised a cup, and poured out three libations. The others, seeing this, shrank back uneasily in their seats and asked him to carry it away again. Zhu poured a libation of wine on the ground and prayed, "Your pupil is reckless and uncouth—the great master should surely not take offense. My humble dwelling is not far; if it pleases you, come seeking a drink. Please do not stand on ceremony." Then he carried the judge away.

The next day, the others indeed invited him to a feast. At dusk he returned, half drunk but still in high spirits. He lit a lamp and drank alone. Suddenly someone lifted the curtain and entered—it was the judge. Zhu rose and said, "I suppose I must be about to die! I presumed upon you last night—have you come now to apply the axe?"

The judge parted his thick beard and smiled. "Not at all. Yesterday you graciously extended an invitation, and last night I happened to have leisure, so I have come to honor the appointment of a man of understanding." Zhu was overjoyed. He pulled the judge by the sleeve and urged him to sit, then himself washed the cups and lit a fire. The judge said, "The weather is mild and warm—cold drinks will do." Zhu obeyed, placed the bottle on the table, and hurried to tell his servants to prepare food and fruit. His wife, hearing of this, was terrified and warned him not to come out. Wang paid no heed and waited for the food to be prepared before bringing it out.

They changed cups and drank together, and then he asked the judge's surname. "My surname is Lu. I have no given name." When they discussed classical texts, his responses came as quick as an echo. Zhu asked, "Do you know the eight-legged essay?" "I can distinguish the beautiful from the ugly fairly well," he said. "What is read in the underworld is roughly the same as in the world of the living." Lu drank with great capacity, downing ten goblets at a stretch. Zhu, having been drinking all day, did not notice when he collapsed like the Jade Mountain falling, passing out drunk across the table. When he woke, the remaining candle was dim and yellow, and the ghostly guest had already departed.

From then on, Lu visited every two or three days, and their intimacy deepened. Sometimes they slept with their feet touching. Whenever Zhu presented his draft essays, Lu would mark them with corrections in red, declaring them all unsatisfactory.

One night, Zhu drank himself into a stupor and fell asleep first. Lu continued drinking alone. Suddenly, in the midst of his drunken slumber, Zhu felt a slight pain in his belly. He woke to find Lu sitting upright before the bed, having opened his abdomen and drawn out his intestines and stomach, arranging them neatly strand by strand. Astonished, Zhu cried, "I have never borne you any grudge or grievance—why do you seek to kill me?" Lu smiled and said, "Do not fear. I am merely replacing your dull heart with a clever one." He placed the intestines back inside, closed the wound, and bound Zhu's waist with a cloth used for wrapping feet. When the operation was complete, Zhu noticed not a trace of blood on the bed. His belly felt only slightly numb. He saw Lu set a lump of flesh upon the table and asked what it was. "This is your original heart," Lu replied. "You could not write with ease because the pores of your mind were blocked. Just now, in the underworld, I selected one superior heart from among millions and exchanged it for yours. I kept this one behind to fill the count." With that, he rose, closed the door, and departed.

By dawn, when Zhu examined himself, the wound had already healed, though a red line remained. From that day forward, his literary powers advanced enormously, and nothing he read ever slipped from his memory.

Several days later, he showed another essay to Lu, who said, "Good enough now. But your fortune is thin—you cannot rise to great eminence. Provincial and metropolitan examination success will be your limit." "When?" Zhu asked. "This year you will certainly take first place." Before long, Zhu won first place in the prefectural examination, and in the autumn provincial examination he indeed became the principal graduate. His fellow scholars had always mocked him; when they saw the published examination essays, they stared at one another in astonishment and, upon inquiry, learned the strange truth. They all begged Zhu to introduce them, desiring to make Lu's acquaintance. Lu consented. The company prepared a grand feast to receive him. At the first watch of the night, Lu arrived—his red beard bristling, his eyes blazing like lightning. The men turned pale with terror and nearly fled from one another's teeth; gradually, they drifted away one by one.

Zhu then brought Lu home for drinking. When they were well into their cups, Zhu said, "You have already bestowed much upon me by washing my intestines and reforming my stomach. There is yet one more matter I would trouble you with—I wonder whether it might be possible?" Lu bade him speak. Zhu said, "If the heart and intestines can be exchanged, I imagine the face and features can be changed as well. My wife is the companion of my youth; her lower body is not unappealing, but her head and face are hardly beautiful. I would like to trouble you with your knife and axe—what do you think?" Lu laughed and said, "Very well. Allow me to make arrangements."

Several days later, in the middle of the night, Lu came knocking at the door. Zhu rose hastily and invited him in. By candlelight, he saw that Lu had something wrapped in his coat. Questioned, Lu said, "What you requested before—I had difficulty finding the right thing. I have just obtained a beautiful woman's head, and I present it to fulfill your charge." Zhu opened the wrapping and found the neck still warm with blood. Lu urged him to go in quickly and not startle the dogs or fowl. Zhu worried that the gates were bolted for the night, but when Lu arrived, he pushed the gate with one hand and it swung open of its own accord, the bolt sliding back on the inside. He led Zhu to the bedchamber, where they saw the lady lying on her side in sleep. Lu handed the head to Zhu to hold himself, then drew from his boot a white blade like a dagger. Pressing it against the lady's neck, he cut through with the effort of slicing through rotten matter, and the head fell to the pillow's edge. He quickly took the beautiful woman's head from Zhu's arms, fitted it onto the lady's neck, examined it carefully to ensure it was straight and centered, and then pressed it firmly into place. Afterwards, he moved the pillow to prop her shoulder and told Zhu to bury the original head in a quiet place, then departed.

When Zhu's wife awoke, she felt a slight numbness at her neck and a roughness upon her cheeks. Rubbing them, she found flakes of blood and was greatly alarmed. She called for a maid to fetch water for washing. The maid saw her face covered in blood, screamed in terror, and collapsed. When she washed her, the basin turned entirely red. Raising her head, she found her features completely transformed—and was horrified beyond measure. The lady took up a mirror to look at herself and was utterly bewildered, unable to make sense of it. Zhu went in and told her what had happened. He examined her closely and repeatedly: her long brows swept past her temples, dimples graced her cheeks—she was a figure from a painting. He loosened her collar and found a red line encircling her neck, above and below which the flesh was of distinctly different complexions.

Before this, a Censor Wu had a daughter of great beauty. She had been betrothed twice but lost both fiancés before marriage, so at nineteen she was still unmarried. During the Lantern Festival, she visited the Hall of the Ten Kings, where the crowd was thick. Among the sightseeds was a scoundrel of ill repute who gazed upon her with lust, secretly inquired into her residence, and that night climbed over the wall on a ladder. He bored a hole into the bedchamber door, killed a maid beneath the bed, and tried to force himself upon the lady. She resisted with all her strength and cried out. Enraged, the killer murdered her as well. Lady Wu heard faint sounds of disturbance and sent a maid to investigate. The maid saw the corpse and screamed in terror, collapsing. The entire household rose and placed the body in the main hall, setting the head beside the neck. The family wailed and wept through the whole night in tumult.

At daybreak, they opened the quilts to find the body present but the head gone. They beat all the maidservants, saying they had been negligent in their watch and that the head had been buried in a dog's belly. Censor Wu reported the matter to the prefecture, which set a strict deadline for capturing the criminal, but after three months the culprit had not yet been found.

Gradually, word reached Lord Wu of the strange incident of the exchanged head at the Zhu household. Wu was suspicious and sent an old woman to spy upon the family. She entered, saw the lady, and fled back in terror to report to Lord Wu. The lord observed that his daughter's corpse was indeed preserved, and his astonishment and suspicion knew no bounds. He conjectured that Zhu had killed his daughter through sorcery and went to question Zhu. Zhu said, "My wife exchanged her head in a dream—I truly do not understand why. To say that I killed her would be a grievous injustice." Wu did not believe him and brought a suit. The officials arrested and interrogated the household members, and their testimony agreed entirely with Zhu's account. The prefect could reach no verdict.

Zhu returned and sought counsel from Lu, who said, "It is not difficult. I will make the daughter herself speak." That night, Lord Wu dreamed that his daughter said, "Your child was murdered by Yang Danian of Suxi—it had nothing to do with Provincial Graduate Zhu. He was not enamored of his wife, and Magistrate Lu took your child's head and exchanged it with hers. Thus your child's body died but her head lives on. I beg you not to hold a grudge against him." He awoke and told his wife, and her dream had been identical. He then reported the matter to the officials. Upon inquiry, a Yang Danian was indeed found. He was arrested, shackled, and confessed to the crime.

Lord Wu then went to Zhu's home and asked to see the lady. From then on, they became father-in-law and son-in-law. He took the head of Zhu's wife and joined it to his daughter's corpse for burial.

# From Volume 2 of *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*

## Zhu San

Zhu San had entered the imperial examinations on several occasions but was always expelled for violating the examination rules. He thereupon lost all desire to pursue officialdom, and this went on for thirty years. One evening, Lu said to him, "Your lifespan will not be long." When asked how long he had, Lu replied, "Five days." "Can you save me?" Zhu asked. "Only Heaven decides a man's fate—how could a mortal intervene? Besides, from the perspective of one who has attained understanding, life and death are one and the same. Why must we regard life as a joy and death as a sorrow?" Zhu found this reasonable. He immediately set about preparing his burial clothes, shroud, and coffin. When all was done, he dressed in his finest garments and passed away.

The next day, his wife was weeping over the coffin when Zhu suddenly drifted in from outside, slow and ethereal. His wife was terrified. "I am truly a ghost," Zhu said, "no different from when I was alive. I was concerned only for you, a widow with an orphan, and could not bear to leave you." His wife wept bitterly, tears streaming onto her chest. Zhu comforted her tenderly. "In ancient times there were tales of souls returning to the body," his wife said. "Since you have spiritual presence, why not come back to life?" "The decree of Heaven cannot be defied," Zhu replied. "What duties do you perform in the underworld?" she asked. "Judge Lu recommended me to oversee case matters. I have been granted an official rank and suffer no hardship," he said.

When his wife wished to speak further, Zhu said, "Lord Lu came with me—you should prepare food and wine." He hastened out. His wife prepared everything as instructed. She could only hear laughter and drinking in the room, voices loud and cheerful, just as in life. When she peered in at midnight, he had vanished into darkness.

From then on, he came every two or three days, sometimes staying the night in tender affection, managing household affairs when he came. His son Wei was only five at the time, and whenever Zhu arrived he would take him in his arms. By the time Wei was seven or eight, Zhu would teach him to read by lamplight. The boy was bright—he could write essays at nine and entered the county school at fifteen, never knowing that his father was no longer among the living. After this, his visits grew less frequent, coming only once a month or so.

On another evening he came and said to his wife, "Now I bid you farewell forever." "Where are you going?" she asked. "I have received the Emperor's appointment as an official of Mount Taihua. I must travel far. The duties are many and the road is distant, so I will be unable to come again." Mother and son held him and wept. "Do not grieve!" he said. "Our son is grown and the household can still manage. Are there phoenixes that remain together for a hundred years without parting?" He turned to his son and said, "Serve others well and do not disgrace your father's calling. We shall meet again in ten years." He walked straight out the door and never returned.

Later, when Wei was twenty-five, he passed the imperial examinations and became an Usher. He was sent on a mission to offer sacrifices at the Western Peak. Passing through Huayin, he suddenly saw a carriage with feather-trimmed canopies rushing through his official escort. He was astonished. Looking closely at the person in the carriage, he saw it was his father. He dismounted and wept, prostrating himself by the roadside. His father halted the carriage and said, "Your reputation as an official is good. I can now close my eyes in peace." Wei remained prostrate and would not rise. Zhu urged his carriage onward, departing swiftly without looking back. After going several paces, he turned, untied his pendant sword, and sent someone to present it to Wei. From a distance he called, "Wear this and you shall attain nobility." Wei tried to follow, but the carriage, horses, and attendants vanished like the wind in an instant. He grieved bitterly for a long time. He drew the sword and examined it—exquisitely crafted, with an inscription engraved upon it: "Let your courage be great but your heart be careful; let your wisdom be flexible but your conduct be upright."

Wei later rose to the rank of Minister of War. He had five sons: Chen, Qian, Mi, Hun, and Shen. One night he dreamed that his father said, "The pendant sword should be given to Hun." He did so. Hun served as Chief Grand Secretary and earned a fine reputation.

The historian of the strange remarks: "To shorten a crane's legs to lengthen a duck's is the folly of a meddler; to graft a flower onto another tree is the ingenuity of an innovator. How much more so when chisels are applied to liver and intestines, and knives and awls to the neck and spine! Judge Lu may be said to have wrapped exquisite bones within an ugly hide. From the end of the Ming dynasty to the present is not so many years. Is Judge Lu of Lingyang still alive? Does he still possess his spiritual powers? I would gladly hold the whip for him in admiration."

## Yingning

Wang Zifu was a man of Luo Dian in Ju County. He was orphaned at an early age. He was of exceptional intelligence and entered the county school at fourteen. His mother loved him most dearly and would not ordinarily allow him to roam beyond the outskirts. He had been betrothed to a Miss Xiao, but she died before the wedding, so he had not yet taken a wife. During the Lantern Festival, his maternal cousin Wu invited him to go sightseeing together. They had just reached the outskirts of the village when a servant came from his uncle's house summoning Wu away. Wang saw that the strolling women were as numerous as clouds and set off on his own in high spirits. There was a young lady carrying a maid, holding a sprig of plum blossoms. Her beauty was of the highest order, her smile radiant and infectious. Wang fixed his gaze upon her without wavering, quite forgetting all propriety. The young lady had gone several paces when she turned to her maid and said, "That young man's eyes gleam like a thief's!" She dropped the flower on the ground and departed laughing.

Wang picked up the flower, dejected. His spirit was lost and he returned home in despondence. At home he hid the flower beneath his pillow and lay down with his head bowed. He neither spoke nor ate. His mother grew worried. She performed offerings and exorcisms, but he only grew worse, his flesh wasting away sharply. A physician examined him and prescribed a sweating draught, but he remained in a daze. His mother stroked him and asked the cause, but he remained silent. It happened that Wu came just then, and she instructed him to question Wang in secret. Wu approached the bed, and upon seeing him, Wang felt slightly at ease. Wu sat beside the bed and comforted him, gradually pressing for details. Wang told him everything and asked for his advice. Wu laughed and said: "You are truly mad as well! What difficulty is there in fulfilling this wish? I shall search for her on your behalf. If she walks in the countryside on foot, she cannot be from an eminent family. If she is not yet betrothed, the matter can easily be arranged. If she is, we can offer a generous bride-price and she is certain to consent. Once you recover, the rest is up to me." Hearing this, Wang could not help but smile. Wu went out and told his mother. He searched for the woman's neighborhood but, having exhausted all inquiries, found no trace of her. His mother was greatly distressed and knew not what to do. Yet ever since Wu had left, Wang's countenance had brightened and he ate a little more.

Several days later, Wu came again. Wang asked about his efforts. Wu deceived him, saying, "I have found her. I wondered who she could be—it turns out she is the daughter of my father's sister, your maternal cousin. She is still awaiting betrothal. Although there may be a degree of consanguinity, if we tell her plainly, there is no reason it cannot be arranged." Wang's joy overflowed to his very eyebrows. "Where does she live?" he asked. Wu lied, saying, "In the mountains to the southwest, about thirty *li* from here." Wang urged him again and again, and Wu undertook the matter with vigor before departing.

From this point, the young scholar gradually began to eat more, and day by day he recovered. He reached under his pillow to check: though the plum flower was withered, it had not yet fallen to pieces. He held it, turning it over in his hands with rapt attention, as though he saw her before him. He was vexed that Wu had not come, and so he sent a note inviting him. Wu made excuses and refused to come. The scholar grew resentful and sullen, his spirits dampened. His mother, fearing he would fall ill again, hastened to arrange a marriage for him. But whenever she broached the subject, he would shake his head and refuse, thinking only of Wu. Wu sent no word at all, and his resentment deepened. Then he thought: thirty li is not so far—why must I depend on someone else? He tucked the plum flower into his sleeve and, nursing his indignation, set off on his own, without telling his family. He walked alone, with no one to ask for directions; he simply headed toward the Southern Mountain. After some thirty li, tangled peaks converged around him, the empty greenness refreshing to the flesh. All was still—no people passed, only a bird-track path. Gazing into the distance at the valley floor, amid a tangle of blossoms and disorderly trees, he glimpsed faintly a small hamlet. Descending the mountain and entering the village, he saw that there were not many dwellings—all thatched cottages—but the air about them was remarkably refined and elegant. A house to the north had weeping willows before its gate; inside the wall, peach and apricot trees grew in abundance, interspersed with tall bamboo; wild birds chirped and fluttered among them. He supposed it must be a garden pavilion and did not dare enter hastily. Turning back, he noticed a large smooth, polished stone at the house opposite and sat down to rest for a moment. Soon he heard a woman's voice from inside the wall, calling out "Xiao Rong" in a delicate, tender tone. He was standing there listening when a young woman emerged from the east and walked toward the west, holding a single apricot blossom, bending her head to tuck it into her hair. She looked up and saw the scholar, and then did not finish pinning it; smiling, she took the flower in her hand and went inside. He looked closely—it was the very same one he had met on the road during the Lantern Festival. His heart leaped with joy. But he thought he had no way to gain an entrance; he considered calling out "Aunt," yet there had never been any contact between them, and he feared he might be mistaken. There was no one inside the gate to ask. He sat, stood, paced back and forth—from morning until the sun slanted westward—gazing with longing, forgetting even hunger and thirst. From time to time he saw the woman peek out with half her face, as if surprised that he had not left. Suddenly an old woman leaning on a staff came out and, looking at him, said, "Where are you from, young sir? I hear you have been here since the morning hours, and here it is still. What could you possibly want? You must be hungry?" The scholar rose quickly and bowed to her, replying, "I have come hoping to see a relative." The old woman, hard of hearing, did not catch his words. He repeated himself loudly. She then asked, "What is the surname of your honored relation?" The scholar could not answer. The old woman laughed and said, "How strange! You don't even know the name—how can you visit relatives? As I see it, young sir, you are quite a bookworm. You had better come with me. I can give you plain food to eat, and there is a short cot in the house where you may sleep. Wait until tomorrow to go home, find out the surname, and then come back to make your inquiries—it won't be too late." The scholar's stomach was growling and he longed for food besides, and this way he would also be drawing gradually closer to the beautiful woman. He was overjoyed. He followed the old woman inside. Within the gate he saw a path paved with white stones, with red blossoms lining both sides, petals drifting down upon the steps. The path wound westward, and another gate was opened; trellises of beans and flowering frames filled the courtyard. He was ushered into the room with ceremony—the whitewashed walls gleamed bright as a mirror; through the window, a branch of begonia stretched into the chamber; the cushions, tables, and couches were all spotlessly clean. He had scarcely sat down when someone was seen peeping through the window, half-hidden. The old woman called out: "Xiao Rong! Quickly, prepare the millet." Outside, a maid answered in a clear, sharp voice. After they were seated, they began to exchange details of their family lineage. The old woman said, "Is your maternal grandfather's surname Wu?" "Yes," he replied. The old woman started in surprise and said, "Then you are my sister's son! Your mother was my younger sister. In recent years, because our family has grown so poor, and we have had no sons, communication has fallen away. You have grown to such a man, and we do not even know each other." The scholar said, "I came here precisely to find my aunt, and in my haste I forgot the surname." The old woman said, "This old woman's surname is Qin. I have no children of my own; I have only one daughter, born of a concubine. Her mother remarried and left the child in my care to raise. She is not at all dull, but she has had little discipline and knows no restraint. In a moment I shall have her come out to pay her respects."

Before long, the maid set out the food, with young chicks plump as a fistful. After the old woman urged him to eat, the maid came to clear the dishes. The old woman said, call for Ninggu. The maid answered and left. After a long while, faint laughter was heard outside the door. The old woman called again, Yingning, your cousin brother is here. The laughter outside went on and on, unstoppable. The maid pushed her in, her hand still covering her mouth, her laughter beyond restraint. The old woman glared and said, there is a guest present, and you carry on like this, what kind of behavior is this? The girl stifled her laughter and stood there, and the young man bowed to her. The old woman said, this is Master Wang, your son of my sister. The family does not even recognize one another, truly laughable. The young man asked, how old is my sister? The old woman did not understand. The young man asked again. The girl laughed once more, unable to look up. The old woman said to the young man, I told you she has little learning, and now you see it. She is already sixteen, yet as simple and foolish as an infant. The young man said, one year younger than your grandson. She said, my grandson is already seventeen, is he not born in the gengwu year and under the sign of the horse? The young man nodded in reply. She asked again, who is your wife? He answered, I have none. She said, with your talents and looks, how is it that at seventeen you are still not betrothed? Yingning too has no husband's family, and you two are well matched; it is a pity that there is the impediment of being close kin. The young man said nothing, his eyes fixed on Yingning, not daring to look away for an instant. The maid whispered to the girl, his eyes are blazing, his old thieving ways unchanged! The girl laughed again, turned to the maid and asked, have you checked whether the green peaches are blooming? She rose at once, covered her mouth with her sleeve, and left with quick, light steps. Only when she reached the outside gate did her laughter finally break free. The old woman also rose, told the maid to pack bedding, and made arrangements for the young man. She said, my grandson does not come easily, you should stay three or five days, and we will see you home at leisure. If you find it dull, there is a small garden behind the house where you may amuse yourself, and there are books to read.

The next day, he went behind the house and found indeed a garden of half a mu, fine grass spread like a felt mat, willow floss scattered along the path; there were three bays of thatched cottage, with flowers and trees encircling it on all sides. Walking among the flowers, he heard a rustling sound from the treetops, looked up, and saw Yingning above. Seeing him come, she laughed so wildly she nearly fell. He said, be careful, you will fall! She came down still laughing, unable to stop herself. Just as she was about to reach the ground, she lost her grip and fell, and only then did her laughter cease. He helped her up and secretly pinched her wrist. Her laughter broke out again, and she leaned against the tree, unable to walk; it was a long while before it stopped. When her laughter had subsided, he took the flower from his sleeve and showed it to her. She took it and said, it is withered. Why keep it? He said, this was left by your sister on the Lantern Festival, so I have kept it. She asked, what is the reason for keeping it? He said, to show that love and remembrance do not fade. Since our meeting on the Lantern Festival, I have pined in thought and grown sick, expecting to turn to dust and never seeing your face again; I am fortunate to receive your pity and compassion. She said, this is a very small matter. What would a close relative begrudge? When you are about to leave, the flowers in the garden, I will have the old servant come and cut a great bundle to carry for you. He said, is my sister foolish? She said, what makes you call it foolish? He said, I do not love the flowers, I love the one who plucked the flowers. She said, the love of kinship, what need is there to speak of it? He said, what I mean by love is not the love of kinship, but the love of husband and wife. She said, how is that different? He said, sharing the same pillow and mat at night. She thought for a long time, then said, I am not accustomed to sleeping with a stranger. Before she had finished speaking, the maid crept up, and the young man fled in alarm.

A short while later, he went to his mother's quarters. His mother asked, where have you been? The girl answered that they had been talking together in the garden. The old woman said, the food has been ready for a long time, what was there to talk about at such length? The young man said, elder brother wanted me to sleep with him. Before he had finished, the young man was greatly embarrassed and glared at her in haste. The girl smiled and stopped. Fortunately the old woman had not heard, and still pressed her with questions. The young man hastily covered it with other words and whispered a reproach to the girl. She said, should I not have said that just now? He said, these are words for when others are not present. She said, you may hide them from others, but how can you hide them from an old mother? Besides, sleeping together is an ordinary matter, why conceal it? The young man was vexed by her foolishness, but had no way to enlighten her.

Just as they finished eating, people from his household came searching for him carrying two sedan chairs. Earlier, his mother had waited for him to return for a long time, and had begun to worry; they had searched the village several times and found no trace. She then went to ask Wu. Wu recalled what had been said before and told her to search among the mountain villages to the southwest. After passing through several villages, they finally arrived here. The young man came out the door and happened to meet them, so he went in to tell the old woman and asked to take the girl back with him. The old woman was delighted and said, I have had this wish for a long time. But this old body cannot travel far; if my grandson can take my granddaughter to go and recognize his aunt, that would be wonderful! She called Yingning. Ning came laughing. The old woman said, what is there to be so happy about, that you laugh without cease? If you did not laugh, you would be a complete person. She glared at her sternly. Then she said, elder brother wants you to go with him, you may pack your things. She also gave the servants food and wine, and as they set out she said, your aunt's family has ample property and can support extra people. When you arrive, do not come back right away; study a little poetry and propriety, and serve your parents-in-law well. Please have your aunt choose a good match for you. The two then set off. When they reached the mountain pass and looked back, they could still faintly see the old woman leaning against the gate, gazing north.

When he arrived home, his mother, seeing the girl's beauty, asked in surprise who she was. The young man answered that she was his aunt's daughter. The mother said, "What the young man Wu told you earlier was a lie. I have no elder sister—how could I have a niece?" They questioned the girl, who replied, "I am not born of this woman. My father was of the Qin family. When he died, I was still in swaddling clothes and cannot remember." The mother said, "I did indeed have an elder sister who married into the Qin family, that is true, but she has been dead for a long time—how could she still be alive?" She then carefully examined the girl's face and birthmarks, and everything matched. She said doubtfully, "It seems so. But she has been dead for many years—how could she still be alive?" While she was still full of suspicion, young Wu arrived, and the girl withdrew into the inner room. Wu asked what had happened and was lost in thought for a long time. Suddenly he said, "Is this girl called Yingning?" The young man confirmed it. Wu exclaimed that it was a strange affair. When asked how he knew, Wu said, "After the Qin family's mother-in-law died, her husband lived as a widower and was plagued by a fox spirit, wasting away and dying of illness. The fox gave birth to a girl named Yingning, who was found bound and lying on the bed—all the family saw her. When the father-in-law died, the fox still came from time to time. Later they obtained a talisman from a Heavenly Master and pasted it to the wall, whereupon the fox took the girl and left. Could this be her?" Both sides harried their doubts. They could only hear the sound of giggling from the inner room—all of it Yingning's laughter. The mother said, "This girl is too simple and foolish." Wu requested to see her. The mother went into the inner room, but the girl still laughed loudly without paying her any mind. The mother urged her to come out, and she tried with great effort to suppress her laughter, then turned to face the wall for a long time before finally emerging. She had barely completed her first bow when she suddenly rushed back inside and burst out laughing at the top of her lungs. All the women in the room smiled in sympathy. Wu asked to go and investigate the strangeness, and at the same time to act as a matchmaker. He soon arrived at the village, but found no houses at all—only scattered wild flowers. Wu remembered that his aunt's burial place was nearby; however, the grave mounds had been swallowed up by overgrowth and could not be identified. He returned, amazed and sighing. The mother suspected she was a ghost. She went in and told Wu's words to the girl, but the girl showed no trace of alarm. When they reproached her for having no family, she likewise showed no trace of sorrow—she simply smiled foolishly. No one could fathom her. The mother had her sleep and live together with the young girl. At dawn she would come to pay her respects, and her needlework was of unparalleled delicacy. But she was fond of laughing, and even forbidding her could not stop it. Yet her laughter was graceful, and however wild it was, it did not diminish her charm—everyone delighted in her. Neighboring young women and wives all vied to welcome her. The mother chose an auspicious day to hold the wedding, but in the end feared she might be a ghostly creature. She secretly observed her in the daylight, and her form and shadow showed no difference at all. On the wedding day, she had the girl dress in splendid attire and perform the bride's rites, but the girl laughed so uncontrollably that she could not bow or stand upright, and the ceremony was abandoned. The young man, on account of her simple foolishness, feared she might reveal private matters of the bedchamber, but the girl kept the utmost secrecy and would not utter a single word. Whenever the mother was worried or angry, the girl's arrival would resolve it with a single smile. When the servants or maids committed minor faults and feared a beating, they would always ask to go speak with the mother together; the offending servant would invariably be pardoned upon appearing before her. She was obsessed with flowers, seeking them out among all relatives and kin; she secretly pawned gold hairpins to buy fine varieties, and within a few months, the steps, the fences, and even the privy—everywhere was filled with flowers.

Behind the courtyard there was a trellis of Banksian rose that belonged to the western neighbor. The girl often climbed upon it to pick flowers for her hair. The mother, whenever she happened to see this, scolded her, but the girl never changed her ways. One day, the western neighbor's son saw her, gazed at her transfixed, and was utterly smitten. The girl did not avoid him but smiled. The western neighbor's son thought she had already given him her heart and became even more inflamed. The girl pointed to the bottom of the wall, smiled, and descended. The western neighbor's son took this to mean she was indicating a rendezvous spot and was overjoyed. When evening fell, he went there, and the girl was indeed present. He approached and tried to ravish her, but her privy parts pierced him like a lance, pain shooting through his heart. He shrieked loudly and collapsed. Looking closely, it was not the girl at all—only a dead log lying by the wall, and what he had joined with was a water-oozing hollow in the wood. The neighbor's father, hearing the cries, rushed over and questioned him urgently, but the son groaned and could not speak. His wife came and he finally told the truth. They brought a torch and lit the hollow, and inside they saw a giant scorpion, about the size of a small crab. The old man smashed the wood, caught it, and killed it. He carried his son home, and before midnight the son died. The neighbor brought a lawsuit against the young man, exposing Yingning's demonic strangeness. The county magistrate had long admired the young man's talent and knew well that he was a man of solid character. He declared the old neighbor's suit to be false and was about to have him punished with the bamboo. The young man interceded for mercy, and the man was released. The mother said to the girl, "Your foolish wildness has gone too far—I should have known that excessive joy would bring hidden sorrow. The county magistrate is wise and divine; fortunately you were not implicated. Had it been a muddle-headed official, he would have dragged you to the court for questioning—what face would my son have to show his relatives?" The girl's expression became solemn, and she swore she would never laugh again. The mother said, "Everyone laughs, but it must be at the right time." From then on, the girl never laughed again, even when deliberately teased—she would not laugh all day. Yet she never showed a sorrowful expression either.

One evening, she faced the young man and wept. He was startled. The girl said with a choking voice, "In the past, because we had been together only a short time, I feared that speaking would cause alarm and strangeness. Today I have observed that both mother-in-law and husband love me deeply and harbor no ill will—might it be all right to tell you the truth directly? I was born of a fox. When my mother left, she entrusted me to a ghost mother. We relied on each other for over ten years, and only now has this day come. I have no brothers either, and the one I depend on is only you. The old mother sits in solitude on the mountain, with no one to pity her and give her a proper burial—in the underworld she harbors constant grief and regret. If you would not begrudge the trouble and expense, and could ease this resentment and sorrow for the one beneath the earth, then perhaps those who raise daughters would not abandon them to drown." The young man agreed, but worried that the grave would be lost in the wild grass. The girl said only, "Have no concern." On the appointed day, the husband and wife carried the coffin and set out. Amid the desolate mist and tangled thickets, the girl pointed out the burial place, and they indeed found the old woman's corpse, the skin and flesh still preserved. The girl stroked it and wept in bitter grief. They carried her back and buried her alongside the Qin family grave. That night, the young man dreamed that the old woman came to express her gratitude. He awoke and told the girl. The girl said, "I saw her last night—she told me not to alarm you." The young man regretted that he had not asked her to stay. The girl said, "She is a ghost. There are many living people here, and their yang energy is strong—how could she stay for long?" The young man asked about Xiaorong. She said, "She is also a fox, the cleverest of all. The fox mother left her to look after me, and she would often bring food to feed me, so I am grateful to her and think of her constantly. Yesterday I asked the mother, and she said she has already been married off." From then on, every year at the Cold Food Festival, the husband and wife would climb the Qin family grave to pay their respects and sweep the tomb, without fail. After more than a year, the girl gave birth to a son. Even in his cradle, he was not afraid of strangers—he would smile whenever he saw someone, and indeed he bore a strong resemblance to his mother.

The Historian of Stranges says: "Observing her foolish, ceaseless smile, she seems entirely heartless and mindless; yet the prank she played beneath the wall—what cunning was greater than that? When it came to her tender devotion to the ghost mother, she turned her laughter into weeping. I suspect Yingning was one who hid herself behind her smile. I have heard that in the mountains there is a plant called 'Laugh-then-stop.' Smell it, and one cannot stop laughing. If such a plant were grown in the bedchamber, the Happy Union and the Forget-sorrow would pale in comparison. As for the Flower That Understands Speech—one would only find it tiresome in its affectation."

Ning Caichen was a man of Zhejiang province, generous and open-hearted, who prized integrity above all. He often said of himself, "In all my life I have never taken a second wife."

He had traveled to Jinhua and arrived at the northern outskirts of the city, where he took lodging at a Buddhist monastery. The monastery's halls and pagodas were imposing and beautiful, yet weeds and wild grass grew waist-high, as though no human being had passed through in a very long time. The monks' quarters to the east and west had both their double doors half-closed, but only one small room to the south had a lock and bolt that looked freshly oiled. Then he noticed a corner to the east of the main hall: tall bamboos thick as clasped hands, and below the steps a large pond where wild lotuses had already begun to bloom. He found the seclusion most agreeable. It happened that the provincial examiner was conducting his circuit, and lodgings in the city had grown expensive, so Ning thought it convenient to remain there. He strolled about, waiting for the monks to return.

At dusk, a scholar arrived and opened the southern door. Ning stepped forward to bow and explained his wish. The scholar said, "There is no abbot here. I myself am only lodging temporarily. If you can bear the desolation, I would be honored to have your company from morning to night—that would be most welcome." Ning was delighted. He spread straw for a bed and set up boards as a table, making arrangements for a long stay.

That night the moon was bright and pure, its clear light like water. The two men sat knee to knee in the corridor of the main hall and exchanged their names. The scholar said, "My surname is Yan, and my courtesy name is Chixia." Ning suspected he was a candidate coming to sit for the examinations, but his accent was nothing like a Zhejiang man's. When questioned, he said, "I am from Qin." His speech was plain and earnest. After a while they had exhausted their conversation, bowed to each other, and retired to sleep.

As this was a new lodging, Ning could long not fall asleep. He heard murmuring sounds from north of the room, as if a household were living there. He rose and crept beneath the stone window on the north wall to peer through. He saw a small courtyard beyond a low wall. A woman of perhaps over forty was there, and also an old woman in dark-red garments, wearing a hairpin, her back bent and wobbly with age. They were talking together beneath the moon.

The woman said, "Why has Xiaoqian not come for so long?"

The old woman said, "She should be arriving very soon."

The woman said, "Surely she bears no grudge against the old mother?"

The old woman said, "I haven't heard anything, but she seems somewhat downcast."

The woman said, "That girl—it doesn't suit her to be so familiar!"

Before she had finished speaking, a girl of seventeen or eight came along, breathtakingly beautiful. The old woman laughed and said, "Speak of the devil and she appears. We two were just talking about her, and the little she-demon came sneaking up without a sound. Fortunately I didn't mention her shortcomings." She added, "The young lady is perfectly lovely—a figure from a painting. Even if this old body were a man, I'd have my soul stolen away."

The girl said, "If the old mother won't praise me, who else will say anything good?"

The woman and the girl then talked of things Ning could not hear. He supposed they were relatives of a neighbor and lay down again, no longer listening. After some time, all was quiet.

Just as he was about to sleep, he felt someone come to his chamber. He rose in haste and looked closely—it was the girl from the north courtyard. He asked her in alarm why she had come.

The girl smiled and said, "Unable to sleep on this moonlit night, I wished to share the pleasures of love with you."

Ning said gravely, "You must guard against the gossip of others, and I fear the talk of men. One false step, and all honor is lost."

The girl said, "No one knows of this night."

Ning rebuked her further. She hesitated as if she had more to say, but he cried, "Go quickly! If not, I will call out so the scholar in the south quarters knows of it."

The girl was frightened and withdrew.

At the doorway she suddenly turned back and placed a bar of gold on Ning's bedding. He picked it up and threw it into the courtyard, saying, "Wealth gained by dishonor defiles my purse!"

The shamefaced girl came out and retrieved the gold, saying to herself, "This man must be made of iron and stone."

At dawn, a student from Lanxi arrived with a servant to await the examinations. They lodged in the eastern wing, but that night the servant died suddenly. On the sole of his foot was a small hole, as if pierced by a gimlet, from which blood trickled. No one knew the cause. After a night, the other servant died as well, with the same symptoms.

In the evening, Yan Chixia returned. Ning told him what had happened, and Yan believed it was the work of a demon. Ning was by nature upright and unyielding and paid little heed to the matter.

At midnight, the girl came again. She said to Ning, "I have known many men, but none with a will as firm as yours. You are truly a sage, and I dare not deceive you. My surname is Nie, and my name is Xiaoqian. I died at the age of eighteen and was buried beside the monastery. I have been threatened by a demonic creature and forced to perform menial tasks. To show my face to men in this way is truly not what I wish. Now there is no one else in the monastery to be killed, so I fear they will send a yaksha."

Ning was terrified and begged for advice. The girl said, "If you share a room with Scholar Yan, you will be safe."

Ning asked, "Why not bewitch Scholar Yan?"

She said, "He is an extraordinary man—I dare not approach him."

She was asked, "How do you bewitch people?"

She replied, "Those who dally with me, I secretly pierce on the sole of the foot with a gimlet. They become dazed and confused, and I draw their blood for the demon to drink. Or sometimes I offer gold—but it is not gold; it is the bone of a rakshasa demon. If kept, it can cut out a person's heart and liver. These two methods are used only to cater to the vices of the times."

At dawn, a student from Lanxi arrived with a servant to await the examinations. They lodged in the eastern wing, but that night the servant died suddenly. On the sole of his foot was a small hole, as if pierced by an awl, from which blood seeped. No one knew the cause. After a night, the other servant also died, with the same symptoms.

In the evening, Yan Chixia returned. Ning told him what had happened, and Yan believed it was the work of a demon. Ning was by nature upright and unyielding, and paid little heed to the matter.

At midnight, the girl came again. She said to Ning, "I have known many men, but none with a will as firm as yours. You are truly a sage, and I dare not deceive you. My surname is Nie, and my given name is Xiaoqian. I died at the age of eighteen and was buried beside the monastery. I have been threatened by a demonic creature and forced to perform menial tasks. To show my face to men in this way is truly not what I wish. Now there is no one else in the monastery to be killed, so I fear they will send a yaksha."

Ning was terrified and begged for advice. The girl said, "If you share a room with Scholar Yan, you will be safe."

Ning asked, "Why not bewitch Scholar Yan?"

She said, "He is an extraordinary man—I dare not approach him."

She was asked, "How do you bewitch people?"

She replied, "Those who dally with me, I secretly pierce on the sole of the foot with an awl. They become dazed and confused, and I draw their blood for the demon to drink. Or sometimes I offer gold—but it is not gold; it is the bone of a rakshasa demon. If kept, it can cut out a person's heart and liver. These two methods are used only to cater to the vices of the times."

Ning was grateful and asked when the danger would next come. She replied it would be the next evening. As they parted, she wept and said, "I have sunk into a dark sea and cannot find the bank. Your sense of honour rises to the clouds—you must be able to rescue the living and relieve the suffering. If you would consent to wrap my poor bones and bury them in a proper home, it would be no less than giving me a second life." Ning readily promised. He then asked where the grave was. "Remember," she said, "the white poplar tree with the crow's nest in it." With that she walked out of the door and vanished in a flurry.

The next day, fearing that Yan might go out, Ning went early to invite him. After midday he prepared food and wine, watching Yan carefully. Having arranged to spend the night together, Yan declined on the grounds that he preferred solitude and sleep. Ning would not listen and forced him to bring his bedding over. Yan had no choice but to move his bed to comply. He cautioned, "I know you are a man of honour, and I deeply respect you. But there is something I cannot easily tell you. Please do not pry into my bags. If you do, it will bring harm to both of us." Ning respectfully accepted the instruction.

They each retired for sleep. Yan placed his trunk on the windowsill, lay down on his pillow, and after a time began snoring like thunder. Ning could not sleep.

Sometime near the first night watch, there was a faint human shadow outside the window. Presently it drew close to the window to peer in, eyes flashing and darting. Ning was frightened and was about to call out to Yan when suddenly something burst from the trunk, gleaming like a bolt of white silk, striking and snapping the stone lattice of the window. With a swift flash it shot out, then immediately drew back in, as quickly as a lightning bolt extinguished.

Yan awoke and rose. Ning pretended to sleep in order to observe him. Yan opened his trunk and examined it, then took something out, holding it up to the moon to sniff and inspect. It shone with a brilliant white light, was about two inches long and as thick as a leek leaf. He wrapped it in several layers of cloth and placed it back in the broken trunk. He muttered to himself, "What old demon was so bold as to break my trunk?" Then he lay down again.

Ning was greatly astonished. He rose and questioned him, telling him what he had seen. Yan said, "Since we are friends, how could I keep anything from you? I am a swordsman. Had it not been for the stone lattice, the demon would have been killed outright. Still, it was wounded." Ning asked, "What is it that you keep wrapped up?" "A sword," he said. "Just now when I sniffed it, it had a demon's smell about it." Ning wanted to see it. Yan generously drew it out and showed him—it was a small sword with a faint glow. From then on, Ning held Yan in even greater esteem.

The next day, he looked outside the window and saw bloodstains. He went north of the temple and found heaps of overgrown graves. Sure enough, there was a white poplar tree with a crow's nest at its top.

When all preparations were complete, Ning packed his things to return home. Yan hosted a farewell feast, and their bond was deep and sincere. He gave Ning a worn leather pouch. "This is a sword bag. Keep it treasured—it will keep you far from evil spirits."

Ning wished to study the martial arts under him. Yan said, "With your sense of honour and uprightness, you could do this. But you are still a man of wealth and rank, not a man of this path."

Ning then gave out that he had a younger sister buried here. He dug up the woman's bones, wrapped them in clothes and blankets, and hired a boat to return home.

Ning's study lay near the fields, so he built a grave outside the study and buried her there. He offered sacrifices and prayed: "Pity this fox-spirit's soul. She is buried near my humble dwelling. We may hear each other sing and grieve, and I hope she will not be bullied by fierce ghosts. This single bowl of broth is not very fine—I hope she will not disdain it."

When the prayer was finished and he turned to go back, someone behind him called out, "Wait—let me walk with you!" He turned and saw Xiao Qian. Overjoyed, he thanked her and said, "Your sense of honour and righteousness—ten deaths would not be enough to repay it. I ask to return with you, to pay respects to my parents, and to serve as a handmaid without regret."

He looked at her closely: her skin glowed like flowing sunset clouds, her feet were slender as young shoots. Seen face to face in daylight, her beauty was even more exquisite. He brought her to his study, told her to sit and wait a moment, and went in first to inform his mother.

His mother was startled. Ning's wife had been ill for a long time, and his mother cautioned him not to speak of it, fearing it might cause a terrible fright. Even as they were speaking, the girl floated in gracefully and prostrated herself on the ground. Ning said, "This is Xiao Qian." His mother looked around in alarm.

The girl said to the mother, "I am a wanderer, far from my parents and brothers. The young lord has sheltered me with his kindness, which reaches even to my hair and skin. I wish to take up the broom and dustpan to repay his noble generosity."

The mother saw that she was graceful and lovable, and only then dared to speak to her. "Miss, you have been kind to my son, and I am overjoyed. But I have only this one son, who must carry on the family line. I cannot allow him to take a ghost as a wife."

The girl said, "I truly have no ulterior motives. A woman beneath the earth, since I am not trusted by the old mother—may I treat him as an elder brother, attend upon you, and serve you morning and evening?" The mother, moved by her sincerity, agreed. The girl then wished to pay respects to the wife, but the mother declined on the grounds of illness, so she desisted.

The girl went straight into the kitchen and took over the cooking from the mother. She moved through the rooms and handled the household as if she had long lived there.

At dusk, the mother, filled with fear and dread, dismissed her and told her to go back to her quarters, refusing to prepare bedding for her. The young woman perceived the mother's meaning and departed immediately. She passed by the study and attempted to enter but drew back, lingering outside the door as though frightened by something.

Ning called to her. The woman said, "There is a sword's aura in the room that frightens people. The reason I did not greet you along the road was precisely because of this." Ning then remembered the leather satchel and took it down, hanging it in another room. The woman then entered and sat down by the candle.

After a long while, she said not a word at all. Finally, she asked, "Do you read at night? When I was young, I recited the *Śūraṅgama Sūtra*, but now I have forgotten more than half of it. May I beg you to lend me a volume, so that in the evening I may ask my elder brother to correct my recitation?" Ning agreed.

She sat on in silence. The second watch was nearly over, and still she did not speak of leaving. Ning urged her to go. With a sorrowful expression she said, "A lonely soul from a foreign land is ever fearful of desolate graves." Ning said, "There is no other bed in the study, and moreover, a brother and sister should keep their distance to avoid suspicion." The woman rose, her brows knitted as though she were about to weep, her feet faltering and her steps slow. She walked unhurriedly out the door, crossed the steps, and vanished.

Ning secretly pitied her. He wished to let her stay the night in a separate bed, but he feared his mother's displeasure.

Each morning at dawn, the woman would attend to her mother-in-law, bringing water for her washing and waiting upon her. When she went below to perform household tasks, there was nothing she did not strive to carry out in accordance with the mother's wishes. At dusk she would take her leave and invariably pass by the study, sitting by the candle to recite the sutras. Only when she sensed that Ning was about to retire for the night would she depart, her expression forlorn.

Before this, Ning's wife had been bedridden with illness, and the mother had been worn to exhaustion by her labors. Ever since the woman had come, the mother had been greatly eased, and she was grateful to her in her heart. As the days passed and they grew familiar, the mother loved her as her own child, quite forgetting that she was a ghost. She could not bear to have her leave late in the evening, and kept her to sleep and rise together with her.

When the woman first came, she never ate or drank. After half a year, she gradually began to sip thin gruel. Both mother and son doted on her and avoided speaking of her being a ghost; others, too, did not distinguish it.

Before long, Ning's wife passed away. The mother secretly harbored the intention of taking the woman as a wife for her son, yet she feared it might bring harm to him. The woman perceived this and, seizing an opportunity, said to the mother, "After living here for over a year, you should know my heart. It was because I wished not to bring misfortune upon travelers that I came with your son. I have no ulterior motive. It is simply that your son, being open and upright in character, is honored and regarded by Heaven and man alike. I truly wish to rely upon him for three or four years, so as to obtain through him an honorary title that would bring glory to my soul in the world below." The mother also knew that she meant no harm, but she feared she could not continue the family line. The woman said, "Children are bestowed only by Heaven. Your son is registered in the book of blessings and is destined to have three sons who will glorify the family; this will not be taken away simply because his wife is a ghost."

The mother believed her and discussed the matter with her son. Ning was delighted and accordingly set out a feast to announce it to his relatives and friends. Some asked to see the new bride. The woman, dressed in splendid attire, stepped forth with a generous spirit, and all present in the hall were utterly astonished—yet they did not suspect she was a ghost; rather, she seemed an immortal. From that time on, the womenfolk of the five branches of the family all brought gifts to congratulate her and vied with one another to pay their respects and make her acquaintance.

The woman was skilled at painting orchids and plum blossoms. Whenever she was asked, she would repay the favor with a small scroll, and those who received one would treasure it carefully as a thing of great honor.

One day, she bent her head by the window, grieving as though she had lost something. Suddenly she asked, "Where is the leather satchel?" Ning said, "Because you feared it, I sealed it away and put it elsewhere." She said, "I have received the breath of life for some time now and should no longer fear it. You should take it and hang it by the bedside."

Ning questioned her as to her meaning. She said, "For the past three days, my heart has palpitated without cease. I believe the demon of Jinhua resents my having fled far away and fears it will seek me out before long."

Ning then brought the leather satchel. The woman examined it over and over and said, "This is what a sword-immortal uses to store human heads. Worn and ruined as it is now, one cannot know how many men it has killed! Even looking at it today, my flesh still creeps with horror." So it was hung up. The next day, she ordered it moved and hung above the door.

That night they sat facing the candle, and she asked Ning not to sleep. Suddenly something fell from the air like a bird. The woman, startled, hid herself behind the screen.

Ning looked at it. The creature was shaped like a yaksha, with lightning eyes and a bloody tongue, flashing and darting forward with grasping claws. When it reached the door, it retreated a step. It paced back and forth for a long time, then gradually approached the leather satchel and reached out a claw to pluck it, as though about to tear it apart. The satchel suddenly gave a loud crack, swelling to the size of a large basket. In a blur, a ghostly figure emerged, thrusting out from the waist up, and seized the yaksha, pulling it inside. The sounds then ceased entirely, and the satchel immediately shrank back to its former size.

Ning was filled with amazement and alarm. The woman also came out, overjoyed, saying, "We are safe!" Together they looked inside the satchel and found only several pecks of clear water.

Several years later, Ning indeed passed the imperial examination. The woman bore him a son. After he took a concubine, each of them bore another son, and all rose to official distinction with fine reputations.

**Yang Tianyi's Account:**

Two mice emerged; one was swallowed by a snake. The other glared with eyes like peppercorns, seeming filled with rage and resentment, yet it only watched from afar and dared not approach. When the snake had had its fill of food, it slithered in a winding path back to its burrow. When it was halfway in, the mouse ran forward and bit down hard on its tail. The snake, enraged, withdrew its body and came out. The mouse, being naturally nimble, vanished in a flash. The snake gave chase but could not catch it and returned. When it reached its burrow, the mouse came again, biting just as before. Whenever the snake went in, the mouse would come; whenever the snake came out, the mouse would go. This went on for a long time. Finally the snake came out and spat out the dead mouse onto the ground. The mouse came and sniffed it, chirping mournfully as though grieving, then carried it away in its mouth. My friend Zhang Liyou wrote a poem called "The Righteous Mouse" to commemorate this.

**The Earthquake**

On the seventeenth day of the sixth month of the sixth year of Kangxi, at the hour of xu, a great earthquake struck. I was staying as a guest in Jixia at the time, drinking candleside with my cousin Li Duzhi. Suddenly we heard a sound like thunder, coming from the southeast and moving toward the northwest. Everyone was alarmed and astonished, not understanding the cause. Soon after, the tables and desks began to rock, and wine cups toppled over; the roof beams and rafters creaked as they shifted out of place. We looked at each other, faces drained of color. After a long while, we realized it was an earthquake, and everyone rushed out hastily. We saw towers and buildings fall and then rise again; the sound of walls collapsing and roofs caving in, mingled with the crying of children and the screaming of women, was as loud as a boiling cauldron. People were so dizzy they could not stand; they sat on the ground, rolling with its movements. River water spilled more than a zhang high, and the quacking of dogs and barking of dogs filled the whole city. After more than an hour, things finally began to settle. Looking at the street, we saw men and women huddled together naked, all talking excitedly to one another, having completely forgotten that they wore no clothes. Later we heard that in a certain place a well had tilted and could no longer draw water; in a certain family, the north-south orientation of their pavilion had changed; Qixia Mountain had cracked open; and in Yishui, a pit had collapsed, covering several mu in area. Truly this was an extraordinary and strange event.

There was a townswoman who got up at night to urinate. When she returned, she found a wolf carrying off her child in its jaws. The woman struggled fiercely with the wolf. The wolf momentarily loosened its grip, and the woman snatched her child free, clutching it to her bosom. The wolf crouched there and would not leave. The woman cried out loudly, and neighbors came running; only then did the wolf depart. The woman, her terror giving way to joy, pointed at the sky and stamped on the ground, describing how the wolf had carried off her child and how she had wrested it back. After a long time, she suddenly realized that her own body was not clothed in a single thread, and she ran off. This was the same sort of state as that of the men and women who forgot their nakedness during the earthquake. How laughable that in moments of panic and desperation, people have no plan at all!

**Master Hai**

On the ancient mound island in the Eastern Sea, there are five-colored winter camellias that do not wither through all four seasons. The island had long had no inhabitants, and people rarely visited it. A certain Zhang of Dengzhou, a man of curious nature who loved roaming and hunting, heard of its beauties and prepared wine and food, then sailed there alone in a small boat. When he arrived, the flowers were in full bloom, their fragrance detectable for several li; some trees were as much as ten arm-spans in circumference. He lingered there, going back and forth, thoroughly delighted. He opened his flask and drank alone, regretting that he had no companion. Suddenly a beautiful woman came out from among the flowers, her red garments dazzling the eye, beyond all comparison. Seeing Zhang, she said with a smile, "I thought myself a woman of uncommon taste, but I did not expect to find a kindred spirit here first." Zhang asked in surprise, "Who are you?" She said, "I am a courtesan from Jiaozhou. I just came from Master Hai. He has gone off seeking scenic heights and soaring about, but I found walking difficult, so I stayed here." Zhang had been suffering from loneliness, and to obtain a beautiful woman filled him with great delight. He invited her to sit and drink with him. The woman spoke with gentle and warm words, captivating his senses. Zhang was enchanted by her, but he feared that Master Hai would arrive and prevent them from enjoying themselves fully, so he drew her into intimacy. She gladly complied. Before their dalliance was finished, they suddenly heard a rustling wind, and the grass and trees bent and snapped with a sound. The woman urgently pushed Zhang up and said, "Master Hai is here!" Zhang hastily fastened his clothes and looked around in alarm, but the woman had already vanished. Then he saw a huge snake emerge from among the thick trees, thicker than a great barrel. Zhang was terrified and concealed himself behind a large tree, hoping the snake would not see him. The snake approached and wound its body around both the man and the tree, coiling several times; Zhang's two arms were pinned straight against his hips and could not bend even slightly. The snake raised its head and pierced Zhang's nose with its tongue. Blood flowed from Zhang's nose and pooled on the ground, forming a depression, and the snake lowered its head to drink it. Zhang thought he was certain to die, but suddenly he remembered that he carried a perfumed pouch at his waist containing poison for foxes. He pinched it out with two fingers, broke the wrapping and piled the poison in his palm; then he turned his head to look at his own hand, letting the blood drip onto the poison. In an instant, his hand was full. The snake then came to his palm to drink. Before it had finished drinking, its body suddenly straightened, and its tail lashed with a sound like thunder, striking the tree—half the trunk shattered and fell. The snake lay on the ground like a fallen beam and died. Zhang was also dizzy and could not get up; only after some time did he regain his senses. He carried the snake back home and was seriously ill for more than a month. He suspected that the woman was also a snake spirit.

**Ding Qianxi**

Ding Qianzi was a native of Zhucheng. He was wealthy in grain and money. He was a wandering knight who loved righteousness, and he admired the conduct of Guo Jie. The imperial censor's office came to investigate him. Ding fled. He arrived in Anqiu, where it rained, and he took lodging at an inn. The rain did not let up even at midday. A young man came, providing abundant food and lodging. As evening fell, Ding stayed the night at the house; the young man chopped beans to feed the animals and supplied everything with the utmost care. Ding asked his name. The young man said, "My master's surname is Yang; I am his nephew by marriage. My master is fond of socializing, but he happens to happen to be away on a journey—only his wife is at home. We are poor and cannot provide generously for a guest; I hope you will forgive us." Ding asked what the master's occupation was. He was told that the family had no assets; every day they set up a gambling house to earn a meager living. The next day, the rain still did not stop, but the young man did not slack in his provisions. At dusk, he cut fodder, but the bundles were damp and of very uneven quality. Ding was puzzled. The young man said, "I will tell you the truth, sir: our family is too poor to feed the animals, so the lady tore thatch from the roof of the house." Ding was even more astonished, supposing that her intention was to earn money. When day came, Ding offered payment, but the young man would not accept it. Ding insisted, and the young man took the money inside. A moment later, he came out and returned it to Ding, saying, "The lady says: I am not in this business to prey on people for food. When my master is away, he often goes several days without a single coin; when a guest comes to our house, why should we demand payment?" Ding sighed with admiration and took his leave. He instructed the young man, "I am Ding of Zhucheng. When your master returns, you should tell him. If he has leisure, I hope he will visit me."

For years there was no news. Then a year of great famine struck, and Yang was in dire straits, with no plan to fall back on. His wife casually suggested he visit Ding, and he followed her advice. He arrived at Ding's place and gave his name to the gatekeeper. Ding had no recollection of him at all. Only after Yang spoke at length did Ding begin to remember. Ding came out in fine shoes and robes, bowing his guest inside. Seeing that Yang's clothes were tattered and his heels exposed through his shoes, Ding seated him in a warm room, prepared a feast in his honor, and treated him with extraordinary generosity. The next day, Ding had new hats and garments made for him, warm inside and out. Yang felt deeply grateful; yet within, his worries only grew, and his narrow heart could not help harboring some small resentment. After several days, Ding still said nothing of farewell or parting gifts. Yang grew most urgent and said to Ding, "I will not conceal it from you: when I arrived, I had less than a peck of rice. Your generous support has been a great comfort—but how are my wife and children to survive?" Ding replied, "Do not trouble yourself about that. I have already made arrangements for them. I hope you will relax and stay a while longer—I will help you with traveling expenses." Ding then sent runners to summon several gamblers, had Yang sit and call the toss, and by the end of the night they had won a hundred taels of silver. Ding then sent Yang home. When Yang returned and saw his wife, he found her dressed in fine, neat clothes and shoes, with a little maidservant attending her. Startled, he asked what had happened. His wife said, "The day after you left, a cart arrived the very next day bringing bolts of silk and cloth, grain and provisions, piled up filling the whole house. They said it was a gift from Master Ding's guest. Also ten fingers' worth of maidservants were given to wait on me." Yang was moved beyond words. From this point on, he lived in modest comfort and disdained his former trade.

The Historian of the Strange says: "To be poor yet fond of entertaining guests—drinking, gambling, and dissipated men excel at this. Most remarkable was his wife alone. To receive kindness and not repay it—is that the conduct of a human being? Yet one does not forget a single meal's kindness—Ding possessed this virtue!"

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Great Sea Fish

By the seashore there were originally no mountains. One day, suddenly steep peaks appeared, layered one upon another, stretching for several li. Everyone was astonished and bewildered. Then another day, the mountains suddenly migrated elsewhere and vanished completely. It is said that a great fish in the sea, upon the occasion of the Qingming Festival, leads its family to visit its ancestral tomb, which is why it is often seen during the Cold Food days.

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Zhang, the Old Gentleman-in-Exalted-Position

Zhang, the Old Gentleman-in-Exalted-Position, was a man of Jin. When his daughter was about to be married, he brought his family south of the Yangtze River to purchase her trousseau in person. When their boat reached Jinshan, Zhang crossed the river first and instructed his family on the boat not to cook any meat with strong or gamey odors. For in the river there was a monster soft-shell turtle, which would emerge whenever it smelled such scents, wreck boats, and devour travelers—it had long been a menace. After Zhang left, his family forgot his warning and roasted meat on the boat. Suddenly enormous waves overturned it, and his wife and daughter both drowned. Zhang turned his boat back, grieving and resentful unto death. He then ascended Jinshan and visited a monk at the temple, inquiring about the turtle's strange nature, intending to take revenge on it. When the monk heard this, he said in alarm, "We live near it every day and fear it as a source of disaster. We only worship it as a divine spirit and pray that it not grow angry. From time to time we slaughter livestock and toss half a carcass into the water, and it leaps up and swallows it before departing. Who could possibly take revenge on it?" Upon hearing this, Zhang suddenly conceived a plan. He summoned an ironworker, set up a furnace halfway up the mountain, and smelted a mass of red iron weighing over a hundred catties. He ascertained the place where the turtle habitually lay concealed and had two or three strong men lift it with large tongs and hurl it in. The turtle leaped out and swiftly swallowed it down. In a short while, the waves surged like mountains. Soon after, the waves subsided, and the turtle was already dead, floating on the surface. Travelers and temple monks alike rejoiced. They built a shrine to Zhang, the Old Gentleman-in-Exalted-Position, placed his portrait within it, and regarded him as a minor deity—prayers to him were always answered.

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Shui Mang Grass

Shui mang is a poisonous weed. It grows in vines like kudzu; its flowers are purple, resembling those of the hyacinth bean. If eaten by mistake, one dies instantly and becomes a shui mang ghost. It is commonly said that such a ghost cannot be reincarnated until another person dies of the same poison and takes its place. For this reason, in the area along the Peach Blossom River in Chu, such ghosts are said to be especially numerous.

In the land of Chu, those born in the same year were called "fellow-year men," and when they exchanged visiting cards upon meeting, they addressed each other as "Geng-brother," while their sons and nephews called them "Geng-uncle"—such was the custom.

Once, a scholar named Zhu went to visit a fellow-year acquaintance. On the way, overcome by thirst and eager for a drink, he suddenly spotted an old woman by the roadside who had set up a stall offering refreshments. He hurried toward her. The old woman welcomed him warmly into the stall and served him with great attentiveness. But when he sniffed the drink, he detected a strange odor unlike that of tea, so he set it down, rose, and prepared to leave. The old woman hastily stopped him and called out, "Third Daughter, bring a cup of good tea!" Presently, a young girl emerged from behind the stall carrying a tea bowl. She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, of breathtaking beauty, with rings on her fingers and bracelets on her arms that gleamed as brightly as mirrors. The scholar took the cup, his spirit entranced. He sniffed the tea—its fragrance was beyond compare. He drained it and asked for more. Glancing about and seeing the old woman had stepped out, he playfully seized the girl's delicate wrist and slipped off one of her rings. The girl blushed and smiled, and the scholar was utterly captivated. He made a few inquiries about her family, and she said, "Come in the evening, and I shall still be here." The scholar asked for a pinch of tea leaves and departed, hiding the ring in his sleeve.

When he arrived at his fellow-year friend's home, he felt a wave of nausea in his chest and suspected the tea was the cause. He told his friend everything. The friend exclaimed in alarm, "You are doomed! This is a water-sprite ghost. My own father died from it. There is no remedy—what can be done?" The scholar was terrified. He produced the tea leaves to examine them, and indeed they were water-sprite grass. He also showed the ring and described the girl's appearance. His friend, after some reflection, said, "This must have been Kou Sanniang." When the scholar found that the name matched exactly, he asked, "How do you know?" The friend replied, "She was the daughter of a wealthy household in the southern village, long renowned for her beauty. Several years ago, she accidentally consumed water-sprite grass and died. This must be her ghost."

It was said that if one knew the surname of the ghost who had afflicted them, one could obtain the ghost's old undergarment, boil it, and drink the broth to be cured. The friend hurried to the Kou household, told them the truth of the matter, and knelt long and earnestly pleading. But Kou, hoping that the scholar would die in place of his daughter, stubbornly refused to give it. The friend returned in anger and told the scholar. The scholar, grinding his teeth in hatred, declared, "If I die, I will never allow that girl to be reborn!" His friend carried him home, and he died just as they reached his gate.

His mother wailed and wept as she buried him. He left behind a son barely a year old. His wife could not maintain the widow's chastity and remarried within half a year. The mother raised the orphan alone, toiling beyond endurance, weeping and lamenting morning and evening.

One day, as she sat in the chamber cradling her son and weeping, the scholar suddenly appeared, silent and spectral. The mother was greatly frightened and, wiping away her tears, asked him what had happened. He replied, "Your son heard his mother weeping from beneath the earth and was deeply grieved in his heart, so he has come to attend upon you in the mornings and evenings. Though your son is dead, he now has a wife, and she has come with him to share the burden of caring for you. Mother, do not grieve." The mother asked, "Who is your wife?" He said, "The Kou family sat by and listened to your son die, and he bore them great hatred. After death, he sought Sanniang but did not know where she was. Recently he met a Geng-uncle, who told him. Your son went to her, but Sanniang had already been reborn in the household of Vice Minister Ren. He galloped after her and forcibly brought her back. Now she is your son's wife, and they are well suited and have no complaints."

After a moment, a woman entered from outside, gorgeously dressed and radiantly beautiful, and prostrated herself before the mother. The scholar said, "This is Kou Sanniang." Though she was not of the human world, the mother looked upon her and felt somewhat comforted. The scholar then directed Sanniang to help with household tasks. Sanniang was not accustomed to such work, yet she obeyed with a tenderness that moved the heart. From then on they dwelt in the former chamber and did not leave.

Sanniang asked the mother to inform the Kou household. The scholar wished her not to, but the mother followed the girl's wishes and eventually told them. Kou and his wife, upon hearing the news, were greatly alarmed and ordered a carriage to hasten there. When they saw her, it was indeed Sanniang. They faced each other and wept aloud, but the girl urged them to stop. The old woman saw that the scholar's household was very poor and was deeply distressed. Sanniang said, "I am already a ghost—why should I despise poverty? Looking at the scholar and his mother, their devotion and affection are deep, and I am already content." She then asked, "Who was the old woman who served the tea?" The scholar replied, "Her surname is Ni. She was ashamed that she could not beguile travelers on her own, so she asked me to help her. She has now been reborn in the family of a wine-seller in the county town." Sanniang then turned to the scholar and said, "Now that you are my husband, yet you do not bow to your in-laws—how can I bear it?" The scholar then bowed in greeting. Sanniang went into the kitchen and took over the cooking for the mother, serving Kou and his wife. The old woman's heart was filled with sorrow. After returning home, she immediately sent two maids to serve them, along with a hundred catties of gold, several bolts of silk and cloth, and frequent gifts of wine and meat, which brought some modest prosperity to the scholar's mother. The Kou family also sometimes invited Sanniang to visit. After staying a few days, she would always say, "There is no one at home—you should send me back early." If they deliberately detained her, she would drift away of her own accord. Kou then built a fine house for the scholar, furnished with every comfort. Yet the scholar never once went to the Kou household.

One day, a villager who had been poisoned by water-sprite grass died and then came back to life. People marveled and spread the word. The scholar said, "It was I who saved him. He had been harmed by Li Jiu, and I drove the ghost away." His mother asked, "Why don't you take someone else's life to substitute for your own?" He replied, "I deeply despise such creatures and mean to drive them all out—how could I stoop to such a thing? Moreover, serving my mother is my greatest joy. I do not wish to be reborn." From then on, those who were poisoned would often prepare sumptuous feasts and pray at his shrine, and their prayers were always answered.

More than ten years passed, and the mother died. The scholar and his wife mourned with deep grief, but they did not receive guests; they merely instructed their son to wear mourning garments and perform the rites of lamentation, teaching him the proper ceremonies. After burying the mother, two more years passed, and they arranged a marriage for their son. The bride was the granddaughter of Vice Minister Ren. Previously, Vice Minister Ren's concubine had given birth to a daughter who died after only a few months. Later, hearing of the scholar's extraordinary story, Ren ordered his carriage and went to the scholar's home to arrange the match between father-in-law and son-in-law. Now the granddaughter was married to his son, and the two families maintained constant ties.

One day, the scholar said to his son, "The Lord on High, recognizing my merit among mankind, has appointed me the Dragon King of the Four Great Rivers. I must go now." Suddenly, four horses appeared in the courtyard, drawing a yellow-canopied carriage, and the horses' four legs were all covered in scales. The husband and wife emerged in splendid dress and mounted the carriage together. Their son and daughter-in-law wept and bowed, and in an instant they vanished.

On that same day, the Kou household saw Sanniang come to bid farewell to her father-in-law and mother-in-law, just as the scholar had said. The old woman wept and tried to detain her, but Sanniang said, "My husband has already gone ahead." She walked out the door and was seen no more.

The scholar's son was named E, with the courtesy name Lichen. He asked the Kou family elder for Sanniang's remains and buried them together with his father.

Necromantic arts follow no single method. Some cast beautiful bait, deceiving people into eating it, whereupon they become bewitched and follow the sorcerer away. This is popularly called "da xiba"—"beating the cotton boll"—and in Jiangnan it is known as "che xi," "pulling the cotton." Young children, ignorant and unsuspecting, readily fall victim to it. There is also a technique that transforms people into livestock, called "zaochu"—"creating livestock." This art is still rare north of the river, but south of the Yellow River it is common. At an inn in Yangzhou, a man once led in five donkeys, tethered them briefly beneath the stable manger, and said, "I shall return shortly." He added a warning: "Do not let them eat or drink." Then he left. The donkeys, exposed to the blazing sun, kicked and bit noisily. The innkeeper moved them to a cool spot. The donkeys spied water and rushed toward it, so he let them drink their fill. Whereupon, with a rolling cloud of dust, they transformed into women. Astonished, he questioned them, but their tongues were stiff and they could not answer. He hid them in an inner room. Soon the donkeys' owner returned, driving five sheep into the courtyard. He asked in alarm where the donkeys were. The innkeeper pulled the guest to a seat, served him food and drink, and said, "Eat first, sir. The donkeys will be here shortly." Once the guest had gone out, the innkeeper gave all five sheep water to drink, and they rolled about and turned into boys. He secretly reported the matter to the prefecture, who sent runners to arrest the man, and he was shackled and put to death.

Geng Shiba

A scholar of Fengyang carried his book-bag and traveled far from home. He told his wife, "I shall return in half a year." More than ten months passed, and still no word came. She waited and yearned for him most keenly. One night, having just lain down to sleep, with the gauze moon swaying its shadows, parting thoughts filled her heart. As she tossed and turned, a beautiful woman appeared—pearl-studded hair, a crimson cape—who lifted the curtain and came in, smiling. "Elder Sister," she asked, "do you not wish to see your husband?" The woman rose quickly in reply. The beauty invited her to go together. The woman feared the long, arduous journey, but the beauty merely said, "Please do not worry." She took the woman's hand and led her out, and together they trod the moonlight. They walked roughly the distance of a single arrow-shot. The woman found that the beauty walked swiftly, while her own steps were labored and slow. She called to the beauty to wait a moment, for she wished to go back and put on thick-soled shoes. The beauty took her by the arm and seated her by the roadside, then herself seized her foot and slipped off her shoes to lend them. The woman was delighted to find they fit well, without the slightest mismatch. She rose and walked on, her strides now vigorous and swift. After a time, she saw her husband approaching, riding a white mule. Seeing his wife, he was greatly startled. He dismounted hastily and asked, "Where are you going?" The woman said, "I have come to visit you." He then turned and asked who the beauty was. Before the woman could answer, the beauty covered her mouth and laughed, saying, "Ask no questions. The lady has had no easy journey; you, sir, have galloped through the night—both man and beast must surely be exhausted. My home is not far. Please rest your horse there; set out at dawn, and it will not be too late." She pointed, and a few paces beyond there was a village. Together they went on. They entered a courtyard, and the beauty roused a sleeping maid to serve the guests, saying, "Tonight the moon is bright—there is no need for candles. The little terrace with the stone couch will do for sitting." The scholar tethered his mule beneath the eaves and sat down. The beauty said, "The shoes must be most uncomfortable on your feet. Were they a great burden on the road? Now that you have a mount to ride, I would ask you to return them." The woman thanked her and handed them over.

Shortly after, wine and fruit were set out. The beauty poured a cup and said, "The phoenix pair has long been parted; tonight they are reunited. This single cup of humble wine I offer in congratulation." The scholar also raised his cup in return. Host and guest laughed and talked, shoes crossing back and forth. The scholar gazed at the beauty and repeatedly tried to flirt with her. The husband and wife had only just met, yet they exchanged not a single word of greeting. The beauty, too, cast amorous glances and spoke in bewitching riddles. The woman only sat in silence, pretending to be simple-minded. As time passed and the wine took hold, the two grew ever more intimate. The beauty pressed a large goblet upon the guest; the scholar declined, saying he was drunk, but she urged him all the more insistently. The scholar laughed and said, "Sing me a tune, and I will drink." The beauty did not refuse; she took up a lute, plucked it with her ivory plectrum, and sang:

"When evening comes and the last trace of makeup is removed,

The west wind chills through the window screen.

I hear the plantain leaves—

A gust, a gust, a fine drizzling rain.

Where can I find someone to idle and chat?

I gaze till my eyes pierce the autumn waters—

He does not return.

My tears fall in streams, like hemp.

I long for him, I resent him,

In my hand I hold his red embroidered shoe

And cast a ghost-divination with it."

When the song ended, she laughed and said, "This is a vulgar ballad of the streets and alleys, unworthy of your ears. But since it is what the common folk favor, I have merely aped the fashion." Her voice was languid, her manner brazen and intimate. The scholar was bewitched and swayed, scarcely able to control himself.

Shortly after, the beauty feigned drunkenness and left her seat; the scholar also rose and followed her. For a long time they did not return. The maid, worn out with fatigue, curled up and slept in the corridor. The woman sat alone, solitary and forlorn, her heart seething with anger, scarcely able to endure it. She thought of slipping home, but the night was dark and she could not remember the way. She tossed and turned, unable to decide, and so rose to spy on them. When she approached the window, the sounds of cloud-breaking rain and scattered showers could be faintly heard. Listening further, she heard her husband recounting in full detail the most intimate acts they shared in private. Hearing this, her hands trembled and her heart shook, her fury almost beyond control. She thought it better to rush out and throw herself into a ditch and die. As she strode forth in rage, she suddenly saw her younger brother, Sanlang, arrive on horseback. He dismounted at once and questioned her. She told him everything. Sanlang was furious. He turned at once with his sister and went straight to the house, where they found the chamber door bolted shut, while murmuring voices from the bed still carried on softly. Sanlang lifted a stone the size of a bushel and hurled it at the window lattice—three, five times, shattering it to pieces. A voice cried out from within, "The gentleman's skull is smashed! What shall we do?" The woman, hearing this, was struck dumb with shock and wept aloud, saying to her brother, "I never planned with you to kill my husband—what are we to do now?" Sanlang glared and said, "You came weeping and urging me here, and I had barely vented this fury in my breast, and now you protect this man and resent your brother! I will not be ordered about by a mere woman!" He turned to leave. The woman clutched his robe and said, "If you do not take me with you, where shall I go?" Sanlang flung his sister to the ground and departed, leaving her behind. The woman started awake in terror—only then did she know it had been a dream.

The next day, the scholar did indeed return, riding a white mule. The woman marveled but said nothing. The scholar had also dreamed that night, and when he recounted what he had seen and experienced, it matched her account in every detail—each was astounded by the other. Soon after, Sanlang heard that his brother-in-law had returned from afar and came to visit. In the course of conversation, he said to the scholar, "Last night I dreamed you had returned, and now it is true—most strange indeed." The scholar laughed and said, "It is fortunate I was not killed by a great stone." Sanlang was startled and asked why. The scholar told him of his dream. Sanlang was deeply astonished. For that night, Sanlang too had dreamed of meeting his sister, who wept and pleaded her case, and in his fury he had hurled the stone. The three dreams tallied exactly—only, none knew who the beautiful woman was.

**Geng Shibai of Xincheng**

Geng Shibai of Xincheng was gravely ill and knew he would not recover. He said to his wife, "Our parting will come any day now. After I die, whether you remarry or remain faithful is your choice—please tell me what you intend." His wife remained silent. Geng pressed the matter, saying, "Remaining faithful is admirable, but remarrying is only natural. Why should it hurt to speak plainly? I am about to part from you forever. If you remain faithful, my heart will be at peace; if you remarry, my attachment will be severed." His wife then said sorrowfully, "We have no more grain in the house than would fill a small pot. Even with you alive, we can barely get by—how could I possibly remain faithful?" Upon hearing this, Geng seized his wife's arm and said with a voice full of resentment, "How heartless!" With that, he died. His hand would not release her arm. His wife cried out. The family arrived, and two of them pried at his fingers with great force before they could open them.

Geng was unaware that he had died. He went out and saw more than ten small carts, each carrying ten men. On each cart was pasted a square piece of paper with names written on it. The drivers saw Geng and urged him to board. Geng looked inside the cart and saw it already held nine men; with himself, it was ten. He also looked at the list of names and saw his own was last. The cart rumbled along with a deafening noise, and he did not know where it was going. Soon they arrived at a place, and he heard someone say, "This is the Land of Homesickness." Hearing the name, he was puzzled. Then he overheard two drivers chatting: "Today we brought three." Geng was alarmed. Listening more closely, he realized they were all speaking of matters of the underworld. He then understood: "Am I not already a ghost?" He suddenly thought of his home and found there was nothing left to worry about—except that his old mother was advanced in years, and after his wife remarried, she would lack for care and support. Thinking of this, tears streamed down his face without his being able to stop them.

After some time, he saw a terrace, several zhang high, with many people crowding around it. Those with their heads wrapped and their feet in fetters went up and down, weeping bitterly. He heard people call it the Terrace of Gazing Homeward. When the people reached this point, they all stepped down from the cart shafts and clamored to climb. The drivers whipped some and stopped others, but when it came to Geng, they urged him to ascend. He climbed several dozen steps before reaching the summit. Craning his neck to look, he saw his gate, courtyard, and household as clearly as if they were before his eyes. But the inner chambers were dim and hazy, as if veiled in mist and smoke. His grief was too much to bear. Turning around, he saw a man in short clothes standing beside him. The man asked Geng his name, and Geng told him. The man said he was a carpenter from the Eastern Sea. Seeing Geng weeping, he asked, "What weighs on your mind?" Geng told him. The carpenter proposed that they leap from the terrace and flee. Geng feared pursuit from the underworld, but the carpenter assured him it would be safe. Geng also worried about falling from such a height, but the carpenter told him simply to follow. The carpenter jumped first, and Geng indeed followed. When they reached the ground, they were unharmed. Overjoyed, they saw that no one had noticed. Looking back at the cart, it was still below the terrace. The two men ran quickly. After a few paces, Geng suddenly thought that his name was pasted on the cart, and he feared they would come after him by that name. He turned back toward the cart, wet his finger with saliva, and wiped away his own name. Then he ran again, panting and gasping, not daring to pause for even a moment.

After a while, they entered the village gate, and the carpenter escorted him to his own chamber. Suddenly Geng saw his own corpse, and he awoke with a start.

He felt exhausted, restless, and desperately thirsty, and cried out for water. The family was greatly alarmed and gave him water. He drank more than a dou of it, then suddenly rose as if to bow and pay his respects. He went out the door, bowed in thanks, and then returned. Once back, he lay stiff and motionless. The family found his behavior strange and suspected he was not truly alive, but as they watched him gradually, they found nothing unusual. Coming closer to question him, he at last recounted everything that had happened from beginning to end. They asked, "Why did you go out the door?" He said, "To say goodbye to the carpenter." "Why did you drink so much water?" He said, "At first it was for me to drink, and afterward it was the carpenter who drank." They gave him soup and broth, and within several days he had recovered. From then on, he held his wife in contempt and no longer shared a bed with her.

**Zhu'er**

Li Hua, a commoner of Changzhou, was a man of considerable property and land. He was over fifty years old and had no son. He had a daughter named Xiaohui, whose appearance and bearing were lovely and refined, and whom the couple cherished dearly. At the age of fourteen, she suddenly fell ill and died. The household felt desolate, and life lost much of its pleasure. Li Hua then took a concubine, and after a little over a year, she bore a son. He treasured the boy as if he were a precious jade and named him Zhu'er. As the boy grew, he was tall and sturdy, and lovable. But he was utterly foolish: at the age of five or six, he still could not tell beans from wheat, and his speech was halting and difficult. Li Hua loved him and did not recognize his deficiencies.

There happened to be a blind monk who went about the marketplace seeking alms. He could always tell what went on inside people's private quarters, and so people regarded him with amazement as a man of divine powers. He also claimed he could determine people's life and death, fortune or misfortune. Whether it be tens, hundreds, or thousands, he would name a sum and demand it, and no one dared refuse. He came to Li Hua and sought a hundred strings of cash. Li Hua balked and offered ten, which the monk would not accept. The offer gradually rose to thirty strings. The monk said sternly, "It must be a hundred strings—not a single coin short!" Li Hua also grew angry, took back the money, and left. The monk rose in fury and said, "Do not regret it! Do not regret it!"

Before long, Zhu'er's heart began to ache violently. He clawed at the bed and mat, and his face turned the color of ash. Li Hua was frightened and went to the monk with eighty strings of cash, begging him to save the boy. The monk smiled and said, "So much money is no small matter! But what can a humble mountain monk do?" Li Hua returned home, but his son was already dead. Li Hua was overwhelmed with grief and reported the matter to the county magistrate. The magistrate had the monk arrested and interrogated. The monk was glib and showed no remorse. The magistrate had him beaten, but it was as if he were striking a drum. He ordered a search of the monk's person and found two wooden figurines, a small coffin, and five tiny banners. The magistrate, enraged, formed a mudra with his hands and held it up for the monk to see. The monk then became terrified and prostrated himself repeatedly. The magistrate paid him no heed and had him beaten to death. Li Hua kowtowed in thanks and returned home.

It was already dusk. Li sat on the bed with his wife. Suddenly, a small child, hobbling and staggering, entered the room and said, "Why did you, old father, walk so fast? I exerted all my strength but could not catch up." Judging by his appearance, he seemed to be about seven or eight years old. Li was alarmed and was about to question him when he saw the child flickering in and out of sight, wavering like smoke and mist. In the blink of an eye, he had already climbed onto the bed and sat down. Li pushed him off; he fell to the ground without a sound. The child said, "Why do you treat me like this, old father?" In a flash, he climbed up again. Li was frightened and fled with his wife. The child called out "Father! Mother!" incessantly, babbling without stopping.

Li entered his concubine's room and hastily shut the door. When he looked back, the child was already at his knees. Li was terrified and asked what he wanted. The child replied, "I am from Suzhou, surnamed Zhan. At the age of six I lost both parents, and my elder brother and sister-in-law could not tolerate me, so they drove me to live with my maternal grandfather. One day, while playing outside the gate, I was lured and killed by an evil monk under a mulberry tree. He used me as a servile ghost, wrongfully imprisoned in the depths of the underworld, unable to be released or reincarnated. Fortunately, you, old father, cleared my name. I wish to become your son." Li said, "The ways of the living and the dead are different. How can we depend on each other?" The child said, "Just clear a small room, set up a bed and bedding for me, and pour a cup of cold gruel for me each day. That is all I need." Li agreed. The child was delighted and slept alone in the room. Every morning he came and went through the women's quarters as if he had been born into the family.

Hearing his concubine weeping for her dead son, the child asked, "How many days has Zhu'er been dead?" He was told it had been seven days. He said, "The weather is bitterly cold; the corpse should not have decayed. Try to open the grave and look. If it has not deteriorated, the boy can be brought back to life." Li was overjoyed. He went with the child and opened the burial mound to examine it—the body was as it had been. Just as Li was overcome with grief, he looked around and the child had vanished. Astonished, he carried the corpse back home. He had just placed it on the bed when the eyes suddenly flickered. After a moment, the boy called for hot water. When it was given, he began to sweat, and after sweating, he rose up.

The whole household rejoiced that Zhu'er had come back to life. Moreover, he was now clever, sharp, and quick-witted—utterly different from before. But at night he lay stiff and motionless, without the slightest breath. When they turned him over, he was as insensible as a corpse. Everyone was greatly astonished and thought he had died again. Only at dawn did he wake as if from a dream. The family gathered and questioned him. He replied, "When I was with the evil monk, there were two boys with me. One was called Gezi. He failed to catch up with you, father, yesterday—he must have stayed behind to say goodbye to Gezi. He is now in the underworld, adopted as a godson by a certain Jiang Yuanwai, and lives quite comfortably. At night he comes to invite me to play. He just sent me home on a white-nosed horse." His mother then asked, "Did you see Zhu'er in the underworld?" He said, "Zhu'er has already been reincarnated. He had no karmic bond of father and son with you, old father. He was only a certain Yan Zifang of Jinling, who came to collect a debt of a hundred thousand cash." Previously, Li had traded in Jinling and owed Yan for goods but had not repaid him. Old Master Yan had since died, and no one knew of this matter. When Li heard this, he was greatly shaken. His mother asked, "Did you see Elder Sister Hui?" The child said, "I don't know. Next time I will look for her."

Two or three days later, the child said to his mother, "Elder Sister Hui is doing very well in the underworld. She has married the young master of the King of the River Chu, and her hair is covered with pearls and jade. Whenever she goes out, hundreds of attendants shout in procession." His mother said, "Why doesn't she come home for a visit?" He said, "Once a person is dead, they have no connection to flesh and blood. Only if someone tells them the details of their former life will they suddenly be moved. Yesterday I asked Jiang Yuanwai to use his connections so I could see my sister. She had me sit on a coral bed. When I spoke of our parents' longing for her, she was as unresponsive as if asleep. I said, 'When you were alive, you loved to embroider twin flowers. Once the scissors pricked your finger, and the blood stained the silk. You then embroidered the bloodstain into a red cloud over water. Mother still has it hanging on the wall by her bed, unable to forget it. Have you forgotten?' Only then did she become sorrowful and said, 'I will have to tell my husband, Master Bai, to let me go back and visit Mother.'" His mother asked when she would come, and he said he did not know.

One day the child said to his mother, "Sister will be coming soon. She will have a large retinue. You should prepare plenty of wine and gruel." Shortly afterward, he ran into the room and said, "Sister has arrived!" He moved the couch to the central hall and said, "Sister, please rest here. Try not to weep too much." The others could see nothing. The child led the people to burn paper offerings and pour libations outside the door, then returned and said, "The attendants have been told to leave for now. Sister asked: 'The green brocade quilt that used to cover me—a candle flower burned a spot on it the size of a bean. Is it still there?'" His mother said, "Yes." She immediately opened the chest and brought it out. The child said, "Sister asks me to place it in her old room. I am tired and will rest a bit. Tomorrow I will speak with you again, Mother."

The daughter of the Zhao family, their eastern neighbor, had been a close friend of Hui's in the ladies' quarters. That night, she suddenly dreamed that Hui came to visit her wearing a head-wrap and a purple cloak, talking and laughing as in life. She said, "I am now a different kind of being. For my parents to see me face to face is as distant as mountains and rivers. I will borrow my little sister to speak with the family. Do not be frightened." At dawn, just as she was telling her mother about it, she suddenly fell to the ground, unconscious. After a moment she awoke and said to her mother, "It has been a few years since Little Hui bade farewell to you, Aunt, and now your hair is suddenly all white!" Her mother, alarmed, said, "Have you gone mad?" The girl bowed, took her leave, and went out. Her mother, sensing something strange, followed her. She went straight to Li's house and embraced his mother, weeping bitterly. Li's mother was bewildered. The girl said, "I returned yesterday and was quite exhausted, so I did not have time to say anything. I am unfilial—I abandoned my parents midway and caused them to grieve and long for me. How can my sins be atoned for?" Li's mother suddenly understood and began to cry. After a while she asked, "I hear that you are now in a high position, which comforts my heart. But you dwell in five households—how were you able to come?" The girl said, "My husband and I are very affectionate. My parents-in-law are also kind and loving; they do not think me jealous or ugly." When Hui was alive, she liked to rest her chin on her hand. As the girl spoke, she unconsciously assumed this old posture, and her expression was exactly the same.

Soon, Zhu'er ran in and said, "Those who have come to fetch Sister have arrived." The girl rose, bowed in farewell, and wept. She said, "I am going now." With that, she fell once more and did not regain consciousness for some time.

Several months later, Li's illness grew severe, and medicine proved of no avail. His son said, "Each dawn and dusk he may not be saved! Two ghosts sit at the head of his bed — one grasping an iron rod, the other coiling a ramie rope some four or five feet long. I have begged them day and night, but they will not leave." His mother wept and began preparing burial clothes and coverlet. At dusk, the son hurried in and said, "The other womenfolk should withdraw — your brother-in-law has come to visit Father." After a moment, he clapped his hands and laughed. His mother asked why, and he said, "I was laughing at the two ghosts — hearing that my brother-in-law was coming, they both hid beneath the bed like turtles." A little later, he addressed the empty air, exchanging pleasantries and inquiring after his sister's well-being. Then he clapped his hands again and said, "Those two wretched ghosts who would not leave no matter how I begged them — this is a great satisfaction!" He then went outside, returned, and said, "My brother-in-law has departed. The two ghosts have been locked to the horse's martingale. Father should recover forthwith. My brother-in-law said he will report to the Great King and beg a hundred years of life for our parents." The whole household rejoiced. That night, his illness was greatly improved, and within a few days he had fully recovered.

A tutor was engaged to teach the boy. He was remarkably bright, entering the county school at eighteen, and could still speak of matters in the underworld. When he saw villagers who were ill, he would point out where the ghosts were lurking and burn them with fire, and the patients would often be cured. Later he fell gravely ill, his skin turning blue and black, and said that the spirits and ghosts were punishing him for his revelations. From then on, he spoke no more of such things.

**The Little Official**

A certain Grand Historian, whose surname I have forgotten, was lying down in his study during the day when suddenly a small retinue of officials emerged from the corner of the hall. The horses were no larger than frogs, and the people no bigger than fingers. There were dozens of small processional guards; one official, wearing a black gauze cap and an embroidered robe, rode in a sedan chair, and they streamed out the gate and away. The Historian thought this strange and privately suspected his eyes had deceived him in a half-sleep. Then he saw a small man return to the house, carrying a felt bundle the size of a fist, and make his way directly beneath the bed. He announced, "My master has a modest gift to present to the Grand Historian." Having spoken, he stood facing the Historian but did not display the object. After a while, he laughed to himself and said, "Such a trifle — I imagine the Grand Historian has no use for it. Better to give it to me at once." The Historian nodded. Delighted, the little man carried it away and left. He was never seen again. It is a pity that the Historian, being faint-hearted, never inquired whence the visitor had come.

**Fourth Sister Hu**

A young scholar named Shang, a native of Mount Tai, lived alone in a quiet studio. One autumn night, the Milky Way hung high and bright, the moon shone in the sky, and as he paced among the flowers in the shadows, his thoughts wandered far. Suddenly a woman vaulted over the wall and came in, smiling. "What is the scholar pondering so deeply?" he asked. He drew near and saw that her beauty was otherworldly. Overjoyed, he embraced her and they became intimate. She said, "My surname is Hu, and I am called Third Sister." He asked where she lived, but she only smiled and would not say. He pressed her no further, and from that day on they were constant lovers, spending every night together.

One night, they sat knee to knee by the lamp, and he gazed at her with such adoration that she laughed and said, "Why do you stare at me so?" He replied, "I look upon you as peony and peach blossom — even if I gazed all night, I would never tire." Third Sister said, "Such a plain creature as I, and yet you favor me so — if you could see our Fourth Sister, I cannot imagine how overcome you would be." His longing grew even greater, and he could not bear not to see her. He knelt and begged at length. The following evening, she indeed came with Fourth Sister. The girl had just reached the age of fifteen — powder like lotus, dew trailing down, apricot blossoms veiled in mist, smiling softly, her beauty utterly captivating. Overjoyed, he led her to a seat. Third Sister and he talked and laughed together, while Fourth Sister only fingered her embroidered sash and kept her head bowed. Before long, Third Sister rose to leave. Her sister wished to follow, but he held her back and looked at Third Sister, saying, "Please — just say a word for us." Third Sister laughed and said, "This wild fellow is beside himself! Sister, stay a while for him." Fourth Sister said nothing, and her sister departed. The two of them gave themselves over to perfect bliss. Then, using each other's arms as pillows, they confided the stories of their lives, holding nothing back. Fourth Sister told him she was a fox-spirit. Because he was so enamored of her beauty, he was not the least bit alarmed. Fourth Sister then said, "My elder sister is vicious — she has already killed three men. Whoever falls under her spell invariably dies. I have been fortunate to receive her doting affection and cannot bear to see you perish. You must break with her soon." Frightened, he asked what he should do. Fourth Sister said, "Though I am a fox, I have received the proper teachings of an immortal. I will write a charm and paste it on the bedroom door — that will keep her away." She wrote it and affixed it. At dawn, Third Sister arrived, saw the charm, and retreated. "That faithless little wench," she said, "she has given her heart to the new groom and forgotten the one who brought you together. The two of you share a predestined bond, and I bear you no ill will — but must you do this?" With that, she left outright.

Several days later, Fourth Sister went elsewhere, arranging to return the following night. That day, the scholar happened to step outside for a view. Below the mountain there was an old forest of oak trees, and from the depths of the green came a young woman of considerable charm. She approached him and said, "Why does the scholar dwell so devotedly on the Hu sisters? They cannot give you a single copper coin." She handed him a string of cash and said, "Take this home first, buy some fine wine, and I shall bring a few small dishes to share with you for pleasure." He took the money home and did as she instructed. Shortly after, the woman arrived, placing on the table a roast chicken and a salted pork shoulder. She drew her knife and sliced them finely into portions. They poured wine and traded jokes, their mirth extraordinary. Then they extinguished the candles, climbed into bed, and their passion knew no bounds. They did not rise until dawn. He was sitting on the bed putting on his slippers when they heard a voice — listening closely, someone had already entered the bed curtains. It was the two Hu sisters. The woman caught sight of them and fled in panic, leaving a slipper on the bed. The two sisters scolded her: "You vulgar fox! How dare you sleep with a man!" They pursued her and returned only after some time. Fourth Sister reproached the scholar: "You are no better than this — coupling with a vulgar fox! I cannot be near you again!" She was furious and about to leave. He threw himself at her in terror, his words full of grief and entreaty. Third Sister interceded from the side, and Fourth Sister's anger gradually subsided. From then on, their love was as before.

One day, a man from Shaanxi rode a donkey to the door and said, "I have been searching for this demonic creature for a long time—not just a day or two—and only today have I finally found it." The father of the young gentleman found his words strange and asked how he had come to know of it. The man said, "I have spent my days roaming the rivers and lakes, wandering in all directions. Eight or nine months out of every year, I am away from my home village. That demonic creature bewitched and killed my younger brother. I returned home full of grief and resentment, and I swore I would find it and destroy it. I rushed about for thousands of li, but there was no trace or sign of it. Now it is in your household. If it is not destroyed, there will be others who follow my brother in death." At that time, the young gentleman and the woman were in close intimacy. Their parents had secretly observed this, and upon hearing the visitor's words, they were greatly frightened. They invited him in and asked him to perform his arts. He brought out two bottles and set them on the ground. He cast spells and incantations for a long time. Four dark mists appeared and each entered a bottle. The visitor said joyfully, "The whole family has been captured!" He then wrapped the mouths of the bottles with pig bladders and sealed them very firmly. The young gentleman's father was also pleased and insisted on keeping the visitor for a drink. The young gentleman's heart was moved with pity. He approached the bottles and secretly looked inside, hearing Fourth Sister's voice from within saying, "You sit by and watch without saving me—how can you be so heartless?" The young gentleman was even more moved. He hastily tried to open the seals, but the bindings could not be undone. Fourth Sister said again, "There's no need for that. Just knock over the banner on the altar and pierce the bladder with a needle to make a hole—then I will come out." The young gentleman did as she asked. Indeed, a thread of white vapor emerged from the hole and soared into the sky. The visitor came out and saw the banner lying on the ground. He was greatly alarmed and said, "It has escaped! This must have been done by the young master." He shook the bottle and listened with his ear to it, saying, "Fortunately, only one has been lost. This creature should not die—it may still been pardoned." Then he took his bottles and departed.

Later, the young gentleman was in the countryside overseeing hired hands cutting wheat when he saw Fourth Sister sitting beneath a tree in the distance. He approached her, took her hand, and comforted her. He said, "It has been ten years since we parted. Now my Great Elixir is complete. But I have not forgotten my longing for you, so I have come to pay my respects once more." The young gentleman wished to bring her back with him, but the woman said, "I am not what I was before. I cannot be stained by mortal passions anymore. We shall meet again." Having spoken this, she vanished and was no longer to be seen. More than twenty years later, the young gentleman was living alone when Fourth Sister appeared, entering from outside. The young gentleman was delighted and spoke with her. The woman said, "My name is now registered in the immortal registers. I should not have returned to the mortal world. But I am moved by your feelings, and I respectfully come to inform you of the time of your death. You should make arrangements for your affairs early; and do not grieve—I will bring you to transcendence as a ghost-immortal, and there will be no suffering." Then she took her leave and departed. On that day, the young gentleman indeed died. Mr. Shang was a relative and good friend of his friend Li Wenyu, who personally witnessed these events.

Zhu Weng

In Zhu Village of Jiyang there was a man called Zhu Weng, who was over fifty years of age and died of illness. His family members entered the chamber to prepare the mourning garments when suddenly they heard Weng calling out very urgently. They all rushed to the funeral chamber and saw that Weng had already revived. The family all joyfully comforted him. Weng only said to his wife, "When I departed just now, I had resolved not to return. I had gone several li when I thought of leaving your old, worn body in the hands of the children—depending on them for warmth and cold, with no more joy in living. It would be better to come with me. So I returned, wanting to accompany you together." They all thought that he had just revived and was speaking delirious words, and they did not quite believe him. Weng said it again. His wife said, "If so, that would be good too. But I have just come back to life—how can I die so soon?" Weng waved his hand and said, "That is not difficult. The household affairs—you must quickly put them in order." The old woman smiled and did not go. Weng urged her again. She then went outside, stayed there for a while, and came back, telling him, "Everything has been arranged properly." Weng told her to dress quickly. The old woman did not go, and Weng urged her more urgently. The old woman, not bearing to go against his wishes, then dressed and came out. The daughters-in-law and daughters all hid their smiles. Weng moved his head onto the pillow and patted the bed, telling her to lie down. The old woman said, "The children are all here—both of us lying stiffly side by side, what a sight that would be!" Weng pounded the bed and said, "What is so funny about dying together?" The children saw that Weng was agitated and together urged the old woman to humor him. The old woman did as he said, and they lay stiffly side by side on the pillow. The family all laughed together again. After a moment, they looked, and the old woman's smile suddenly faded; then gradually both her eyes closed, and after a long while there was no sound—she seemed to have fallen asleep. The crowd then approached to look, and her skin was already cold and her nose had no breath. They tested Weng as well, and it was the same. Only then were they all alarmed and frightened. In the twenty-first year of Kangxi, Weng's younger brother's wife was working as a servant in the household of Regional Governor Bi, and she spoke of this in great detail.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "Did Weng have extraordinary conduct in his past? The road to the springs below is boundless and obscure, yet he came and went as he pleased—how strange! Moreover, when the white-haired one wished to depart, he called for his wife to depart with him, and how leisurely he was about it! When a person is at the moment of death, the one they most cannot bear to part with is the intimate one at their bedside. If this art were widely practiced, then selling one's shoes and distributing one's perfumes would no longer be necessary."

The Pig-Mother Dragon

The pig-mother dragon is produced in the Xi River. Its form resembles a dragon but shorter, and it can fly horizontally. It often emerges along the riverbanks to pounce upon and eat geese and ducks. If someone hunts and catches one, they sell its meat to the Chen and Ke families. These two surnames are both descendants of Youliang, and for generations they have eaten the meat of the pig-mother dragon—no other clan dares to eat it. A guest came from Jiangxi and obtained one, which he tied up in his boat. One day, when the boat was moored at Qiantang, the binding loosened slightly, and suddenly the creature leaped into the river. In an instant, the waves surged mightily, and the merchant boat capsized and sank.

A Certain Gentleman

A certain gentleman from the western regions of Shaanxi, a jinshi degree holder of the xinchou year, was able to remember his previous incarnation. He said that in his previous life he was a scholar who died in middle age. After death he saw the King of Hell judging cases, with cauldrons, pots, oil, and boiling vats, just as the world has transmitted. In the eastern corner of the hall, several racks were set up, upon which were placed the skins of pigs, sheep, horses, and dogs. The clerk of records called out names, and some were punished by being made into horses, some by being made into pigs; all were stripped naked, and skins were taken from the racks and placed upon them. Soon it was the gentleman's turn. He heard the King of Hell say, "This one should be made into a sheep." A ghost brought the skin of a white sheep and pressed it down over the gentleman's body. The clerk reported, "This one once saved a person's life." The King examined the records and looked again, then said, "Spare him. Although his evils are many, this good deed can redeem them." The ghost again stripped away the skin and hide. The hide had already adhered to his body and could not be moved. Two ghosts grasped his arms and pressed his chest, pulling with force to remove it—the pain was beyond description. The skin tore off in pieces and could not be completely removed. After it was taken off, near his shoulder there was still a piece of sheepskin adhering, as large as a palm. After the gentleman was reborn, he had sheep's wool growing on his back, which grew back each time it was cut off.

The Sharp Knife

# From Volume 2 of *Liaozhai Zhiyi*

# The Brave Maiden

Mr. Gu was a native of Jinling. He was accomplished in many arts, but his family was extremely poor. Moreover, because his mother was old, he could not bear to leave her side, so he spent his days painting and calligraphy for others, accepting payment to support himself. At twenty-five, he still had no wife. Opposite his house there had long been an empty residence, occupied by an old woman and a young girl who rented it. Because the household had no men, no one had inquired who they were. One day, Gu happened to return from outside and saw a young woman emerge from his mother's room. She was perhaps eighteen or eighteen or nineteen, elegant and refined, a beauty rarely matched in the world. She avoided him upon seeing him, yet her demeanor was stern and forbidding. Gu went in and asked his mother about her.

His mother said, "That is the young woman from across the way. She came to borrow a needle and scissors. She happened to mention that her household also has only one mother. This girl does not seem to be of poor stock. I asked why she is not yet married, and she gave her mother's age as the reason. Tomorrow you should go pay respects to her mother and gently sound her out. If her expectations are not too high, you could support her mother as well."

The next day he visited their home. The mother turned out to be a deaf old woman. Looking at their dwelling, he saw they did not have even a day's provisions in store. When he asked how they made their living, he learned it all depended on the daughter's ten fingers. He cautiously broached the idea of sharing meals, and the old woman seemed receptive, but turned to consult her daughter. The girl said nothing and appeared distinctly displeased. The mother returned home and, considering the circumstances, said with suspicion, "Could it be that the girl disdains our poverty? She speaks not and smiles not—as gorgeous as peach and plum blossoms, yet as cold as frost and snow. A strange woman indeed!" Mother and son wondered and sighed, and let the matter rest.

One day, Gu was sitting in his study when a young man came seeking a painting. His appearance was very handsome, but his manner was rather frivolous. When asked where he was from, he answered "a neighboring village." After that he came every two or three days, gradually becoming more familiar, and began making teasing remarks. Gu embraced him familiarly, and he did not much resist, and they became intimate. From then on their relations grew very close. On one occasion the young woman passed by, and the young man watched her go, asking who she was. Gu said she was a girl from next door. The young man said, "So beautiful as that—how can her expression be so forbidding?" A short while later, Gu went inside. His mother said, "Just now the young woman came begging for rice, saying they had not lit a stove for days now. This girl is utterly filial and pitifully poor. We should help her a little."

Gu followed his mother's words, carried a peck of rice to her door, and conveyed his mother's meaning. The girl accepted it but did not thank him. She often came to Gu's house; when she saw his mother making clothes or shoes, she would sew for her instead. She moved through the household working like a daughter-in-law. Gu felt ever more grateful to her. Whenever he received food, he would share it with her mother, and the girl never mentioned it. His mother happened to develop a sore in a private place, crying out day and night. The girl would come to her bedside to examine her, washing the wound and applying medicine, three or four times a day. His mother felt deeply uneasy about it, but the girl was not disgusted by the filth. His mother said, "Ah! If only I had a daughter-in-law like you to serve me until death!" When she finished speaking, she wept bitterly. The girl comforted her, saying, "Your son is greatly filial—he surpasses this widow and orphan girl a hundredfold."

His mother said, "The service of pacing about the bedside—how can a filial son do that? Moreover, I am already advanced in years. Sooner or later I shall fall to the mists and dew, and I am deeply anxious about the continuation of the family line." As she spoke, Gu entered. His mother, weeping, said, "We owe the young lady much. Do not forget to repay her kindness." Gu bowed to her. The girl said, "You honor my mother—I have no need to thank you. Why should you thank me?" From then on he respected and loved her all the more. Yet her manner was rigid, and she could not in the least be taken advantage of.

One day the girl was going out, and Gu's eyes followed her. She suddenly turned her head and smiled. Overjoyed beyond expectation, he hurried to follow her to his home, and when he flirted with her she did not refuse. They happily made love. Afterward, she warned him, "This can happen once but not again." He did not answer and went home. The next day he made another appointment with her, but she left with a stern expression, paying him no heed. She came frequently and they sometimes met, but she gave him no kind word or pleasant look. If he trifled with her, her words were ice. She suddenly asked Gu out of nowhere, "Who is that young man who has been coming these days?" Gu told her. The girl said, "His behavior and manner have been repeatedly insulting to me. Because of your intimacy with him, I let it pass. Please tell him on my behalf: if he does it again, it will mean he does not wish to live!"

That evening Gu told the young man, adding, "You must be careful—she must not be provoked!" The young man said, "If she cannot be provoked, how did you manage to have your way with her?" Gu protested that he had not. He said, "If you had not, how did his lewd words reach your ears?" Gu could not answer. The young man said, "Also pass along a message for me: stop putting on that sanctimonious act. Otherwise, I will spread the word everywhere." Gu was furious, his anger showing on his face, and the young man left.

One evening Gu was sitting alone when the girl suddenly arrived, smiling. "Our bond of fate is unbroken—is this not Heaven's will?" He was mad with joy and took her in his arms. Suddenly they heard the rustling of footsteps. Both started up in alarm, and the young man pushed open the door and entered. Gu asked in shock, "What are you here for?" He smiled and said, "I have come to observe this chaste person." He looked at the girl and said, "No one to blame today, I suppose?" The girl's brows knotted and her cheeks flushed red. She said nothing, but quickly pulled up her garment and drew a leather pouch from it, producing in an instant a glittering dagger some ten inches long. The young man saw it and fled in terror. She chased him outside, but looking around, there was nowhere to be seen. The girl hurled the dagger into the air. It made a clanging sound, brilliant as a long rainbow, and soon something fell to the ground with a thud. Gu hurried to light a candle and saw a white fox, its body and head severed. He was greatly alarmed.

The girl said, "This was your catamite. I would have spared him, but he was determined not to live!" She put the blade back in its pouch. Gu pulled her inside and said, "That demon has spoiled the mood. Please wait until tomorrow night." She left straightaway. The following evening she indeed came, and they made love. When he asked about her art, she said, "This is not something you should know. You must keep it secret—if it is revealed, I fear it will bring you no good fortune." He also proposed marriage, and she said, "In bed and at the well—what else could I be but a wife? But since—"

The woman said, "Since I am already your wife, why must we speak again of marriage?" The scholar said, "Could it be that you despise my poverty?" She replied, "You are indeed poor—but am I rich? Our meeting tonight was precisely because I took pity on your poverty." Before parting, she admonished him, "Improper conduct must not be repeated. When it is fitting for me, I will come of my own accord; when it is not, forcing the matter will accomplish nothing." Afterwards, whenever they met, the scholar tried to draw her aside for private conversation, but she always fled and avoided him. Yet she mended his clothes and gathered firewood for his hearth, keeping an account of everything—she was no less than a wife.

Several months passed, and her mother died. The scholar exerted himself to the utmost to bury her. From then on, the woman lived alone. The scholar thought that since she slept in solitude, he might be able to approach her. He climbed over the wall and entered, calling repeatedly through the window, but she gave no answer at all. He looked at her door—the empty room was bolted shut. He secretly suspected she had made some other appointment. He returned at night again, and it was the same. He then left a jade pendant on the windowsill and departed.

The next day, they met at the mother's dwelling. After he had left, the woman followed behind him and said, "Do you suspect me? Each person has a heart that cannot be revealed to others. Now if you wish me to put your mind at rest, how can that be done? But there is one matter I must urgently discuss with you." He asked what it was. She said, "My body is already eight months with child—I fear the birth may come any day. 'My status is not yet clearly defined'—I can bear the child for you, but I cannot raise it for you. You must secretly tell your mother to find a wet nurse, pretending that you are adopting an orphaned child. Do not mention me." The scholar agreed and told his mother.

His mother laughed and said, "How extraordinary this girl is! She refused betrothal, yet she has given herself privately to my son." Delighted, she followed the plan and waited for the event. More than a month later, the woman did not come for several days. The mother grew suspicious and went to investigate her door—it was closed in desolate silence. After knocking for a long time, the woman finally emerged from within, disheveled and grimy. She opened the door to let the mother in, then bolted it again. Entering the room, they found a squalling infant on the bed. The mother asked in surprise, "When was it born?" The woman replied, "Three days ago." She took up the mat and looked—it was a boy, with full cheeks and a broad forehead. The mother said joyfully, "You have already borne a grandchild for this old woman. I am a lonely soul—to whom shall I entrust myself?" The woman said, "These humble secrets I did not dare reveal to you. Wait until night when no one is about, and take the child away." The mother returned and told the scholar, and together they marvelled in secret. That night they went and brought the child home.

Several nights later, at the middle of the night, the woman suddenly knocked at the door and entered, carrying a leather satchel in her hand. She smiled and said, "My great matter is accomplished—I ask to take my leave from this day forward." He hastily inquired the reason. She said, "The kindness of nourishing your mother has never left my thoughts. When I said before that it could be done 'once but not twice,' it was because repayment does not lie in the marriage bed. Because you were too poor to marry, I wished to continue a thread of your lineage. I had hoped to obtain it in one attempt, but unexpectedly my courses returned, and thus I broke my vow and did it a second time. Now your virtue has been repaid, and my wish has been fulfilled—I have no regrets." He asked, "What is in the satchel?" She said, "The head of my enemy." He opened it and looked inside—hair and beard tangled together, blood smeared and indistinct. He was utterly horrified and pressed her further. She said, "The reason I did not tell you before was that matters of strategy must be kept secret—I feared there might be a leak. Now that it is accomplished, I may as well tell you: I am a woman of Zhejiang. My father served as a military commander and fell victim to an enemy, who then seized our family's property. I fled with my old mother, concealing my name and burying my head—it has been three years. The reason I did not take revenge sooner was solely because my mother was still alive; after she died, there was another burden in my belly, and so I delayed yet further. The reason I went out those past nights was no other—I was not yet familiar with the roads and gates, and I feared some mistake." Having spoken, she started for the door, then added, "The child I bore—take good care of him. Your fortune is thin and your lifespan short—this son can bring glory to your house. The hour is late—do not disturb your old mother. I am leaving!" He was about to ask sorrowfully where she was going, but she vanished in a flash like lightning—in the blink of an eye she was seen no more. The scholar stood rooted to the spot in grief and lament, as if his soul had left his body. The next day he told his mother, and they could only sigh together in wonder.

Three years later, the scholar indeed died. His son passed the provincial examination at eighteen and cared for his grandmother until her death.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "A man must have a chivalrous woman in his house before he can keep a beautiful boy. Otherwise, you love his goat, and he loves your sow!"

---

**The Drinking Companion**

Master Che was a man of middling means, yet he was addicted to drink. At night he could not sleep without downing three cups, and so the flask by his bed was never empty. One night he woke from sleep and, turning over, felt as though someone was lying beside him—he supposed it was a covering that had fallen. He reached out and felt something soft and furry, like a cat but larger. He lit a candle and looked—it was a fox, fast asleep like a dog in a drunken stupor. He glanced at his flask—it was empty. He laughed and said, "This is my drinking companion!" Reluctant to startle it, he covered it with his robe, laid his arm over it, and slept beside it, leaving the candle lit to observe what would change. In the middle of the night, the fox stretched and yawned. The scholar laughed and said, "What a fine sleep!" He lifted the robe and looked—it was a handsome man wearing a scholar's cap. He rose and bowed before the bed, thanking the scholar for sparing his life.

The scholar said, "I have a weakness for wine, and people think me a fool. You, sir, are my Guan Zhong—if you do not distrust me, let us be good friends of the wine hill." He pulled him onto the bed, and they slept together again. The scholar said, "You may come often—do not be suspicious." The fox agreed. When the scholar woke, the fox had already left. He then prepared a vessel of fine wine and waited specially for the fox.

**Lotus Fragrance**

His name was Sang Xiao, courtesy name Ziming, a man of Yizhou. Orphaned young, he lodged at Red Flower Hamlet. Sang was by nature quiet and self-contained. He ate twice daily at his eastern neighbor's and the rest of the time sat firmly at his desk. One day his eastern neighbor happened by and teased him: "You live alone—aren't you afraid of ghosts and fox-spirits?" Sang laughed and replied: "What has a man to fear from ghosts and fox-spirits? If a male comes, I have a sharp sword; if a female, I might even open the door and welcome her in." The neighbor returned home and plotted with friends to hoist a prostitute over the wall, then knock at the door. Sang peered through and asked who it was. The woman said she was a ghost. Sang was terrified, his teeth chattering audibly. The woman hesitated and left of her own accord. The next morning the neighbor came to Sang's study. Sang described what he had seen and announced he would be going home. The neighbor clapped his hands and said: "Why didn't you open the door and welcome her in?" Sang suddenly understood it had been a hoax, and so settled back in as before.

Half a year passed. One night a woman came and knocked at his study. Sang assumed his friends were playing another prank and opened the door to invite her in. She was a beauty that could topple a kingdom. Startled, he asked where she had come from. She said: "I am Lotus Fragrance, a prostitute from the western house." The hamlet had many such establishments, so he believed her. They snuffed the candle, went to bed, and were deeply intimate. From then on she came every few nights.

One evening, sitting alone in deep thought, a woman glided gracefully in. Sang assumed it was Lotus, stepped forward to greet her, and spoke with her. But when he looked at her face, she was entirely different: only fifteen or sixteen, with hair hanging down in a single braid, elegant and lovely in bearing, her movements drifting as if coming and going at once. He was greatly startled and suspected she was a fox. The woman said: "I am a girl of a good family, surnamed Li. I admire your refinement and hope you will look kindly on me." Sang was delighted. He took her hand and found it cold as ice. "Why is it so cold?" he asked. "My constitution has always been frail, and I've been out in the night dew—how could it not be so!" Soon her silk garments were undone, and she was clearly a maiden. She said: "I have given myself in passion; my guarded virtue is now lost. If you do not disdain my lowliness, I wish to serve you constantly at pillow and mat. Is there no one else in your quarters?" Sang said: "No one else—only a neighboring prostitute, and even she does not come often." The woman said: "We must be careful to avoid her. I am not like the women of such houses. Keep this secret—when she comes, I shall leave; when she leaves, I shall come."

When the cock crowed, she was about to leave and gave him an embroidered shoe, saying: "This was on my foot; holding it will serve to carry your longing for me. But when someone is present, do not take it out!" He received it and examined it—the toe was sharply pointed like an untying awl. His heart was deeply charmed. The next evening, when no one was around, he took it out to examine and fondle. The woman suddenly appeared as if on the breeze, and they were intimate again. From then on, whenever he took out the shoe, she would arrive as if answering his thoughts. He thought this strange and questioned her. She smiled and said: "It simply happened to be the right time."

One night Lotus came and was alarmed: "Why do you look so haggard and dispirited?" Sang said: "I hadn't noticed." Lotus then took her leave, arranging to meet again in ten days. After she left, Li came without missing a single evening. She asked: "Why has your lover not come for so long?" He told her about the arrangement. Li smiled and said: "How do you think I compare in beauty to Lotus Fragrance?" Sang said: "You are both peerless. But Lotus's skin is warm." Li's face darkened: "You call us both beautiful and say this to me—she must be an immortal of the moon palace, and I certainly fall short." She was displeased. She then counted on her fingers: the ten days were nearly up. She told him not to let anything slip, and that she would secretly spy on them.

The next evening, Lotus Fragrance indeed arrived, laughing and talking gaily. But when they went to bed, she was greatly alarmed: "This is dire! In just ten days, how could you have wasted and weakened so? Tell me you have not had some other encounter!" Sang asked why she said this. She replied: "I can tell by your vital spirit—your pulse is tangled like tangled silk. This is the sickness of a ghost." The next evening, Li came. Sang asked: "What did Lotus Fragrance look like when you spied on her?" Li said: "Beautiful indeed. I always said there could be no such beauty in the world—and she is indeed a fox. I followed her when she left; she lives in a cave on South Mountain." Sang suspected her of jealousy and gave a vague reply.

The next evening, Lian Xiang teased him, saying, "I didn't believe it at first, but someone told me you are a fox." Lian asked hastily, "Who said that?" He smiled and said, "I was only joking with you." Lian said, "How is a fox different from a human?" He said, "Those who beguile people make them sick, and in extreme cases cause death—that is why they are to be feared." Lian Xiang said, "Not so. At your age, three days after intercourse, your vital essence can be restored. What harm can a fox do? If one were to deplete himself daily, there are humans who are far worse than foxes. Are all the world's consumptive corpses and wasting ghosts killed by foxes, then? Even so, someone must be speaking against me." The young man vigorously denied it, but Lian pressed him harder. Unable to resist, he revealed the source. Lian Xiang said, "No wonder you have been so worn out. But how did it come to this so quickly? Could she not be human? Say nothing more. Tomorrow night, I shall spy on her just as she spied on me."

That night Li arrived, and after only a few words, they heard a cough outside the window. She hastily fled. Lian Xiang entered and said, "You are in grave danger! She is truly a ghost! If you dote on her beauty without cutting ties swiftly, the road to the underworld draws near!" The young man suspected her of jealousy and said nothing. Lian Xiang said, "I know you cannot forget her, but I cannot bear to watch you die. Tomorrow I shall bring medicine to purge you of her yin poison. Fortunately the ailment is still shallow; in ten days you should recover. Let me share your bed so I can watch your recovery." The following night, she indeed produced a small dose of medicine and fed it to him. In moments, he had three or two bowel movements, and felt his organs cleansed and his spirit suddenly refreshed. Though grateful to her, he still could not bring himself to believe she was a ghost.

Lian Xiang shared his bed every night, lying close to him, but whenever he wished to couple with her, she stopped him. After several days, his skin and flesh grew full again. When she was about to leave, she earnestly urged him to break with Li. The young man falsely agreed. But whenever he closed the door and lit the lamp, he would clutch her slippers and brood over her. Li suddenly arrived. After days of separation, she wore an expression of resentment. The young man said, "She has been serving as my physician night after night—please do not be angry. My affection is for you." Li was somewhat appeased. In bed, he whispered, "I love you so much, yet someone told me you are a ghost." Li was speechless for a long time, then cursed, "It must be that licentious fox beguiling your ears! If you do not cut ties with her, I shall not return!" And she wept bitterly. The young man used a hundred words to comfort her before she stopped.

The following night, Lian Xiang arrived and knew Li had come again. She said angrily, "You truly wish to die!" The young man said with a smile, "Why are you so jealous?" Lian grew even angrier: "You have planted the seed of death, and I have uprooted it for you. What would one who is not jealous do instead?" The young man made an excuse to tease her, saying, "She claimed my recent illness was caused by fox sorcery." Lian sighed and said, "If that is truly so, you are so deluded and unrepentant that if the worst should happen, how could I, with a hundred mouths, clear myself of blame? I ask to take my leave from this day. In a hundred days, I shall visit you in your sickbed." He tried to detain her, but could not. She left in anger. From then on, he was with Li day and night without fail. After about two months, he felt greatly debilitated. At first he still made excuses for himself; day by day he grew emaciated, able to consume only a single bowl of gruel. He wished to return home to be cared for by his family, but he lingered, unable to bear to leave her. He put it off for several days, until he lay bedridden and could no longer rise. The neighboring scholar, seeing him so ill, daily sent a servant boy to bring him food and drink. At last the young man began to suspect Li. He said to her, "I regret not heeding Lian Xiang's words—it has come to this!" With that, his eyes closed. After a time, he revived, opened his eyes and looked around—Li had left, and from then on she never returned.

The scholar, frail and wasted, lay in his empty study, thinking of Lianxiang as one longs for the passing of a year. One day, just as he was lost in reverie, someone suddenly lifted the curtain and entered—it was Lianxiang. She approached the bed and said with a smile, "You rustic fellow—was I wrong after all?" The scholar sobbed for a long time, confessed that he knew his fault, and begged only for her help. Lian said, "The disease has penetrated to the marrow—truly there is no cure. I have come only to bid you a final farewell, to show that I am not moved by jealousy." The scholar wept bitterly and said, "There is an object beneath my pillow—please break it for me." Lian searched and found the shoe, then took it to the lamp and examined it over and over. At that moment, the woman Li suddenly entered and, catching sight of Lianxiang, turned to flee. Lian blocked the door with her body, and the woman Li, trapped and desperate, knew not where to go. The scholar rebuked her sharply, but the woman Li could make no reply. Lian laughed and said, "Sister, I may now at last confront you face to face. In the past I said that the gentleman's former illness was perhaps not of my doing—how does it stand now?" The woman Li bowed her head and confessed her fault. Lian said, "With beauty such as yours, can you turn love into enmity?" The woman Li threw herself to the ground and wept, begging for mercy and salvation. Lian raised her up and carefully questioned her about her life. She said, "I am the daughter of Magistrate Li. I died young and was buried beyond the wall. Though a dead spring silkworm, my thread was not yet spent. To be united with the gentleman was my wish; to bring him to death was never my original intent." Lian said, "I have heard that ghosts profit by a man's death, since they can be together forever after death. Is this true?" She replied, "No. When two ghosts meet, there is no joy in it. If there were, would there be so few young men in the world below!" Lian said, "What folly! To be with someone every night would be more than a man could bear—how much more so for a ghost!" The woman Li asked, "Foxes can kill men—why is your art alone powerless?" Lian said, "Those who practice sexual vampirism are of a different kind. I am not of their class. Thus there are foxes in the world that do not harm men, but there are never ghosts that do not harm men, because of the abundance of yin energy in them." The scholar, hearing their words, at last knew that both the fox and the ghost were real. Fortunately, he had grown somewhat accustomed to the sight, and was not greatly frightened. But thinking that his remaining breath was as thin as a thread, he could not help breaking into loud weeping. Lian turned and asked, "How shall we treat the gentleman?" The woman Li flushed and modestly deferred. Lian laughed and said, "I fear that if the gentleman were strong again, the vinegar wife would be eating sour plums!" The woman Li folded her hands and said, "If there were a physician with the skill to heal a kingdom, so that I might prove I have done the gentleman no harm, I would gladly bury my head beneath the earth and never dare show my face among the living again!" Lian opened her satchel and produced a pill, saying, "I knew this day would come long ago. After we parted, I gathered herbs on the Three Mountains, and only after three months were all the ingredients prepared. For consumption and wasting disease unto death, there is none who will not revive after taking it. But since the disease was caused by one thing, it must be treated by the same agent—I must ask for her help." She asked, "What is needed?" Lian said, "Only a bit of sweet saliva from her mouth. When I administer one pill, I shall need her to receive it and then spit it out." The woman Li's blush spread to her cheeks; she turned her head aside and looked at the shoe. Lian teased her, "The only thing my sister cares about is the shoe." The woman Li grew even more ashamed, and twisted about as though she had nowhere to hide. Lian said, "This is a skill you have practiced often enough—why be so stingy now?" She then placed the pill in the scholar's mouth and urged him on. The woman Li had no choice but to spit upon it. Lian said, "Again!" She spat again. After three or four times, the pill had been swallowed. Shortly after, a rumbling sounded in his belly like thunder. Lian administered another pill and then pressed her own lips to his to infuse her breath. The scholar felt a burning heat in his lower abdomen, and his spirits revived. Lian said, "He is cured!" The woman Li heard the cock crow and departed in agitation. Lian, considering that the scholar, newly recovered, still needed nourishment and rest, judged it unwise for him to eat. She therefore bolted the outer door from inside, making it appear that the scholar had returned home, to cut off all visitors, and watched over him day and night. The woman Li also came every night, serving him with the deepest devotion, treating Lian as an elder sister. Lian, for her part, cherished her deeply. After three months, the scholar was as strong as before. The woman Li then began to stay away for several nights in a row; when she did come, she would leave after a single glance. When they were together, she was also withdrawn and joyless. Lian often asked her to stay the night, but she would not consent. The scholar would chase after her, carry her back in his arms—she was light as a straw effigy. When the woman could not escape, she would lie down fully clothed, curling up her body to less than two feet. Lian pitied her even more and secretly urged the scholar to embrace and fondle her, but even shaking her could not wake her. When the scholar fell asleep and awoke to seek her, she was gone. After ten more days, she came no longer. The scholar missed her sorely and would often take out the shoe to toy with it together. Lian said, "So graceful and charming—even I, a woman, find her touching, let alone a man." The scholar said, "In the past, whenever I played with the shoe she would appear, and I always suspected it, yet never imagined she was a ghost. Now, facing the shoe and thinking of her face, I am truly heartbroken." And he wept.

Previously, a wealthy family surnamed Zhang had a daughter called Yan'er, aged fifteen, who died without breaking into a sweat. At night she revived, rose, and tried to flee. Zhang barred the door, and she could not get out. The girl said, "I am the soul of Magistrate Li's daughter. Moved by the devotion of the scholar Sang, the shoe I left behind is still in his keeping. I am truly a ghost—what good does it do to imprison me?" Because her words seemed to have some basis, they questioned her about how she had come there. The girl hesitated and looked about, unable to explain it herself. Someone said that the scholar Sang had returned from his illness, but the girl insisted this was false, and the family was greatly puzzled. The scholar to the east heard of this and climbed over the wall to look. He saw the scholar Sang speaking with a beautiful woman; he slipped in and pressed them, but in the confusion she had already vanished. The neighbor scholar asked in alarm. The scholar Sang smiled and said, "As I told you before, I would take the female one." The neighbor scholar repeated Yan'er's words. The scholar Sang then opened the gate and was about to go investigate, but had no way to get there. The Zhang family's mother heard that the scholar Sang truly had not returned home, and thought it even more strange. She therefore sent an old servant woman to ask for the shoe, and the scholar Sang produced it and gave it to her. Yan'er received it with joy. She tried to put it on, but the shoe was a full inch smaller than her foot, and she was greatly startled. She took up a mirror to look at herself and suddenly understood that she had borrowed another body to come to life. She then explained the whole matter, and her mother at first believed her. The girl wept before the mirror and said, "In those days my appearance was something I could take pride in; even when I saw Sister Lian, I felt some shame. Now I am like this—the living are not equal to the ghost!" She clutched the shoe and wailed, and no one could console her. She lay stiff beneath the coverlet. When they offered her food, she would not eat, and her body swelled all over. For seven days she ate nothing.

The swelling gradually subsided, and he did not die. Feeling unbearably hungry, he began to eat again. After several days, his entire body became itchy, and the skin fell off. When he rose in the morning, his sleeping shoes dropped off as he sought to put them on, for they had become immeasurably large. He then tried his old shoes and found they fit perfectly, which delighted him. He looked in the mirror again and saw that his eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, and jaw were exactly as they had been in life, which delighted him even more. After washing and combing, he went to see his mother; all who saw him were astounded. Lianxiang heard of his strange recovery and urged Sheng to send a matchmaker to formalize the union. But considering the vast gap in their wealth and status, he did not dare to proceed hastily. It happened that the old woman's birthday was approaching, so he accompanied her son-in-law to offer his congratulations. The old woman recognized Sheng's name and had Yanyer peek through the curtain to identify the guests. Sheng arrived last; the girl suddenly rushed out, seized his sleeve, and wished to return home with him. Her mother scolded her sharply, and only then did she slip back in, blushing with shame. Sheng gazed at her and found she was exactly as before; he could not help but shed tears, then prostrated himself and would not rise. The old woman helped him up, taking no offense. Sheng left and asked the girl's uncle to act as go-between. The old woman discussed selecting an auspicious date to take Sheng as a son-in-law.

Sheng returned and told Lianxiang, discussing how they might arrange matters. Lianxiang was despondent for a long time and wished to leave. Sheng was greatly alarmed and wept. Lianxiang said, "You will celebrate your wedding in someone else's home, and I would follow you there—what face would I have?" Sheng devised a plan to return to his hometown first and then welcome Yanyer afterward, and Lianxiang agreed. Sheng explained the situation to Zhang. Zhang, upon learning that Sheng already had a wife, was furious and rebuked him sharply. Yanyer vigorously explained the matter, and Zhang finally agreed to the request. On the appointed day, Sheng went to fetch his bride. The household preparations were rather makeshift; but when they returned, from the gate to the hall, the ground was entirely covered with felt carpets, and thousands of caged candles blazed in splendid array like brocade. Lianxiang helped the new bride into the nuptial chamber. When the veil was lifted, their joy was as it had been in life. Lianxiang joined them in the nuptial wine and then carefully questioned Yanyer about the strangeness of her return from the dead. Yanyer said: "In those days I was depressed and listless, merely existing as a strange creature, feeling myself hideous. After our parting, in anger I did not return to the grave but drifted wherever the wind took me. Whenever I saw Sheng, I envied him. By day I clung to grass and trees; by night I wandered aimlessly on my own feet. By chance I came to the Zhang household and saw a young lady lying on a bed. I drew near and attached myself to her—I had no idea I could actually bring her back to life." Lianxiang listened and fell silently into deep thought. Two months later, Lianxiang gave birth to a son. After the delivery she fell gravely ill and grew weaker day by day. She seized Yanyer's arm and said: "I dare to burden you with this child of mine—my son is your son." Yanyer wept, and for the time being tried to comfort her. She summoned shamans and physicians, but Lianxiang refused them all. Her condition grew critical, her breath as thin as a hanging thread. Both Sheng and Yanyer wept. Suddenly she opened her eyes and said: "Do not grieve! You love life, and I too love life. If we are fated, we shall meet again in ten years." With these words, she died. When they lifted the coverlet to prepare her body, the corpse had transformed into a fox. Sheng could not bear to view her as something strange and gave her a generous burial. The son was named Hu'er, and Yanyer raised him as her own. Every year at the Qingming Festival, she would carry the boy to weep at her grave.

Later Sheng passed the provincial examination, and the family grew gradually more prosperous. But Yanyer suffered from barrenness. Hu'er was quite intelligent but frail and prone to illness. Yanyer often wished that Sheng would take a concubine. One day, the maid suddenly said: "There is an old woman outside the gate, bringing a girl to sell." Yanyer called her in. When she finally saw her, she was greatly startled and said: "Is it Sister Lianxiang come back?" Sheng looked at her and found the resemblance uncanny; he was also amazed. He asked: "How old are you?" She replied: "Fourteen." "What is the bride-price?" She said: "This old woman has only this one flesh and blood. If only she can be well placed, I too will have a place to earn my meals, and my old bones will not be left to rot in a ditch—that is enough." Sheng gave her a generous price and kept her. Yanyer took the girl's hand, led her into an inner chamber, touched her chin, and smiled: "Do you recognize me?" She answered: "I do not." When asked her surname, she said: "My surname is Wei. My father was a seller of fermented rice drink in Xucheng; he died three years ago." Yanyer counted on her fingers and pondered—Lianxiang had died exactly fourteen years ago. She examined the girl again: in bearing and expression, there was nothing that did not bear a striking resemblance. She patted the top of her head and called out: "Sister Lianxiang! Sister Lianxiang! The promise to meet again in ten years—you must not be deceiving me!" The girl suddenly seemed to wake from a dream and said with sudden clarity: "Ah!" She stared intently at Yanyer. Sheng laughed and said: "This is 'the swallow returns, as if once known.'" The girl said tearfully: "Yes. I heard my mother say that I could speak from the moment I was born, which was considered ill-omen, so they made me drink dog's blood, and thus I lost my memory of past lives. Only today have I awoken as if from a dream. Are you the younger sister Li who was ashamed to be a ghost?" They spoke of their former lives together, their grief and joy intertwined.

One day, at the Cold Food Festival, Yanyer said: "This is the day each year when I and my husband weep for our sister." So they went together to visit her grave. The wild grasses had grown tall, and the trees were already thick enough to embrace. The girl also sighed deeply. Yanyer said to Sheng: "Sister Lianxiang and I have been bound by affection across two lifetimes and cannot bear to be separated. We should have her bones laid to rest in the same tomb." Sheng followed her wish, opened Li's grave, retrieved her remains, and carried them back for a joint burial. Relatives and friends, hearing of this marvel, came in formal attire to attend the burial; several hundred gathered unbidden. In the year gengxu I traveled south to Yizhou, was detained by rain, and lodged at an inn. There was a man named Liu Sheng, styled Jingzi, a cousin of mine, who brought out a biography of Sang Sheng written by his fellow student Wang Zizhang, some ten thousand characters in length, which I was able to read in full. What follows is merely a rough outline.

The Commentator on the Strange said: "Alas! The dead seek life, and the living seek death. Is it not man's body that is most difficult in all the world to obtain? Yet those who possess this body often treat it with contempt, until they live with a shameless face inferior to a fox, and die with extinguished consciousness inferior to a ghost."

Abao

In Yuexi there was a Sun Zicai, a renowned scholar. He was born with an extra finger. His nature was unworldly and slow of speech; when people deceived him, he always took it for truth. If there happened to be singing girls present, he would invariably retreat to a distance. Some, knowing this, would lure him in and have the girls press close upon him, whereupon his face and neck would turn crimson, and beads of sweat would drip down, at which they would all laugh together. They then depicted his foolish appearance, passing it around as the subject of vulgar jokes, and called him "Sun the Fool."

A wealthy merchant of the county rivaled princes and dukes in riches. All his in-laws were of noble birth. He had a daughter named A-bao, of peerless beauty. He sought a worthy match for her day after day, but the sons of prominent families who competed to send betrothal gifts never met with his approval.

Sun Zichu, a scholar who had recently lost his wife, was mocked by some who urged him to approach the merchant through a go-between. Without considering his own circumstances, he followed their advice. The merchant had long heard of him but despised his poverty. As the go-between was leaving, she happened to encounter A-bao, who asked about the matter. A-bao said jokingly, "If he removes his extra finger, I will marry him." The go-between told Sun. Sun said, "That is not difficult." After the go-between left, Sun took an axe and severed his own finger. The pain pierced through his heart, blood poured forth in streams, and he nearly died. Several days passed before he could rise. He went to see the go-between and showed her his hand. The go-between was astonished and rushed to tell the girl. A-bao too was amazed, and in jest asked him to remove his foolishness as well. Sun vehemently protested, declaring that he was not foolish, but he had no way to prove it to her. Then it occurred to him that A-bao could not possibly be as beautiful as a celestial being—why did she hold herself in such high esteem? With that, his former passion cooled at once.

It happened to be the Qingming Festival, when it was customary for women to go out on excursions. Groups of frivolous young men followed them, freely offering their judgments. Several of Sun's fellow scholars pressed him to join them. One teased, "Perhaps you wish to see a beauty?" Sun knew they were mocking him, but because he had been taunted by A-bao, he also wanted to see what she looked like, and so cheerfully followed the crowd to search for her. In the distance he saw a girl resting beneath a tree, surrounded by rowdy youths like a wall of bodies. The crowd said, "That must be A-bao." They hurried forward, and indeed it was A-bao. Sun gazed at her closely—she was exquisite beyond compare. A moment later, the crowd grew thicker. The girl rose and abruptly departed. The throng was beside themselves, commenting on her head and feet, frantic like madmen. Sun alone remained silent. When the others wandered off, they turned back and saw Sun still standing motionless where he had been, unresponsive when called. They dragged him, saying, "Has your soul followed A-bao?" He did not answer. Because he was habitually reticent, they thought nothing of it, and some pushed and others pulled him home. Upon arriving, he went straight to his bed and lay there all day without rising, as if in a drunken stupor, unrousable when called. His family suspected he had lost his soul and summoned it in the open fields, but to no avail. When they pressed him urgently, he murmured vaguely, "I am at A-bao's house." When they questioned him further, he fell silent again. His family was bewildered and could make nothing of it.

Earlier, when Sun saw the girl depart, he could not bear to part from her. He felt his body following her, gradually drawing close to her sash and sleeves, and no one rebuked him. He followed her home, sat and slept beside her, and at night they grew intimate. They were very much at ease together, yet he felt a strange hunger in his belly and wished to return home, but he could not find the way. A-bao dreamed each night that she lay with a man. She asked his name, and he said, "I am Sun Zichu." She found this strange but could not tell anyone. Sun had lain insensible for three days, his breath faint and fading as if about to expire. His family was terrified and sent someone to plead gently with the merchant, wishing to summon Sun's soul to their home. The merchant laughed and said, "We have never had any dealings—why would his soul be sent to my house?" The family pleaded insistently, and the merchant at last agreed. The sorceress took Sun's old clothes and a straw mat and went. A-bao learned the cause and was deeply alarmed. She would not let the sorceress go elsewhere, but led her directly into the chamber and let her perform the rite before departing. When the sorceress returned to the gate, Sun was already groaning on his bed. Upon waking, he named every color and description of A-bao's toilet boxes and household articles without a single error. When A-bao heard this, she was even more astonished and secretly moved by the depth of his devotion.

Once Sun had risen from his bed, he sat and stood lost in thought, as if in a trance. He watched for every chance to encounter A-bao, hoping for another meeting. On the Buddha-Bathing Festival, he heard that she would visit the Temple of the Fragrant Waters, so he went early and waited by the side of the road. His eyes grew weary from the strain. The sun had passed noon when the girl at last arrived. She peered out from her carriage, lifted the curtain with her delicate hand, and gazed at him without turning away. Sun was even more stirred and followed behind her. A-bao suddenly ordered a maid to come and ask his name and family. Sun eagerly made himself known, and his soul trembled all the more. The carriage departed, and only then did he return home. Upon returning, he fell ill again, refusing food as if in a stupor, and in his dreams he called out A-bao's name. He often lamented that his soul no longer had the power to wander. The family had once kept a parrot, which had recently died; the children played with it on the bed. Sun thought to himself: if only I could become a parrot, I could fly with my wings to the girl's chamber. No sooner had this thought formed in his mind than his body had already become a parrot, and he flew swiftly away, straight to A-bao's dwelling. The girl was delighted and caught him, fastening his wing and feeding him hemp seeds. He cried out, "Miss, do not chain me! I am Sun Zichu!" A-bao was greatly alarmed. She freed him, but he would not leave. A-bao said, "Your deep feelings are already engraved upon my heart. But now that we are of different kinds—you a bird, I a person—how can our union be fulfilled?" The parrot said, "To be near your fragrance is already enough to satisfy my wish." When others fed him, he would not eat; when A-bao fed him herself, he ate. When she sat, he perched upon her knee; when she lay down, he nestled by her bed. This continued for three days. A-bao pitied him deeply and secretly sent someone to observe Sun. They found him lying rigid, his breath having ceased for three days, though his heart was still warm. A-bao said again, "If you can become a man once more, I vow to follow you unto death." The parrot said, "You are deceiving me!" A-bao then swore a solemn oath. The parrot turned his head as if pondering. A short while later, A-bao was unbound her feet and removed her shoes beneath the bed. The parrot suddenly descended, seized a shoe in his beak, and flew away. A-bao called out in haste, but he had already flown far off. She sent an old servant woman to investigate, and Sun had already awakened. The family saw the parrot arrive carrying an embroidered shoe, drop dead upon the ground, and marveled at it. When Sun regained consciousness, he immediately asked for the shoe. No one understood why. Just then the old servant woman arrived, entered to see Sun, and asked where the shoe was. Sun said, "This is the token of A-bao's pledge. Please convey to her: this humble scholar does not forget his golden promise." The old woman returned with the message. A-bao was even more amazed and purposely let a maid reveal the truth to her mother. The mother investigated and confirmed it, then said, "This young man's reputation is not bad, but he is as poor as Sima Xiangru. If after several years of searching I were to get a son-in-law like this, I fear we would be laughed at by the eminent." Because of the shoe, however, A-bao swore she would marry no other. The merchant and his wife yielded. They sent word at once. Sun was overjoyed, and his illness was immediately cured. The merchant proposed that Sun become a live-in son-in-law. A-bao said, "A son-in-law cannot dwell long in his wife's family. Moreover, my husband is poor—the longer he stays, the more he will be looked down upon. Since I have already promised him, I am content to live in thatched quarters and eat coarse greens without complaint." Sun then came to escort her home for the wedding, and their reunion was like the joy of meeting again after a lifetime apart.

From this time on, the family obtained dowries and grew moderately prosperous, with their material circumstances much improved. Yet the young scholar was so obsessed with his books that he knew nothing of managing a household or earning a livelihood. His wife, however, was skilled at managing their savings and never burdened him with other matters. After three years, the family had grown quite wealthy. Then the young man suddenly fell ill with consumption and died. His wife grieved bitterly for him; her eyes were never dry with tears, and she stopped eating and sleeping entirely. No one could persuade her to accept comfort. She took advantage of the night to hang herself. A maid discovered her, and after urgent efforts revived her, but she still refused to eat. On the third day, she gathered the relatives and clan, intending to lay out the corpse for burial. Then they heard a groan and a faint breath from inside the coffin. They opened it—he had already come back to life. He said, "I saw the King of the Underworld. Because I had been simple and honest throughout my life, he appointed me a bureau official. Suddenly someone reported: 'The wife of Bureau Official Sun has arrived.' The King consulted the register of ghosts and said, 'She is not yet supposed to die.' Someone else reported: 'She has not eaten for three days.' The King turned and said, 'Moved by your wife's chastity and devotion, I grant you a return to life.' He then had a mounted attendant lead a horse to escort me back." From this point on, his health gradually recovered.

In the year of the great provincial examination, before entering the examination compound, a group of young men played a trick on him. Together they composed seven obscure and recondite essay topics, led the scholar to a secluded spot, and told him, "These are the secret passages from certain families—we respectfully entrust them to you in confidence." He believed them and spent day and night pondering the topics, composing seven essays. The others secretly laughed at him. At that time, the chief examiner feared that familiar topics would lead to plagiarism and deliberately broke from the conventional classics. When the examination papers were distributed down, all seven essays matched exactly. The scholar thus came in first place. The following year, he passed the metropolitan examination and was appointed to the Hanlin Academy. The Emperor heard the strange tale and summoned him to inquire. The scholar reported everything in detail. The Emperor was greatly pleased. Later he summoned A Bao to an audience and bestowed rewards upon her.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When nature is obsessed, the will is concentrated; thus those obsessed with books will surely excel in writing, and those obsessed with craft will surely excel in skill. Those in the world who drift along without achievement all claim they are not obsessed. Yet consider those who ruin themselves over beauty or lose their fortunes to dice—are these the acts of obsessed men? From this we know that excessive cleverness is true obsession. What, then, was wrong with those two obsessed men, Sun and A Bao?"

Ten types of obsession: "Hoarding silver while living in poverty. Boasting of a son's brilliance to every guest. Loving a son too much to discipline his studies. Concealing illness for fear others will find out. Spending money to entice others into whoring. Sneaking off to drinking parties to lure others into gambling. Hiring someone to write essays to deceive one's father and elder brothers. Keeping accounts too strictly between father and son. Using schemes and devices within the family. Taking delight in a disciple's skill at gambling."

**Jiushan Wang**

In Caozhou there was a man surnamed Li, a county licentiate. His family had always been well off, but their dwelling was not especially large. Behind the house was a garden of several mu, left untended. One day an old man came to rent a house, offering a hundred taels of silver. Li said he had no house to spare. The old man said, "Please accept it—only trouble yourself no further." Li did not understand his meaning but accepted the money provisionally, curious to see what strange thing would happen.

The next day, villagers saw carriages, horses, and a household of dependents entering the Li residence in great numbers. They were puzzled, as they knew the Li compound had no room to accommodate them, and asked Li about it. Li himself had no idea. He went home to investigate but found no trace or sound of them. A few days later, the old man suddenly came to pay his respects. He said, "I have already sheltered myself beneath your roof for several days and nights. Everything has been hastily improvised—building stoves and hearths, I have not had the leisure to perform the courtesy due a guest. Now I have sent my daughters' generation to prepare millet. I hope you will kindly condescend to visit." Li went with him. Entering the garden, he suddenly saw elegant, handsome buildings, completely new. Stepping inside, the furnishings were fragrant and lovely. Wine bubbled in cauldrons in the corridor; tea smoke curled in the kitchen. Soon wine and dishes were served, of the most exquisite quality. He constantly saw young men in the courtyard, coming and going in great numbers. He also heard the murmuring of children and the laughter of little ones behind the screens. Family members and maids and servants seemed to number several dozen or even a hundred souls. Li knew in his heart that they were fox-spirits. After the banquet ended and he returned home, he secretly harbored murderous intentions. Each time he went to the market, he bought saltpeter and sulfur, accumulating several hundred catties, which he secretly spread throughout the garden until it was nearly full. He then set it ablaze suddenly. The flames reached across the sky like a black magic mushroom; the stench of burning and the blinding ashes made it impossible to approach. All that could be heard were cries, howls, and commotion—a deafening clamor. When the fire had died down and he went in to look, dead foxes covered the ground, their heads burned and brows scorched beyond counting. As he was examining them, the old man came from outside, his face stricken with grief and rage. He reproached Li: "We had no former grudge or grievance. For a desolate garden I paid a hundred taels a year—that is not a small sum. How could you bear to exterminate my entire clan? This is a grievous enmity—there is no such wrong that goes unavenged!" He departed in a fury. Li feared he might hurl stones to bring calamity, but more than a year passed without the slightest strange occurrence.

In the early years of the Shunzhi reign, bandits arose in the mountains, gathering in roving bands of over ten thousand men. The officials were unable to capture them. Zhang Sheng, having many mouths to feed in his household, daily fretted over the turmoil of the times. It happened that a diviner came to the village, calling himself "Old Man of the South Mountain." He spoke of people's fortunes and misfortunes as clearly as if he had witnessed them with his own eyes, and his name became greatly renowned. Li summoned him to his home and asked him to calculate his destiny. The old man rose in astonishment and said, "This is a true Son of Heaven!" Li was greatly shocked and thought this nonsense. The old man spoke with grave countenance and insisted upon it. Li was half convinced and half doubtful, and so he said, "Has there ever been one who received the Mandate and became emperor starting with empty hands?" The old man replied, "Not so. Since ancient times, for the most part emperors have risen from common men. Who was born a Son of Heaven?" Li was intrigued and drew his mat closer to ask. The old man resolutely took upon himself the role of "Sleeping Dragon." He requested that several thousand suits of armor and several thousand bows and crossbows be prepared first. Li worried that no one would join him. The old man said, "Your servant requests to act as an intermediary for Your Majesty, connecting with all the mountains and forging deep bonds. Let it be spread about that Your Majesty is the true Son of Heaven, and the soldiers in the mountains will surely respond." Li was pleased and sent the old man on his way. He opened his hidden stores of silver and manufactured armor. The old man returned only after several days and said, "Relying upon Your Majesty's authority and fortune, and adding the persuasion of this servant's three-inch tongue, all the mountains are willing to hold the whip and bridle and follow beneath your banner." Within ten days, indeed several thousand men came to pledge allegiance. Thereupon Li appointed the old man as his Grand Marshal, erected a great banner, and set up colored pennants like a forest. He occupied the mountains and established stockades; his power and influence shook the region. The county magistrate led troops to attack them, but the old man directed the bandits and thoroughly routed the magistrate. The magistrate, in fear, sent urgent word to Yanzhou. The Yanzhou troops arrived after a long march, but the old men once again ambushed and attacked them; the soldiers were utterly routed, with great casualties among officers and men. His power grew ever more formidable, his followers numbering in the tens of thousands, and he styled himself "King of the Nine Mountains." The old man was troubled by the scarcity of horses. It happened that horses were being transported from the capital to the Jiangnan region, so he dispatched a force to waylay and seize them along the road. From this, the name "King of the Nine Mountains" became greatly renowned. The old man was further appointed "Grand General Who Guards the State." He lay at ease in his mountain lair, openly conceited, believing that the donning of the yellow imperial robe could be expected any day.

The Eastern Pacification Commissioner, on account of the horse seizure, was about to launch a campaign of suppression; receiving the report from Yanzhou as well, he dispatched several thousand elite troops, who advanced in a coordinated encirclement from six directions. The armies and their banners filled the mountains and valleys. The "King of the Nine Mountains" was greatly terrified and summoned the old man to deliberate with him—but the old man had vanished, no one knew where. The "King of the Nine Mountains" was in desperate straits with no plan. He climbed the mountain and gazed out, saying, "Now I understand how vast the power of the court truly is!" The mountain was breached, he was captured, and his wife and children were put to death. Only then did he realize that the old man was an old fox, who had used the annihilation of his clan to take revenge on Li.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "A man who embraces his wife and children and closes his door, going about bareheaded—where would he invite death? And even if he did, how could it lead to the destruction of his entire clan? The fox's scheme was indeed cunning. But where the soil lacks the seed, watering will not make it grow. That man's cruelty in killing foxes—the seed of banditry was already present within his heart. Thus the fox was able to nurture its sprouting and carry out its retribution. Now try stopping a man on the road and telling him, 'You shall be emperor!' There is none who would not flee in terror. Clearly, it is perverse to bring about the destruction of one's clan, yet he still delighted in listening, and the slaughter of his wife and children was not worth mentioning. When men heed wicked words, at first they hear them and are angry; then they become doubtful; then they come to believe. By the time both body and reputation are ruined, they realize their error. For the most part, it is thus."

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**The Foxes of the Zunhua Prefecture Office**

Lord Qiu of Zhucheng served as Circuit Intendant of Zunhua. The prefectural office had long been home to many foxes. In the final building, they lived in multitudes, gentle and numerous, making it their home. They frequently brought harm to people, and the more they were driven away, the more fiercely they acted. Those who held office here could only offer sacrifices and pray; none dared to offend them. Lord Qiu took up his post and, hearing of this, was enraged. The foxes also feared his fierce and unyielding nature. They transformed into an old woman and told the household servants, "Please inform the great man: do not be our enemy. Allow us three days, and we will gather our young and depart." Lord Qiu heard this but said nothing. The next day, after reviewing his troops, he ordered them not to disperse. He had them carry all the large cannons from the various camps and rush them into position; a thousand guns surrounded the building and fired together. The building, several stories high, was leveled to the ground in an instant. Hide, flesh, and fur rained down from the sky. Amid the thick dust and noxious fog, all that could be seen was a single wisp of white vapor, piercing the smoke and soaring into the void. The men watched it and said, "One fox has escaped." And from that day, the prefecture office was at peace.

Two years later, Lord Qiu sent a trusted servant carrying a certain amount of silver to the capital, intending to arrange a promotion. The matter had not yet been settled, so the silver was temporarily stored in the house of a yamen runner. Suddenly an old man appeared at the palace to proclaim his grievance, saying that his wife and children had been wantonly slaughtered, and further accusing Lord Qiu of embezzling military provisions and currying favor with those in power, the silver now being stored at a certain house, which could be verified. By imperial decree, a search was conducted at the runner's house, but a thorough search found nothing. The old man merely pointed to the ground with one foot. Understanding his meaning, they dug and indeed found the silver, which was inscribed with the characters "remittance from such-and-such prefecture." When they sought the old man afterward, he had vanished. They searched for him by his village and name, but no such man existed. Lord Qiu thereby met his calamity, and only then did he know that the old man was the fox that had escaped.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "The foxes' affliction of people was worthy of severe punishment. Yet to submit and forgive them would also preserve one's benevolence. Lord Qiu may be called one who 'hated evil to an excessive degree.' Had this been Lord Guanxi, could a hundred foxes have taken revenge upon him!"

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**Zhang Cheng**

There was a man surnamed Zhang from Yu, whose ancestors were originally from Qi. In the late Ming, when Qi was thrown into great disorder, his wife was carried off by northern soldiers. Zhang was long a sojourner in Yu, and so he settled there. He married a woman from Yu, who bore him a son named Ne. Before long, his wife died, and he took a second wife, who bore him a son named Cheng. His second wife, Niu, was a fierce woman who always hated Ne, treating him like a slave. She fed him poor food and made him gather firewood, demanding a full bundle each day. If he failed, she would beat and curse him until he could bear it no longer. In secret she stored up sweet and tender morsels to feed Cheng and sent him to study with a tutor. Cheng grew up gradually, by nature filial and fraternal, unable to bear seeing his brother toil. He spoke to his mother in private, but she would not listen.

One day, Ne went into the mountains to gather firewood. Before he had finished, a great storm arose, and he took shelter beneath a rock. When the rain stopped, the sun was already setting. His stomach was ravenously hungry, so he carried his firewood home. His mother, seeing there was too little, was furious and refused him food. Hunger burned within him like fire; he went into his room and lay stiff and still. Cheng came back from school and saw his brother looking desolate. "Are you ill?" he asked. "No, just hungry," said Ne. Cheng asked why, and Ne told him the whole story. Cheng looked troubled and left at once. After a while, he returned with cakes and offered them to his brother. Ne asked where they had come from. "I stole some flour and asked the neighbor's wife to make them," Cheng said. "Just eat and say nothing." Ne ate them. He warned his brother, "Don't do this again—if it comes out, you'll be implicated. Besides, one meal a day won't let me starve to death." Cheng said, "Brother, you are naturally weak—how can you gather so much firewood!"

The next day, after eating, he stole away to the mountains and went to where his brother was gathering wood. Ne saw him and asked in alarm, "What are you doing here?" "I've come to help you gather wood," Cheng answered. "Who sent you?" "I came on my own," he said. "Never mind that you can't gather wood," said Ne. "Even if you could, this still won't do." He urged Cheng to go home. Cheng would not listen; he used his hands and feet to break off branches and help his brother. He also said, "Tomorrow I'll bring an axe." Ne stepped forward to stop him and saw that his fingers were already torn and his shoes worn through. He said sorrowfully, "If you don't go home quickly, I'll take the axe and kill myself with it." Cheng then left, and Ne saw him halfway home before turning back.

When Ne returned with his firewood, he went to the school and told his tutor, "My younger brother is young—you should keep him locked in. There are many tigers and wolves in the mountains." The tutor said, "I don't know where he went this morning—I've already punished him with the bamboo rod." Ne said to Cheng, "You didn't listen to me, and now you've been caned." Cheng smiled and said, "No, I haven't."

The next day, he took an axe and went again. Ne was alarmed: "I told you not to come—why have you done this again?" Cheng made no reply. He cut wood with such haste that sweat streamed down his face without rest. When he had roughly enough for a bundle, he left without a word. The tutor punished him again, and only then did the truth come out. The tutor sighed at his virtue and no longer forbade him. Ne tried many times to stop him, but Cheng would not listen.

One day, while Ne was cutting wood in the mountains with several others, suddenly a tiger appeared. The men were terrified and threw themselves to the ground. The tiger carried off Cheng in its mouth. The tiger, burdened with the weight of a man, moved slowly, and Ne overtook it. Ne struck with all his strength with his axe and hit the tiger's hip. The tiger, in agony, bolted wildly, and no one could pursue it. Ne returned weeping bitterly. The others tried to comfort him, but his grief only deepened. He said, "My brother is not like other men's brothers. Besides, he died for me—how can I go on living?" Thereupon he raised the axe and cut his own throat. The others rushed to stop him, but the blade had already sunk an inch deep, and blood poured forth as from a fountain. Ne fainted and lay as one dead. The people, horrified, tore strips from his clothing and bound the wound, then helped him home between them. His mother cried out in fury, "You have killed my son, and now you would slit your own neck to shirk the blame?" Ne moaned, "Mother, do not trouble yourself. If my brother is dead, I will surely not survive." They laid him on a couch, but his wound pained him so that he could not sleep; he merely sat weeping day and night, leaning against the wall. His father, fearing he too would die, came from time to time to the couch to feed him a little, but the ox would curse and berate him. Ne then stopped eating and died three days later.

In the village there was a shaman who served as a messenger to the underworld. Ne met him on the road and poured out his past sufferings. He then asked where his brother was. The shaman said he had not heard of him, then turned and led Ne away. They arrived at a great city, where they saw a man in dark cloth robes emerging from within. The shaman intercepted him and asked on Ne's behalf. The man in black examined a register from his satchel, scanning through the names of over a hundred men and women; among them there was no one who had offended against the law and bore the surname Zhang. The shaman suspected he was in another register. The man in black said, "This road falls under my jurisdiction—how could I have made an error in the arrest?" Ne did not believe him and forced the shaman to enter the inner city with him. Within the city, newly dead and long-dead ghosts came and went in swarms. Among them were some Ne recognized, but when he asked them, none knew anything. Suddenly they all cried out together, "The Bodhisattva has arrived!" Looking upward, they beheld a majestic figure amid the clouds, his radiant light penetrating above and below, and the whole world was instantly filled with brightness. The shaman congratulated him, saying, "Great Fortune is yours, Brother! The Bodhisattva enters the realm of the dead only once in several decades, to deliver all beings from suffering. You have chanced upon him at just the right moment!" and he urged Ne to kneel. The ghosts and prisoners, in a great tumult, pressed their palms together and chanted in unison the name of the Merciful Savior who delivers from suffering, their voices surging and shaking the earth. The Bodhisattva sprinkled sweet dew with his willow branch, fine as dust. Soon the mist gathered and the light withdrew, and he vanished from sight. Ne felt moisture on his neck where the dew had fallen, and the axe wound no longer pained him. The shaman then led him back. When they caught sight of the village gate, the shaman parted from him.

Ne had been dead for two days when suddenly he revived. He recounted everything he had seen and declared that Cheng was not dead. His mother thought it all a pack of lies and reviled him. Ne, wronged, had no way to vindicate himself, but when he felt the scar, it was nearly healed. He rose on his own strength and bowed before his father, saying, "I am about to pierce the clouds and cross the sea to find my brother. If I cannot find him, I will never return in this life. I beg you, Father, to consider me dead." His father led him to a quiet place and wept with him, but did not dare to detain him.

Ne then set out. At every crossroads he inquired after news of his brother. Along the way his money and provisions ran out, and he went begging. After more than a year he arrived at Jinling, his clothes in tatches, his back bent as he trudged along the road. He chanced to see a party of some ten horsemen passing and drew aside to the side of the road to let them pass. Among them was one who appeared to be an official, about forty years of age, with sturdy grooms and spirited horses prancing before and behind. A young man rode a small horse and glanced repeatedly at Ne. Ne, taking him for a gentleman of rank, dared not look up. The young man reined in his horse, paused a moment, then suddenly dismounted and called out, "Is that not my brother?" Ne raised his head and looked carefully—it was indeed Cheng. They clasped hands and wept aloud. Cheng too wept and said, "Brother, how did you come to be reduced to this?" Ne told him his story, and Cheng was moved to still deeper sorrow. The horsemen all dismounted and asked what had happened. They reported it to the official, who ordered them to give up their horse for Ne to ride and led him back to his residence by the bridle, where he questioned him in detail.

Earlier, when the tiger had carried Cheng off, it had set him down by the roadside at some unknown time, and he had lain by the road overnight. It happened that Vice-Prefect Zhang was returning from the capital and passed by. Seeing that Cheng's features were refined, he took pity on him and tended to him, and Cheng gradually revived. When he spoke of his home village, it was already very far away. The Vice-Prefect therefore took him back with him in his carriage. He also applied medicine to Cheng's wounds, and only after several days did Cheng fully recover. The Vice-Prefect had no sons of his own, so he adopted Cheng. Cheng had in fact been out riding with the Vice-Prefect on a pleasure excursion. Cheng told his brother everything. While they were speaking, the Vice-Prefect came in, and Ne bowed and thanked him without end. Cheng went inside and brought out silk garments, which he presented to his brother, and then a feast was laid for them to dine together. The Vice-Prefect asked, "How many men of age are there in your family in Yü?" Ne said, "None. My father was a native of Qi who settled in Yü as a migrant." The Vice-Prefect said, "I too am from Qi. To which district does your honorable village belong?" Ne replied, "I once heard my father say it falls under the jurisdiction of Dongchang." The Vice-Prefect started and said, "We are fellow townsmen! But why did your family move to Yü?" Ne said, "In the late Ming, when the Qing army invaded, they carried off my father's first wife. My father suffered the ravages of war and was left entirely destitute. He first traded in the western region and traveled back and forth frequently, so he settled there." The Vice-Prefect asked in further surprise, "What is your honored father's name?" Ne told him. The Vice-Prefect stared at him, lowered his head as if in doubt, and hurried inside. Before long, the Dowager Lady came out. They all bowed together. When they had risen, she said to Ne, "Are you the grandson of Zhang Bingzhi?" "I am," said Ne. The Dowager Lady wept aloud and said to the Vice-Prefect, "This is your brother." Neither Ne nor Cheng could make sense of this. The Dowager Lady said, "I was married to your father for three years before we were separated and fled northward. I was taken by Heigushan for half a year and gave birth to your elder brother. Half a year later, Heigushan died, and your elder brother was enrolled in his place in the Banner and transferred to this post. He has now completed his term of service. He constantly thought of his native place, so he removed his name from the Banner registry and restored his original family record. He repeatedly sent men to Qi to search, but could find no news at all. How could he have known that your father had moved west?" She then said to the Vice-Prefect, "You have taken your own brother as a son—you have squandered your fortune and shortened your life!" The Vice-Prefect said, "When I asked Cheng before, he never mentioned being from Qi—I suppose he was too young to remember." They then arranged themselves by age: the Vice-Prefect was forty-one and the eldest; Cheng was sixteen and the youngest; Ne was twenty-two, making him the middle brother. The Vice-Prefect, having gained two younger brothers, was overjoyed. They slept and lived together, and he learned the whole story of their separation. He began making plans to return home. The Dowager Lady feared that the first wife might not accept them. The Vice-Prefect said, "If she can accept us, we will live together; if not, we will live apart. Is there any land under heaven without a father?" Thereupon they sold their house and made preparations for the journey, setting a day to depart westward.

Upon returning to the village, Na and Cheng rode ahead to report to their father. Since Na had departed, the old man's wife had also died shortly thereafter. He was now a solitary old widower, mourning his own lonely shadow. Suddenly seeing Na enter, he was overcome with joy and stunned with surprise; then beholding Cheng, his joy was so extreme he could no longer speak, but only wept silently. When told that the Biejia and his mother had also arrived, the old man stopped his tears and stood in bewilderment—unable to feel joy or sorrow, standing in a daze. Presently the Biejia entered, and having made his bows, the Grand Lady took the old man's face in her hands and they wept facing each other. When the old woman, maidservants, and retainers were seen, the house was filled to bursting inside and out, and the old man knew not whether to sit or stand. Cheng, not seeing his mother, inquired and only then learned she had died. He howled until his breath failed, and it was some time before he revived. The Biejia provided funds to build pavilions and halls; he engaged tutors to instruct his two younger brothers. Horses filled the stables, people thronged the rooms—it had become, in truth, a great household.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When I heard this tale to its end, I shed tears many times: The boy of barely ten, chopping firewood to aid his elder brother, said with feeling, 'Is this a second Wang Lan?' At this I shed a tear. When the tiger carried Cheng off, I could not help crying out wildly, 'Heaven's way is thus benighted!' At this I shed a tear. When the brothers suddenly met, I was moved to tears by joy; then gaining another elder brother added yet another sorrow, and I shed a tear for the Biejia. The whole family reunited—unexpectedly saved, unexpectedly joyful—and the tears that came from I knew not where, those I shed for the old man. I do not know whether in later ages there will be one who sheds good tears like me."

**The Fenzhou Fox**

A certain Magistrate Zhu of Fenzhou had many foxes in his official residence. One night as he sat alone, a woman appeared, moving to and below the lamp. At first he took her for one of his household women and did not bother to look; but when he raised his eyes, he did not recognize her, yet her beauty was radiant. He knew she was a fox, but he was captivated by her and called her to come closer. The woman stopped, smiling, and said, "Raising your voice at someone—who do you think I am, your maidservant?" Zhu rose with a smile, pulled her to sit beside him, and apologized. They became intimate, and in time their affection was like that of husband and wife. Suddenly she said, "Your rank shall soon be promoted—but there will be a separate day for it." He asked, "When?" She replied, "Very soon. But those who come to congratulate will be at your gate, while those who come to mourn will be at your door—you cannot hold office." Three days later, the notice of promotion arrived. The very next day, he received word of the Grand Lady's death. Zhu resigned his post and wished to return with the fox. She would not go. He escorted her to the river and urged her to board the boat. She said, "You do not understand—a fox cannot cross the river." Zhu could not bear to part and lingered on the riverbank. The woman suddenly came out, saying she would visit an old acquaintance. After some time she returned, and a guest came to repay her visit. She spoke with the guest in another room. When the guest left, she came and said, "Please board the boat now—I shall escort you across." Zhu said, "Earlier you said you could not cross; why do you say this now?" She replied, "The one I visited just now was none other than the River God. I made this request on your account and specially petitioned him. He gave me ten days for the round trip, so I can stay briefly." They crossed together. At the end of ten days, she indeed parted from him and departed.

**Qiao Niang**

In Guangdong there was a gentleman surnamed Fu, over sixty years of age, who had one son named Lian. The boy was very intelligent but was born a eunuch; at seventeen, his privates were no larger than a silkworm's. The news spread far and near, and no one would give him a daughter in marriage. He reckoned his family line was already extinguished and was day and night tormented with grief, yet could do nothing about it. Lian studied with a teacher. The teacher happened to go out, and just then there was a monkey performer outside the gate. Lian watched him and abandoned his studies. Fearing the teacher's return, he ran away. Several leagues from home, he encountered a young woman in plain clothes, accompanied by a little maid, coming ahead of him. The woman turned her head once—her beauty was beyond compare. Her lotus steps were slow, and Lian hastened past her. The woman turned back to the maid and said, "Ask the young gentleman whether he would like to go to Qiong." The maid called out and asked. Lian inquired what this meant. The woman said, "If you are going to Qiong, I have a letter—would you trouble to deliver it to my home on the way? My mother is at home and can also be your host." Lian had set out with no particular destination in mind; he thought that drifting to the sea would do as well, so he agreed. The woman produced a letter, gave it to the maid, and the maid passed it to the young man. He asked her name and address: "Surnamed Hua, living in Qinv Village, three or four leagues from the north wall." Lian found a boat and left.

When he reached the north wall of Qiongzhou, the sun was already dim at dusk. He asked for Qinv Village, but no one knew of it. He walked north four or five leagues; the stars and moon were already bright, the fragrant grass bewildered his eyes, and there was no inn in the vast wilderness—he was in dire straits. He saw a grave by the road and thought to rest beside it, but was greatly afraid of tigers and wolves. So he climbed a tree like a monkey and crouched upon it. He heard the pines rustling and the nocturnal insects playing mournful tunes; his heart trembled with anxiety, and his regret burned like fire. Suddenly he heard voices below. Looking down, he saw a courtyard clearly; a beautiful woman sat upon a stone, with two maids holding painted candles, standing to her left and right. The beautiful woman glanced to the side and said, "Tonight the moon is white and the stars are sparse. The ball tea that Sister Hua gave us—let us brew a cup and enjoy this fine night." Lian supposed she was a ghost or demon, and his hair stood on end. He dared not make the slightest sound. Then one of the maids looked up and said, "There is someone in the tree!" The woman started up in alarm and said, "What bold fellow has come spying in the dark?" Lian was terrified and had nowhere to hide, so he clambered down and prostrated himself on the ground, begging for mercy. The woman drew near, looked at him, and her anger turned to delight. She pulled him up and sat him beside her. He observed her—she appeared to be seventeen or eighteen, of surpassing beauty. Her speech was not local in accent. She asked, "Where are you going?" He replied, "I am delivering a letter for someone." She said, "The wilderness is full of violent bandits—sleeping in the open is perilous. If you do not despise my humble abode, I would have you stop here for the night." She invited him in. The room had but one bed; she ordered the maid to spread two quilts upon it. Lian, ashamed of his deformity, wished to sleep on the lower bed. The woman smiled and said, "With an honored guest, how dare Miss Yuanlong sleep above?" Lian had no choice, so he shared the bed with her, but lay in terror, not daring to relax. Before long, the woman in the dark reached out her slender hand and lightly stroked his leg and thigh. Lian feigned sleep as if he did not notice. Again after a while, she lifted the quilt and entered, shaking him, but he did not move. She then reached down to examine his private parts. She stopped her hand in disappointment and quietly withdrew from the quilt. Soon he heard weeping. Lian was mortified beyond bearing, cursing only Heaven for his defect. The woman called the maid to light the lamp. The maid saw her tear-stained face and asked in alarm what troubled her. The woman shook her head and said, "I am sighing over my own fate." The maid stood before the bed, gazing at her with concern. The woman said, "Wake the young gentleman and send him on his way." Hearing this, Lian felt doubly ashamed and remorseful, and feared that in the dead of night, he would have nowhere to go in the vast wilderness.

While he was deep in thought, a woman pushed open the door and entered. The maid announced, "Aunt Hua has come." He stole a glance at her: she was about fifty years of age, yet still retained her charm and grace. Seeing that the young woman had not yet gone to sleep, she began to question her. The young woman did not reply. Then she noticed someone lying on the couch and asked, "Who is this sharing your bed?" The maid answered on her behalf: "A young gentleman who lodged here for the night." The woman laughed and said, "I didn't know Qiaoniang had already held her wedding ceremony." Seeing that the young woman's tears were still wet, she exclaimed in surprise, "On your wedding night, weeping is most unseemly. Surely your husband has been rough with you?" The young woman said nothing and only grew more sorrowful. The woman wished to lift the clothing and examine the young man; as she shook out his robe, a letter fell onto the couch. She picked it up and looked at it, then cried out in astonishment, "This is my daughter's handwriting!" She broke open the seal and read it, sighing and exclaiming. The young woman asked what it said. The woman replied, "It is a letter from Third Sister's family, saying that Master Wu has died. She is now alone and has no one to rely on. What is to be done?" The young woman said, "He said he was delivering a letter for someone. Fortunately, we did not send him away." The woman called the young man to get up and questioned him thoroughly about where the letter had come from. He told her the whole story. The woman said, "It was kind of him to trouble himself delivering a letter from so far away. How shall I repay him?" She then studied the young man closely and asked with a smile, "What did you do to offend Qiaoniang?" He said, "I am unaware of any offense." She questioned the young woman again. The young woman sighed and said, "I pity myself—in life I was married to a eunuch, and in death I fled to be pecked by birds. I made a wooden substitute for a mouth and became a eunuch among men. That is why I weep." The woman turned to the young man and said, "Clever boy—so you are a man who is really a woman? He is my guest and cannot be troubled here any longer." She then took the young man to the east wing, reached her hand into his trousers, and examined him. She laughed and said, "No wonder Qiaoniang shed tears. Fortunately, he still has the root and stem—something can yet be done." She lit a lamp and searched through boxes and trunks until she found a black pill, which she gave to the young man and told him to swallow it at once, cautioning him in secret not to make any noise, then left. The young man lay alone, pondering and wondering what ailment the medicine was meant to cure. As the fifth watch approached, he awoke from his first sleep and felt a thread of hot energy below his navel, rushing straight to his private parts, wriggling as though something hung between his thighs. He reached down and felt himself—he was now a full-grown man. His heart leaped with joy and surprise, as though he had just received the nine royal gifts. The window was just beginning to brighten when the woman entered at once, placed a cooked cake in his room, and urged him to sit patiently, bolting the door behind her. She went out and said to Qiaoniang, "The young gentleman has the trouble of delivering a letter. I will keep him to invite Third Sister here so they may form a sisterly bond. Keep him shut in again, to avoid annoying people." Then she went out. The young man paced about in boredom, pressing close to the door crack like a bird peering from a cage. Whenever he caught sight of Qiaoniang, he wanted to call out and present himself, but his shame and diffidence stopped him. It was not until the dead of night that the woman at last brought the young woman back. She opened the door and said, "The young gentleman must be bored to death! Third Sister, come and pay your respects." The young woman entered hesitantly and curtsied to him. The woman bade them address each other as brother and sister. Qiaoniang smiled and said, "Sisters will do as well." They all went out to the main hall, sat in a circle, and began drinking. During the banquet, Qiaoniang playfully asked, "Does a eunuch still feel desire for a beauty?" He replied, "The lame man does not forget to walk, nor the blind man to see." They all burst into laughter.

Qiaoniang, seeing that Third Sister was weary, urged her to rest. The woman looked at Third Sister and ordered her to go with the young man. Third Sister blushed deeply and would not go. The woman said, "This is a man dressed as a woman—what is there to fear?" She urged them to go together. Privately, she told the young man, "In private, be my son-in-law; in public, be my son. That will do." Overjoyed, he took her arm and mounted the bed. It was like a newly sharpened blade being tested for the first time—the pleasure can be imagined. Later, on the pillow, he asked her, "What is Qiaoniang?" She replied, "She is a ghost. Her beauty and talent are unmatched, but her fortune has been bitter. She was married to the young master of the Mao family, who was ill from being a castrated man—at eighteen he could still not perform as a husband. Because of her frustration and unhappiness, she died bearing a grudge and passed into the dark realm." He was startled and wondered if Third Sister was also a ghost. The young woman said, "To tell you the truth, I am not a ghost—I am a fox. Qiaoniang lives alone with no husband, and my mother and I have no home, so we lodge here in her house." He was greatly alarmed. She said, "Do not fear. Though we are indeed a ghost and a fox, we mean you no harm." From then on, they spent every day together in conversation and feasting. Though he knew Qiaoniang was not human, he loved her beauty and grace, regretting only that he had no chance to offer himself to her. The young man was refined and good at witty banter, and he won Qiaoniang's fond regard. One day, the mother and son went elsewhere and locked the young man in his room again. Chafing with frustration, he paced the room and called to Qiaoniang through the door. Qiaoniang ordered the maid to try several keys before the lock was opened. He whispered and asked for a private moment. Qiaoniang sent the maid away. He drew her to the bed and nestled close to her. She playfully reached for him below the navel and said, "What a pity that this place is lacking in such a charming fellow." Before she finished speaking, her hand found it full and firm. She cried out in surprise, "How could it have been so small before, and now suddenly so large?" He laughed and said, "Before, I was shy to see a guest, so I shrank. Now, unable to bear your mockery, I put on the anger of a puffed-up frog." Then they became entwined in passion. Afterward, she said angrily, "Now I understand why the door was locked. In the past, my mother and I had nowhere to rest, wandering homeless, and borrowed this house to lodge in. Third Sister learned embroidery from us, and I kept no secrets from her at all. And yet she is so jealous!" He comforted her and told her the whole story. Qiaoniang still nursed a grudge. He said, "Keep it secret—Aunt Hua told me to be strict about it." Before he finished speaking, Aunt Hua burst in. The two of them scrambled up in alarm. Aunt Hua glared and asked, "Who opened the door?" Qiaoniang smiled and stepped forward to take the blame herself. Aunt Hua grew even more furious and scolded them endlessly. Qiaoniang deliberately sneered and said, "Grandmother, you are quite laughable! He is a man dressed as a woman—what can he possibly do?" Third Sister, seeing her mother and Qiaoniang locked in bitter conflict, felt uneasy and tried to mediate between them, and only then did each set aside her anger and smile. Though Qiaoniang's words were fierce, from then on she humored Third Sister. But Aunt Hua watched over them day and night, and the two lovers could not freely express themselves—they could only exchange meaningful glances full of feeling.

One day, Aunt Hua said to the young man, "My daughter and her sister have both given themselves to you. I think it is not a long-term plan for you to stay here. You should go home and tell your parents, so that a permanent engagement may be arranged soon." She immediately packed his things and urged him to leave. The two young women faced each other with sorrowful, downcast faces. Qiaoniang was especially distraught—her tears rolled down like a broken string of pearls, with no end in sight. Aunt Hua pushed her aside, then dragged the young man out. When they reached the gate, the courtyard and buildings had vanished; there was nothing but a desolate grave mound. Aunt Hua escorted him to a boat and said, "After you leave, this old woman will take the two young women to rent a house in your honorable district. If you do not forget your former affection, wait for the wedding in the abandoned Li family garden." The young man then went home.

At the time, the father of Fu, having searched for his son without success, was in great distress. When he saw his son return, his joy exceeded all expectations. The young man gave a brief account of what had happened and also mentioned his betrothal to the Hua family. His father said, "How can you trust the words of a demon? You were only able to return alive because you had been made a eunuch. Otherwise, you would have died!" The young man replied, "Though she is of a different kind, her feelings are just like those of a human. Moreover, she is both clever and beautiful. Marrying her would not bring ridicule upon our relatives and clan." His father said nothing, only sneering at him. The young man then withdrew.

But his desires itched within him, unsettling him from his proper station. He began secretly sleeping with the maidservants, and gradually this escalated to open lewdness in broad daylight, wishing to shock the old couple. One day, a young maidservant caught sight of him and ran to report it to the mother. The mother did not believe it and went to observe briefly, only then was she horrified. She summoned the maidservant for a thorough investigation and learned the full extent of the matter. Overjoyed, she broadcast it to everyone, showing that her son was not a eunuch, and announced that he would be betrothed to a woman of a prominent family. The young man privately told his mother, "I will marry no one but Miss Hua." His mother said, "The world does not lack beautiful women. Why must you have a ghostly creature?" The young man said, "Had it not been for Aunt Hua, I would never have known the ways of humanity. To betray her would be inauspicious." Fu's father yielded and sent an old servant and an old woman to investigate.

They went out four or five *li* east of the city wall and found the Li family's garden. Amidst the ruined walls and bamboo groves, they saw wisps of smoke curling upward. The old woman dismounted and went straight to the door. There she found the mother and daughter washing dishes and attending to household tasks, as if waiting for someone. The old woman bowed and delivered her master's message. When she saw Third Miss, she exclaimed, "So this is to be our young mistress? Even I find her lovely and cannot help but feel for her—no wonder our young master's soul and dreams are wrapped around her!" She then asked about the elder sister. Aunt Hua sighed and said, "She is my adopted daughter. Three days ago, she suddenly passed away." She then offered food and wine to the old woman and the servant. Upon the old woman's return, she gave a detailed account of Third Miss's appearance and bearing, and the parents were all delighted. Finally, she mentioned the news of Qiao-niang's death, and the young man was so moved that he nearly wept.

On the night of the wedding procession, he personally asked Aunt Hua about it, and she replied, "She has already been reborn in the north." The young man sighed for a long time. He brought Third Miss home, but he could never forget Qiao-niang. Whenever anyone arrived from Qiong, he would summon them to ask about her. Someone said that at the tomb of the Qin woman, ghostly weeping was heard at night. The young man, astonished by this strange report, went in and told Third Miss. Third Miss pondered for a long time, then wept and said, "I have wronged my sister!" When pressed, she answered, "When my mother and I first came, we truly did not let her know. This grievant weeping—could it not be my sister? I wanted to tell you earlier, but I feared exposing my mother's fault." Upon hearing this, the young man's sorrow turned to joy. He immediately ordered a carriage and traveled day and night at full speed to reach her tomb. He knocked on the tree by the tomb and called out, "Qiao-niang! Qiao-niang! I am here." Soon he saw the young woman emerge from the tomb opening holding an infant. She raised her head and wept bitterly, her resentment boundless. The young man also shed tears. He reached out and asked whose child it was. Qiao-niang said, "This is your abandoned offspring. He was born three months ago." The young man sighed and said, "I mistakenly believed Aunt Hua's words, causing mother and child to be buried in sorrow underground. What excuse can I offer for this crime?" He then brought them back in the same carriage and returned home. He presented the child to his mother. The mother looked at the child—his body and features were robust and impressive, bearing no resemblance to a ghostly creature—and was even more pleased. The two women lived in harmony and served their mother-in-law with filial devotion.

Later, Fu's father fell ill and a physician was summoned. Qiao-niang said, "The illness is beyond remedy; his soul has already left his body." She oversaw the preparation of funeral implements, and once these were completed, he passed away. The child grew up to be the very image of his father. He was especially clever and entered the county school at the age of fourteen.

Old Man Zi-xia of Gaoyou, who was lodging in Guang, heard of this story. The place name has been omitted, and it is also not known how the tale concluded.

**The Magistrate of Wu**

A certain magistrate of Wu—his surname and given name have been forgotten—was known for his upright and principled character. The people of Wu held the City God in the highest reverence. They carved a wooden image, dressed it in brocade, and fitted it with mechanisms so that it seemed alive. On the god's birthday, the residents pooled their funds to hold a festival, parading the image through the main streets on a cart. They erected banners and pennants, arranged a full retinue with ceremonial escorts, and formed orderly ranks. As the procession moved along, the drums and pipes played continuously, filling the clamorous, surging streets in an unbroken line. This had become a custom, and not a year passed without it.

The magistrate happened to encounter the procession as he went out. He stopped and inquired about it, and the residents explained. He further questioned them and learned that the expenses were exceedingly lavish. The magistrate was enraged. He pointed at the god and rebuked him, saying, "The City God is supposed to be the true guardian of the district. If you are dull and lifeless, devoid of divine power, then you are a wanton, benevolent ghost unworthy of service. If you do possess divine power, then the people's resources should be cherished. How can you allow useless expenditure to drain the fat and blood of the people?" Having said this, he dragged the image to the ground and flogged it twenty times. From that time on, the custom was suddenly abolished.

The magistrate was upright and impartial, though in his youth he had been fond of sport. After serving a little over a year, he was once climbing a ladder in the yamen courtyard to reach a sparrow's nest under the eaves when he lost his footing and fell, breaking his thigh. He died shortly afterward. People heard the magistrate's voice in the City God's temple, loudly raging and angry, as if quarrelling with the god, and this went on for several days without ceasing. The people of Wu did not forget the magistrate's virtue. They gathered to offer prayers and seek reconciliation, and built a separate temple to enshrine him, after which the noise ceased. This temple was also called the City God Temple, and spring and autumn sacrifices were offered there, which became even more prominent than those for the original god. To this day, Wu has two City Gods.

**Vocal Mimicry**

A woman came to the village, aged fourteen or fifteen. She carried a medicine bag and practiced as a physician. When someone came to consult her about an illness, she could not prescribe on her own; she waited until the evening to inquire of the spirits. At dusk, she cleaned a small room and shut herself inside. The crowd surrounded the doors and windows, straining their ears in silence to listen, but only whispered to each other—no one dared to cough. Inside and out, all movement and sound fell into a profound hush. After about half a watch of the night, they suddenly heard the sound of the curtain rings. The woman inside said, "Is Ninth Aunt here?" A woman answered, "I have come." She then asked, "Has Winter Plum come with Ninth Aunt?" A maid answered, "I have come." The three chattered in a jumble, talking ceaselessly. Soon the curtain hooks stirred again, and the woman said, "Sixth Aunt has arrived." Someone said in a flurry, "Has Spring Plum also brought the little boy?" A woman said, "Stubborn child! He would not sleep when I tried to soothe him, and he insisted on coming with the lady. His body weighs as much as a hundred *jun*—exhausting to carry." Then they heard the woman's warm and attentive voice, Ninth Aunt's inquiries after their health, Sixth Aunt's pleasant greetings, the two maids' words of thanks, the little boy's delighted laughter, and the cat's meowing—all clamoring at once. Then they heard the woman laugh and say, "The little young master is quite a handful too, bringing the cat all this way." Soon the sounds gradually thinned, the curtain rustled again, and the whole room erupted in noise: "Why is Fourth Aunt so late?" A young girl's soft, laughing voice replied, "The road is well over a thousand *li*, and I walked quite some time with the aunt before we finally arrived. The aunt walks rather slowly." Then came the sounds of everyone exchanging pleasantries, shifting their seats, calling for extra cushions—all mixed together, a clamor that filled the room, and only after the space of a meal did it settle down. Then they heard the woman ask about the illness. Ninth Aunt thought ginseng was needed; Sixth Aunt thought astragalus was needed; Fourth Aunt thought atractylodes was needed. After deliberating for some time, they heard Ninth Aunt call for a brush and inkstone. Before long, there was the rustling of paper being folded, the tapping of the brush being tossed onto the cap, and the rumbling of ink being ground; then the brush was set down and struck the desk with a bang, and they heard the sifting and wrapping of medicine. Shortly after, the woman pushed aside the curtain and called the patient to receive the medicine and the prescription. She turned and reentered the room, and at once they heard the three aunts saying farewell, the three maids saying farewell, the little boy babbling, and the cat mewing—all rising at once. Ninth Aunt's voice was clear and bright, Sixth Aunt's voice was slow and aged, Fourth Aunt's voice was soft and gentle, and each of the three maids' voices had its own distinctive tone—all clearly distinguishable to the listener. The crowd marveled, thinking these were truly spirits. But when they tried the prescriptions, they were not particularly effective. This was what is called *kouji* (vocal mimicry), which she merely used to sell her practice—but it was remarkable nonetheless!

In the past, Wang Xinyi once said: While in the capital, he happened to pass through the marketplace and heard the sound of stringed music and singing; the spectators formed a crowd like a wall. Drawing near to look, he saw a young man singing a tune in a drawn-out voice. He had no instrument at all—he merely pressed one finger against his cheek, pressing and singing as he did so; the sound was clear and ringing, no different from the sound of strings. This too was a descendant of the art of *kouji*.

---

**The Foxes' Couplet**

Jiao Sheng was the younger brother of Mr. Shi Hong of Zhangqiu. He was reading in the garden when, at the middle of the night, two beautiful women arrived, both of peerless beauty. One was about seventeen or the other, the other about fourteen or fifteen. They stroked the desk and smiled. Jiao knew they were foxes and sternly rejected them. The elder one said, "Your beard is as fierce as a halberd—why do you lack the spirit of a man?" Jiao said, "I have never in my life dared to take two women." The woman laughed and said, "How pedantic! Do you still cling to your stale ways? The gods of the lower realm turn everything black into white—how much more so in the trivial matters of the bedchamber?" Jiao rebuked her again. The woman, seeing she could not sway him, then said, "You are a scholar of reputation. I have a couplet—allow me to pose it for you. If you can match it, I will leave of my own accord. 'Together *wu* and *xu* share one form; within the belly, only one dot is lacking.'" Jiao pondered but could not complete it. The woman laughed and said, "So this is how a famous scholar fares? I shall match it for you then: '*Ji* and *si* follow in connected tracks; why not both be raised beneath your feet?'" With a smile, she departed.

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**The Fox of Weishui**

A man surnamed Li in Weiyi had a separate residence. Suddenly an old man came to rent it, offering fifty taels of silver per year, and Li agreed. After the old man left, there was no further word of him, so Li told his servants to rent it to someone else. The next day, the old man arrived and said, "I have already made arrangements for the house—why do you wish to rent it to another?" Li told him of his doubts. The old man said, "I intend to reside here for a long time; the reason for the delay is that an auspicious day falls ten days from now." He then paid a full year's rent in advance, saying, "Let the house stand empty for the rest of the year—do not ask about it." Li escorted him out and asked for the date; the old man told him. Several days after the appointed date passed, there was still no sign of him. When Li went to investigate, he found the double doors closed from within, smoke rising from cooking and the sound of voices within. Astonished, he went to pay a visit with his calling card. The old man hurried out, welcomed him in, and was warm and friendly. After Li returned home, he sent people to present gifts to the old man's household; the old man rewarded them generously. Li also invited the old man to several banquets, and they became most cordial. When asked about his hometown, the old man answered that it was in Qinzhong. Li was surprised at the distance. The old man said, "Your noble hometown is a blessed land. Qinzhong is no longer habitable—a great calamity is about to occur." At that time the realm was at peace, so Li did not press the matter further. The next day, the old man sent a note to reciprocate Li's hospitality as a host, and the provisions and food were sumptuous and splendid. Li was increasingly astonished and suspected the old man was a high official. The old man, because of their friendship, revealed himself to be a fox. Li was utterly terrified and told everyone he met.

The local gentry, hearing of this marvel, daily gathered at his gate in carriages, eager to befriend the old man, and the old man received them all with humble courtesy. Gradually even the prefectural officials came and went. Only the county magistrate sought to be introduced, and the old man always declined on some pretext. The magistrate then asked Li to intercede first, but the old man still refused. Li asked the reason. The old man left his seat, drew close to Li, and said privately, "You do not know this yourself, but in his previous life, the magistrate was a donkey. Though now he sits in imposing dignity above the people, he is one who gets drunk even on coarse ground grain. I am, after all, a different species, and I am ashamed to associate with him." Li then made an excuse to tell the magistrate, saying the fox feared his divine intelligence and therefore dared not meet him. The magistrate believed this and desisted. This was in the eleventh year of Kangxi. Before long, Qin was engulfed in war and destruction. That the fox could foresee the future was thus proven.

The Historian of Strange Matters said: "The donkey is a massive creature. When enraged, it kicks, neighs, and brays; its eyes are larger than a bowl, its breath is coarser than an ox's. Not only is its sound unpleasant to hear, its appearance is unpleasant to behold. Yet if you hold out a bundle of fodder to entice it, it will lay back its ears, lower its head, and gladly accept the bridle and reins. That such a creature should rule over the people—it is no wonder it gets drunk even on coarse ground grain. Let those who govern the people take the donkey as a warning, and let them seek the counsel of the fox, and their virtue will daily advance."

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**Hongyu**

Feng Weng of Guangping had a son, styled Xiangru. Both father and son were scholars. Weng was nearing sixty, of a forthright and unbending disposition, yet his household was repeatedly in straits. Within a few years, his wife and then his daughter-in-law had died one after another, and he himself had to manage the household chores. One night, Xiangru sat beneath the moon when suddenly he saw a woman from the neighboring house to the east peering over the wall. He looked at her—she was beautiful. He approached, and she smiled. He beckoned to her with his hand, but she neither came nor went. He pressed his invitation earnestly, and then she climbed over on a ladder, and from that point they lay together. He asked her name. She said, "I am Hongyu, your neighbor's daughter." The young man was deeply enamored and pledged eternal devotion. She agreed. Night after night she came, and this continued for about half a year. One night Weng rose and, hearing laughter and talk from his son's quarters, peered in and saw his son. Enraged, he called him out and cursed him: "What business has a beast like you! So reduced in circumstances as you are, you still do not apply yourself with diligence—instead you learn to be dissolute? If people know of it, you lose your virtue; if they do not know of it, you shorten your life!" The son knelt and prostrated himself, weeping that he knew his error. Weng scolded the woman: "A woman who does not guard the propriety of her chamber defiles herself, and then defiles another as well. Should this matter ever come to light, the disgrace will not be confined to this humble house alone!" Having finished cursing, he returned to bed in a fury. The woman shed tears and said: "The reproach from your parent fills me with shame and humiliation beyond measure! The bond between the two of us is at an end!" The young man said: "While my father lives I cannot act on my own authority. If you truly care for me, we should bear this disgrace and remain as we are." But the woman's words were resolute and final. The young man then wept bitterly. She stopped him and said: "Between you and me there are no words from a matchmaker, no command from parents—we have climbed walls and bored through crevices. How could we grow old together? Here is a good match I can find for you." She told him of her poverty. She said: "Wait for me tomorrow night; I will devise a plan for you." The next night, the woman indeed came, and brought out forty taels of silver, which she gave to the young man. She said: "Sixty li from here is Wu Village, where a Wei family has a daughter, eighteen years old. They have set a high price, so she has not yet been betrothed. Offer them a generous sum, and the match will surely be made." With that, she departed.

The young man found an occasion to tell his father that he wished to go and inspect the girl. But he kept the gift of silver secret and dared not mention it. Weng reckoned that he had no funds, and for this reason tried to dissuade him. The young man then spoke more gently: "Let me try; if it does not work, I will stop." Weng nodded. The young man thereupon borrowed a servant and a horse and went to the Wei household. Wei was a man of the fields. The young man called him out and drew him aside for a private talk. Wei knew the young man was from a distinguished family, and seeing his bearing was open and generous, he was inclined to agree, yet he feared the young man might be stingy with the bride-price. The young man, perceiving the hesitance in Wei's words, divined his meaning and poured out all his money onto the table. Wei was then overjoyed, asked a neighbor to act as go-between, and they wrote a pledge on red paper. The young man entered and bowed to the mother. The dwelling was narrow, and the daughter screened herself behind her mother. He stole a glance at her—though she was dressed in coarse cloth, her spirit and radiance shone forth, and his heart secretly rejoiced. Wei borrowed a room to entertain his son-in-law-to-be and said: "The young gentleman need not come in person for the wedding. When we have made a few clothes and preparations, we will carry her over." The young man set a date and returned. He told Weng a lie, saying that the Wei family admired his clean and honest lineage and demanded no bride-price. Weng was also pleased. On the day, the Wei family indeed sent the daughter over. She was diligent and frugal, possessed of a compliant virtue, and they were deeply harmonious as lutes and zithers in concert. After more than two years, she bore a son, whom they named Fuer. It happened that at the Qingming Festival, carrying the son to climb the tomb, they encountered a county gentryman named Song. Song had been an imperial censor, dismissed from office for accepting bribes, and now lived in retirement in the countryside, where he wielded great power and cruelty. That day he too was returning from the tombs. Seeing the woman, he was struck by her beauty. He asked a villager and learned that she was the young man's wife. Supposing Feng to be a poor scholar, he thought that with a heavy bribe he might sway him, and he sent a servant to hint at this. When the young man suddenly heard of it, his anger showed on his face; but then he considered that he could not match Song's power, and he suppressed his anger into a smile. He returned and told his father. Weng was furious. He rushed out, and facing Song's servants, pointing at the sky and stamping on the ground, he cursed them in every manner. The servants scurried away like rats. Song was also enraged, and he sent several men into the young man's house, who beat both father and son until the household seethed like a boiling cauldron. The woman heard of it, abandoned the child on the bed, and with her hair loosed rushed out crying for help. The men seized her and carried her off, and with a clamor they departed. Father and son were battered and crippled, groaning on the ground. The child wailed in the room. The neighbors took pity on them and helped them onto the bed. After a day, the young man could rise with a cane. Weng, consumed with rage, would not eat, and soon vomited blood and died. The young man wept bitterly, took his son, and brought a suit, appealing up to the governor and the provincial administration. He filed petitions nearly everywhere but obtained no justice in the end. Later he heard that his wife had died unyielding, and his grief grew still deeper. Injustice choked his breast; there was no road to redress. He constantly thought of lying in wait along a main road to assassinate Song, but he feared Song's numerous attendants, and besides, the child had no one to be entrusted to. Day and night he grieved and pondered, and his eyelids never closed in sleep.

A man suddenly came to hang himself in his room, with a curly beard and a broad chin, and they had never met before. The man invited him to sit and was about to ask about his native place and family. The guest abruptly said: "You have the murder of your father to avenge and the seizure of your wife to resent, yet you forget to seek revenge?" The man suspected he was a spy from the Song family and pretended to agree with him. The guest's eyes were wide with anger as if they were about to burst, and he abruptly went out, saying: "I took you for a man, but now I know you are not worth mentioning!" The man noticed something unusual about him, knelt down to detain him, and said: "I was truly afraid the Song family had sent someone to spy on me. Now I will speak from the heart: I have been sleeping on brushwood and tasting gall for a long time already. But I pity this infant in swaddling clothes, who might cause the family line to die out. You are a righteous man—can you act as my 'pestle and mortar'?" The guest said: "This is a matter for women and girls; it is not something I can do. Whatever you wish to entrust to another person, please take it upon yourself; whatever you wish to do yourself, I will gladly take your place." Upon hearing this, the man knocked his head on the ground in prostration. The guest left without looking back. The man asked for his name and surname, but he said: "If I fail, I will not deserve your resentment; if I succeed, I will not deserve your gratitude." Then he left.

The man, fearing disaster would befall him, took his son and fled. That night, when the Song family had all retired, someone scaled the heavy wall and entered, killing the censor, his three sons, one daughter-in-law, and one maidservant. The Song family reported the matter to the authorities in full detail. The official was greatly alarmed. The Song family insisted it was Xiangru, so constables were sent to arrest the man, but he had fled and no one knew where he had gone. Thus the case seemed all the more certain. The Song servants, together with the official runners, searched everywhere. At night they came to the Southern Mountain, heard a baby crying, traced the sound, and found him. They bound him with ropes and set off. The baby cried ever louder, so the group snatched the child and threw it away. The man was so aggrieved and enraged that he nearly perished from grief.

He was brought before the county magistrate. The magistrate asked: "Why did you kill those people?" The man said: "What a grievance! They died at night; I was out in the daytime, and moreover I was carrying a crying baby. How could I scale a wall and kill anyone?" The magistrate said: "If you didn't kill anyone, why did you flee?" The man had no words left and could not defend himself. He was therefore thrown into prison. The man wept and said: "My own death is of no great consequence, but what crime has the orphan committed?" The magistrate said: "You have killed many people's sons; what resentment is there in killing your son?" Having been stripped of his status, the man repeatedly endured the cruel torture of the cangue, but in the end there was nothing more to be said.

That night, the magistrate had just lain down when he heard something striking the bed, making a rattling noise. He cried out in great terror. His whole household was startled awake and gathered to light a candle. A short knife, sharp and keen as frost, had been driven into the bed and sunk an inch or more into the wood, so firmly that it could not be pulled out. When the magistrate saw this, his soul left his body. He ordered his men to search everywhere with weapons, but no trace was found. His heart secretly failed him. Moreover, since the Song family members were already dead, there was nothing to fear. He therefore submitted a detailed report to his superiors, requesting that the man's case be resolved and that he be released, and the man was indeed set free.

The man returned home. His jars did not contain a single peck of grain, and he faced the four walls alone. Fortunately, his neighbors took pity on him and gave him food and drink, so he barely managed to get by. When he thought that his great enemy had already been avenged, he rejoiced exceedingly; when he reflected on the cruel calamity that had nearly wiped out his whole family, tears streamed down his face; and when he considered that for half his life he had been utterly impoverished and the family line had not been continued, he would break into loud sobbing in places where no one could see him, unable to control himself any longer. After half a year, the pursuit and the ban grew increasingly lax. He then pleaded with the county magistrate and requested a judgment to return Wei's bones. When he had buried her and returned, his grief was nearly enough to kill him. He tossed and turned on the empty bed, and there seemed to be no way to go on living.

Suddenly someone knocked at the door. He focused his attention and listened intently, and heard a person outside the door murmuring softly to the child. The man hurriedly got up to peep and saw what appeared to be a woman. As soon as the door opened a crack, she said: "The great injustice has been cleared up—fortunately you are unharmed!" Her voice was familiar, but in his haste he could not recall whose it was. He held up a candle, and it was Hongyu. She was carrying a small child, who was playing and laughing beneath her hip. The man had no time to ask questions; he embraced the woman and wept. She too was deeply distressed. After a while she pushed the child and said: "Have you forgotten your father?" The child tugged at the woman's clothing and stared at the man with blazing eyes. He examined him carefully—it was Fu'er. In great surprise, he asked through his tears: "How did the child get here?" The woman said: "To tell you the truth: what I said before about being a neighbor's daughter was a lie. I am actually a fox. I happened to be traveling at night and heard a baby crying at the mouth of the valley, so I took him and brought him up in Qin. Hearing that the great calamity had ended, I therefore brought him to be reunited with you." The man wiped away his tears and bowed in gratitude. The child, in the woman's arms, clung to her as if she were his mother and could no longer recognize his father at all.

Before dawn, the woman abruptly got up. When asked about it, she replied: "I am going to leave." The man knelt naked at the bedside, tears streaming so that he could not look up. The woman laughed and said: "I was joking with you. Now that the household is newly established, it cannot succeed without rising early and retiring late." Thereupon she cut away weeds and swept with a broom, working like a man. The man worried about their poverty and inability to support themselves. The woman said: "Just keep to your studies behind the curtain and do not ask about profit or loss; perhaps we will not starve to death." She then brought out gold to set up weaving implements, rented several dozen mu of fields, and hired laborers to till them. Carrying a hoe to cut grass and pulling vines to mend the roof—this became the daily routine. When the neighbors heard of the wife's virtue, they were all the more happy to help support them. After about half a year, the household flourished and was like that of a family of inherited wealth.

The man said: "From the ashes, you have rebuilt everything with your bare hands. But one thing has not been properly settled—what shall we do?" When pressed, she replied: "The examination date is approaching, and your scholar's cap and robes have not yet been restored." The woman laughed and said: "I previously sent four taels of silver to the director of studies, and your name has already been restored to the records. If I had waited for you to mention it, the mistake would have lasted a long time." The man regarded her with even greater awe. That year he passed the provincial examination. He was then thirty-six years old, with rich fields stretching across the paths and grand, spacious buildings.

The woman was graceful and slender, as if she might be carried away by the wind at any moment, yet she worked harder than a farmer's wife. Even in the bitterest winter she toiled without complaint, yet her hands were as smooth and soft as grease. She said she was twenty-eight years old, but people looking at her always thought she was about twenty.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "His son was virtuous and his father had merit, and therefore the repayment was made through a chivalrous act. Not only was the human being chivalrous—the fox was chivalrous too. The encounter was remarkable indeed! But the magistrate's handling of the matter was careless and maddening; the knife thundered into the wood—why did he not bother to move the bed half a foot to the side? If Su Zimei read this, he would certainly drain his cup and exclaim: 'What a pity the blow did not hit its mark!'"

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In the northern boundary region, a fallen dragon entered a village. It moved heavily and clumsily. It entered a certain gentleman's house; the door could barely admit its body, but it squeezed through. The entire family fled upstairs, shouting and making a clamor, firing guns and cannon. The dragon then came out. Outside the door there was a puddle of rainwater, scarcely a foot deep. The dragon entered it and turned its body about; its whole body became caked with mud. It strained every sinew to leap, but after rising a foot or so it would always fall back. It coiled in the mud for three days, and flies gathered on its scales and armor. Suddenly a great rain fell, and amid thunder and lightning it soared into the sky and departed.

Fang Sheng and a friend climbed Ox Mountain and entered a temple to look around. Suddenly a yellow tile fell from among the rafters, and coiled on top of it was a small snake, thin as an earthworm. In an instant it spiraled once around, growing to the size of a finger; after another revolution, it was already as broad as a belt. All were alarmed, knowing it to be a dragon, and they rushed down the mountain together. When they had reached halfway up, a thunderclap sounded from the temple, shaking the valley. Black clouds spread across the sky like a canopy, and a mighty dragon writhed within them, then vanished after a while.

In Little Lord's Manor of Zhangqiu, a village woman went out into the fields. She encountered a great wind, and dust and sand struck her face. She felt as though something had gotten into one eye, like a wheat bristle. She rubbed it and blew on it, but it would not heal. When she opened her eyelid to examine it, the eye itself was unharmed, but a red line wound and coiled among the flesh. Someone said, "This is a dormant dragon." The woman grieved and feared she would die. More than three months passed, and then one day a great storm broke. Suddenly a tremendous thunderbolt sounded, and the creature tore through her eyelid and departed. The woman suffered no injury.

Yuan Xuan Si said: "While in Suzhou, on an overcast day, there was a great thunderclap. Everyone saw a dragon hanging at the edge of the clouds, its scales and armor flexing and moving, clutching a human head in its claws, every whisker and eyebrow clearly visible. After a while, it entered the clouds and vanished. Nor did anyone hear of a person who had lost his head."

Lin Si Niang

Chen Baoyao, a circuit intendant of Qingzhou, was a man of Fujian. One night he was sitting alone when a woman raised the curtain and entered. He looked at her and did not recognize her, but she was of surpassing beauty, dressed in palace robes with long sleeves. She smilingly said, "Sitting in solitude on this quiet night — are you not lonely?" Startled, he asked, "Who are you?" She said, "My home is not far away — it is just to the west, next door." He suspected she was a ghost, but his heart was drawn to her. He took her sleeve and led her to sit, and her conversation was refined and elegant, which delighted him greatly. He embraced her, and she did not resist much. She glanced around and said, "Are there no others here?" He quickly shut the door and said, "No one." He urged her to undress, but she seemed deeply shy. He helped her with tender solicitude. She said, "I am twenty years old and still a maiden — I could not endure rough handling." After their intimacy, traces stained the mat. Then in whispered pillow talk, she told him her name was Lin Si Niang. He questioned her in detail. She said: "I was steadfast and chaste all my life, and now you have nearly exhausted my virtue through your casual treatment. If your heart loves me, then seek only an enduring bond — why all this tedious questioning?" Before long, the crowing of the rooster announced dawn, and she rose and departed. From then on she came every night without fail. She would drink with him behind closed doors in refined company. When they discussed music, she could analyze the pentatonic scale with complete precision. He therefore concluded she was skilled in composing melodies. She said: "Something I learned as a child." He asked her to perform a refined piece. She said, "It has been so long since I last gave myself to music that I have forgotten more than half the rhythms — I fear only that connoisseurs would laugh." He pressed her again, and she lowered her head, marking the beat, and sang to the tune of "Yi" and "Liang." Her voice was mournful and tender. When she finished singing, tears fell. He too felt a piteous ache in his heart and held her, comforting her: "Do not play the music of a fallen state — it makes one melancholy." She said: "Sound gives expression to feeling. One who is grieving cannot be made to feel joy, just as one who feels joy cannot be made to grieve." Their intimacy surpassed even that of zither and lute.

After some time, his family members secretly listened. Those who heard her sing all shed tears without exception. His wife caught a glimpse of her appearance and doubted that any mortal woman could be so ravishingly beautiful — she must be either a ghost or a fox. Fearing she might cast a bewitching spell, she urged him to break with her. He would not listen, but only pressed the woman further with questions. She said gravely: "I was a palace lady of the Prince of Heng's household. I perished in calamity seventeen years ago. Because of your noble character, I have come to share your bed, but truly I would not dare bring harm to you. If you suspect and fear me, then I shall take my leave from this moment." He said: "I bear no prejudice, but with such intimacy, I cannot fail to know the truth." He then asked her about palace affairs. She recounted them at length, in a manner delightful to hear. When she spoke of the dynasty's decline, she choked with sobs and could not complete her words. She did not sleep much, but every night she would rise and recite the mantras of Cundi, Vajra, and other sutras. He asked: "Can one repent from the Yellow Springs?" She said: "That is one reason. I think of spending eternity in degradation and wish to secure my passage to a future life." She also often discussed poetry with him, finding fault with every flaw; but when she came to fine lines, she would sing them softly in a tender voice. Her mood was so graceful and alluring that one forgot all fatigue. He asked, "Are you skilled in poetry?" She said: "In my lifetime I occasionally composed it." He asked her to write a poem for him. She smiled and said: "The words of a mere girl — how could they be worth showing to a man of distinction?"

After three living with him, one evening she suddenly bid him farewell with a sorrowful air. He asked in alarm why. She replied: "The King of the Underworld, judging that I committed no offense in life and that even in death I did not forget the sutras and mantras, has caused me to be reborn into a princely household. Our parting is tonight — we shall never meet again." Having spoken, she was overcome with grief. He too shed tears. He set out wine, and they drank deeply together. She sang with passionate feeling, in a mournful and lingering melody — each word turning a hundred times, and whenever she reached a sorrowful passage, she would break into sobs. She paused several times and resumed several times before the song was finished. They could not drink freely. She rose, hesitating, about to depart. He firmly held her back, and she sat a while longer. Suddenly the rooster crowed, and she said: "I truly cannot stay any longer. But you have always urged me not to show my poor work, and now that we part forever, I shall hastily compose a chapter." She took up the brush and composed it. She said: "My heart is grief-stricken and my thoughts are in disarray — I could not polish the lines. With discordant notes and faulty meter, I fear you must not show it to others." She covered her sleeve and departed. He escorted her to the outside of the gate, where she vanished into darkness. He stood long in mournful longing. He looked at her poem — the characters were elegantly formed — and treasured it, keeping it safe. The poem read:

"Secluded in the deep palace for seventeen years,

Who asks the old land of the vast blue sky?

I watch in idle grief as tall trees seal the palace halls,

And weep, gazing where my lord became the cuckoo.

The sea kingdom's waves slant in the evening light,

The Han house's pipes and drums are still amid beacon smoke.

My beauty's strength is too weak to become a vengeful ghost,

My gentle heart, grieving, seeks only the Zen way.

Each day I recite the words of Bodhi a thousand times,

In leisure I peruse two or three leaves of patra.

I sing in the Pear Garden in lieu of weeping —

I beg you to listen alone, and you too will weep."

The poem contains repetitions and disordered sections, and it is suspected there are errors.