Volume 3

Volume 3

# Jiangzhong

Wang Shengyu was traveling south and moored his boat in the middle of the river. Having retired for the night, he saw the moonlight bright as white silk and could not sleep, so he ordered his servant boy to massage him. Suddenly he heard sounds on top of the boat as of a child walking, treading on the reed mat and making noise, coming from far at the stern and gradually approaching the cabin door. Fearing it was a robber, he rose quickly and asked the boy. The boy had also heard it. As they were speaking, a man was seen crouching on the boat's roof, lowering his head to peer into the cabin. Greatly alarmed, Wang drew his sword and called out to his servants; the whole boat was roused. He told them what he had seen. Some suspected a mistake, but soon the sounds were heard again. They all rose and looked around, but there was no one to be seen—only sparse bright stars, the luminous moon, and the vast expanse of river waves. The crowd sat in the boat, and presently they saw a blue flame, lantern-like, emerging from the water's surface, floating along with the current; as it drew near to the boat, the flame suddenly went out. Then a dark figure rose abruptly, standing upright on the water, and crawled along by pulling himself forward with his hands. The crowd shouted: "It must be this creature!" They wanted to shoot it, but just as they drew the bow, it suddenly plunged beneath the water and could no longer be seen. They asked the boatman, who said: "This is an ancient battlefield. Ghosts appear and disappear from time to time—there is nothing strange about it."

# Lord Lu's Daughter

Zhang Yudan of Zhaoyuan was by nature unrestrained and unconventional. He studied at a Buddhist temple in the county. At that time, the county magistrate was Lord Lu, a native of Samsŏn. He had a daughter who delighted in hunting. Zhang happened to encounter her in the countryside and saw that she was graceful and elegant, wearing a brocade sable-fur coat and riding a small black pony, looking as picturesque as a painting. After returning, he recalled her beauty and admired her with the utmost intensity. Later he heard that the daughter had died suddenly, and he grieved as if he wished to die. Since Lord Lu's home was far away, he placed the daughter's spirit tablet in the temple—the very place where Zhang studied. Zhang paid reverence to it as to a deity; every morning he burned incense, and at every meal he made offerings. Each time he poured a libation, he would say: "I glimpsed but half your face, yet you have long haunted my dreams. I never imagined that one so lovely would so swiftly pass from this world. Now you are close at hand, yet as distant as mountains and rivers—what a pity! But the living are bound by constraints, while the dead know no taboos. If your spirit has any power in the world below, you must come gliding in your graceful gait to comfort my devotion." He prayed thus day and night, for nearly half a month.

One evening, as he sat reading by lamplight, he suddenly raised his head and saw the young lady standing beneath the lamp, smiling. Startled, he rose and asked her how she had come. She said: "Moved by your affection, I could not contain myself, and so I cast aside any concern for the impropriety of a private elopement." Zhang was overjoyed. They then shared their love together. From that night on, not a night passed without her coming. She said to him: "In life I loved archery and horsemanship; I took delight in shooting roe deer and killing stags, and my sins are heavy and grave. Now that I am dead, I have no place to return to. If you truly love me, I beg you to recite the Diamond Sutra one full set of scrolls on my behalf—I shall remember this through all my lives to come." Zhang respectfully accepted her instruction and rose each night to recite before her coffin. He asked to carry her coffin when he traveled, and she laughingly agreed. He held her as one would an infant, and she was not heavy at all. This became a regular practice. When he went to examinations, he carried her with him as well. But they traveled only at night. When Zhang was about to depart for the provincial examination, she said: "Your fortune is thin; it would be a futile effort." He heeded her words and stayed home. After four or five years had passed, Lord Lu was dismissed from office and, being too poor to transport his daughter's coffin home, was preparing to bury her nearby but had no place for the burial. Zhang then came forward and said: "I have a small plot of land near the temple; I wish to bury the young lady there." Lord Lu was pleased. Zhang also exerted himself to arrange the burial. Lord Lu was deeply grateful but could not understand the reason. After Lord Lu left, Zhang and the lady were as tenderly intimate as before.

One night, she leaned against his breast, her tears falling like beans, and said: "Five years of love—now we part today! The kindness and devotion you have shown me, I could not repay in many lives!" Startled, Zhang asked her what she meant. She said: "Having bestowed your kindness upon one beneath the earth, the sutras and mantras have been recited in full. I am now to be reborn in the household of Minister Lu in Hebei. If you do not forget this day, in fifteen years, on the sixteenth day of the eighth month, please come to meet me." Zhang wept and said: "I am already over thirty years old; in another fifteen years, I shall be near my grave. What would be the purpose of a meeting?" She also wept and said: "I will serve you as a slave or maidservant in repayment." After a moment she said: "If you escort me six or seven li, the road ahead is full of brambles, and my skirts are too long to pass through easily." She then embraced his neck. Zhang escorted her to a main road, where he saw a cluster of carriages and horses by the roadside; on the horses there were sometimes one person, sometimes two; in the carriages there were three, four, or as many as ten or more; but there was only one ornamented carriage with embroidered curtains and a vermilion canopy, in which sat an old woman alone. Seeing the lady arrive, she called out: "Have you come?" The lady replied: "I have come." She then turned back to Zhang and said: "This is as far as you should go; now leave, and do not forget what I said." Zhang promised. The lady walked up to the carriage, and the old woman helped her in. The carriage was opened for her to enter, and immediately the carriage and horses departed, filling the road with noise and commotion.

Zhang returned in melancholy, marking the date on the wall. Reflecting on the efficacy of the sutras and mantras, he redoubled the devotion of his recitations. He dreamed that a divine being told him: "Your aspiration is truly admirable. But you must go to the Southern Sea." He asked: "How far is the Southern Sea?" The being replied: "It is close—within the space of an inch." Awakening, he understood the meaning. His longing for enlightenment grew intense, and his cultivation became twice as pure. Three years later, his second son Ming and his eldest son Zheng successively achieved high honors in the examinations. Although Zhang had suddenly risen to wealth and rank, he did not cease his good deeds. One night he dreamed that a man in blue robes invited him to go with him. He saw a palace hall in which sat a figure resembling a Bodhisattva, who greeted him and said: "Your practice of goodness is commendable. It is a pity you have no long life, but fortunately I have petitioned the Supreme Sovereign on your behalf." Zhang prostrated himself on the ground and knocked his head. The figure had him rise and offered him a seat, serving him tea whose fragrance was like orchids. Then he ordered a boy to lead him away and bathe him in a pool. The water of the pool was clear and clean; one could count the swimming fish. When he entered, it was warm, and when he cupped it in his hands, it smelled of lotus leaves. After some time, he gradually waded into deeper water, lost his footing and sank, and the water closed over his head. He awoke in alarm, marveling at the experience. From then on his body grew stronger and his eyes brighter. When he stroked his beard, the white hairs all fell out one by one; after some more time, the black ones fell out too. The lines on his face also gradually smoothed. After several months, his chin was bare and his face youthful, just as it had been when he was fifteen or sixteen. He also took delight in childish games, like a child. He became overly concerned with his dress and appearance, and his two sons constantly corrected him. Before long, his wife died of old age and illness. His sons wished to seek a second wife for him from a distinguished family. Zhang said: "Wait until I go to Hebei; I will marry after I return."

# 聊齋志異 (Volume 03)

## The Ghost Bridegroom

The appointed date was fast approaching, so he ordered his servants and horses to set off for Hebei. He made inquiries and found that there was indeed a Minister of Revenue named Lu. Now, Minister Lu had previously had a daughter who could speak from birth. As she grew, she became ever more beautiful and clever, and her parents doted on her above all else. When prominent families sent betrothal gifts, the girl invariably refused them. They thought this strange and asked her why, and she told them the whole story of the agreement made in her previous life. They calculated her age and laughed, saying, "Silly girl! Zhang Lang must be close to fifty by now. The world has changed—his bones are long since dust. Even if he still lives, his hair must have turned white and his teeth fallen out." But the girl would not listen. Her mother, seeing that her resolve would not waver, plotted with Minister Lu to instruct the gatekeeper not to admit any visitors, hoping that the passage of time would extinguish her hopes. Before long, the young man arrived, and the gatekeeper turned him away. He returned to his inn, dejected and at a loss for what to do. He wandered about the outskirts of the town, making discreet inquiries as to the girl's whereabouts.

The girl believed that the young man had broken his promise and wept, refusing to eat. Her mother said, "If he has not come, he must surely have died. Even if he has not, the blame for breaking the oath lies with him, not with you." The girl said nothing but lay in bed all day. Minister Lu, troubled by this, also wished to see for himself what sort of man the young man was. He therefore set out on a pleasure excursion and happened to encounter him in the countryside. He saw that he was a young man and was greatly surprised. They sat on the grass and spoke briefly, and he found him to be most gallant and charming. The Minister was pleased and invited him to his home. Just as he was about to probe further, the Minister abruptly rose and asked his guest to wait a moment, then hurried inside to tell his daughter. The girl was overjoyed and roused herself with effort. But when she peered in and saw that his appearance did not match what she had expected, she returned in tears, reproaching her father for deceiving her. The Minister insisted that this was indeed the man. The girl said nothing but wept without ceasing. The Minister came out, his spirits crushed, and was far from gracious toward his guest. The young man asked, "Is there a man from Guizhou who serves as Minister of Revenue?" The Minister gave a vague answer, then turned his head away as though the guest did not concern him. The young man sensed the discourtesy and took his leave.

The girl wept for several days and then died. That night, the young man dreamed that the girl came to him and said, "Was it truly you who came to visit? Our ages and appearances are so different that we failed to recognize each other face to face, and now we are separated forever. I have died of grief. Please go quickly to the temple of the Earth God and summon my soul back—I may yet be revived, but delay and it will be too late." When he awoke, he hastened to the Lu family's residence and found that the girl had indeed died two days before. The young man was overcome with grief and went in to mourn in her chamber. He then told Minister Lu of his dream. Minister Lu followed his advice and summoned her soul back. He opened her coverlet, stroked her corpse, and called out to her. Soon a rattling sound was heard in her throat, and suddenly her red lips parted and a lump of phlegm fell out like ice. They helped her onto the bed, and gradually she began to stir and moan. Minister Lu was overjoyed and, with proper ceremony, escorted his guest out, then set out wine and held a feast. Upon inquiring into the young man's family background, he learned that he was from a great household and was even more pleased. An auspicious day was chosen for the wedding. After half a month, the young man took his bride home. Minister Lu escorted them to their home and stayed for half a year before departing. The husband and wife lived together like a pair of young lovers. Those who did not know them often mistook the wife for the mother and the husband for the father-in-law. Minister Lu died the following year. His son, who was still very young, was slandered by powerful bullies, and the family's property was nearly ruined. The young man took them in, and they made their home with him.

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## The Daoist Priest

Han was a man of an established family who loved entertaining guests. A neighbor named Xu often drank at his table. On one occasion, as they were feasting, a Daoist priest appeared at the gate begging with his bowl. The servants offered him money and grain, but he accepted neither; nor would he leave. The servants grew angry and went back inside without another glance. Han heard the clatter of the bowl being struck for a very long time and asked about it. The servants told him what had happened. Before he had finished speaking, the priest walked right in. Han invited him to sit. The priest gave a slight salute to both host and guest and then sat down. After a brief exchange of questions, Han learned that he had been staying in a dilapidated temple east of the village. Han said, "You have been dwelling like a crane at the Eastern Temple for some time, and I never even heard of it—I have failed in the duties of a host." The priest replied, "A rustic newly arrived, I had no acquaintances. But I heard that you are generous and would very much like to share a cup." Han ordered wine to be poured. The priest could drink prodigious amounts. Xu, seeing that his clothes were filthy and worn, treated him with considerable condescension and paid him little courtesy. Han, too, received him as one might a wandering traveler. The priest drank more than twenty cups before taking his leave.

From then on, at every feast the priest would appear. When there was food, he ate; when there was drink, he drank. Han also began to tire of his frequency. On one such occasion, Xu mocked him, saying, "Elder Daoist, you are a guest every day—have you never once played host?" The priest smiled and said, "A Daoist and a gentleman are alike—both have two shoulders supporting one mouth." Xu had no reply. The priest said, "Nevertheless, this Daoist has long harbored a sincere wish and will one day do his utmost to repay your hospitality, though it be but a cup of water." When the drinking was finished, he said, "I would be honored if you would grace me tomorrow at noon."

The next day, Han went to the appointment with Xu, doubting that the priest could provide a feast. As they walked, the priest was already waiting for them on the road. They talked as they walked and soon arrived at the temple gate. Upon entering, they found the courtyard entirely new, with pavilions connected by covered walkways climbing into the clouds. Amazed, they said, "We have not been here for a long time—when was all this built?" The priest replied, "It was completed not long ago." When they entered the inner chamber, the furnishings were magnificent, such as no hereditary family possessed. The two men were filled with awe and respect. They had scarcely sat down when wine and food were served by twelve- or thirteen-year-old boys in brocade clothes and red shoes. The wine and dishes were fragrant and beautiful, sumptuous beyond measure. After the meal, additional delicacies were brought in—rare fruits that could hardly be named, served in vessels of crystal and jade that shone upon the tables and couches. The wine was poured into glass cups a foot in circumference. The priest said, "Call the Shi sisters." The boy left briefly, and two beautiful women entered. One was slender and tall, like a willow; the other was short, with the most youthful teeth—both were matchlessly charming. The priest bade them sing to accompany the drinking. The younger one beat time and sang, while the elder accompanied her on a bamboo flute, their voices clear and delicate. When the song was finished, the priest raised his cup and urged them to drink, then ordered the girls to pour wine all around. He turned to the beauties and asked, "It has been a while since you danced—can you still do it?" Thereupon a servant spread a woolen carpet beneath the banquet table, and the two women danced together, their long sleeves fluttering wildly, scattering fragrant dust in all directions. When the dance ended, they leaned against a painted screen. The two men's spirits soared and their souls took flight, and before they knew it, they were thoroughly drunk.

The Taoist paid the guest no heed, drained his cup, rose, and said, "Please do pour yourself a drink. I shall rest a moment and return presently." With that, he departed. Against the wall of the southern room stood a bed inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The young woman spread a brocade cushion and helped the Taoist recline. The Taoist then pulled the older man to lie beside him and ordered the younger to stand below the bed and scratch him. The two men watched this scene and felt considerable resentment. Xu then shouted, "You Taoist, you must not be so discourteous!" and went to seize him. The Taoist scrambled up and fled. Seeing the young woman still standing below the bed, Xu, in his drunkenness, pulled her to the northern couch and openly embraced her in sleep. He glanced at the beauty on the bed—she still slept upon the embroidered couch—and said to Han, "Why are you so stiff and formal?" Han then went straight to the southern couch, intending to dally with the beauty, but she had fallen asleep and would not stir when he nudged her. He gathered her in his arms and lay down with her. When daylight came and both wine and dreams receded, he felt something cold and icy in his arms; looking down, he found he was embracing a large stone, lying on the green steps. He quickly looked at Xu—Xu had not yet woken. He saw him resting his head on a stone by the privy, fast asleep in the ruined outhouse. Han kicked him awake, and they stared at each other in bewilderment. They looked around: there was nothing but a courtyard of wild grass and two dilapidated rooms.

**The Hu Family**

In Zhili there was a great household that wished to engage a tutor. Suddenly a scholar appeared at the gate, recommending himself. The master invited him in. His speech was open and spirited, and the two took a liking to each other at once. The scholar said his name was Hu, and he was accepted and given a residence as tutor. Hu was most diligent in instruction, his learning far beyond that of an ordinary scholar. Yet when he went out to wander, he always returned after dark; the doors were shut tight, and no one heard a knock, yet he was already in the room. They came to suspect he was a fox. Still, they observed that Hu meant no ill, and they treated him well and with respect, not abandoning courtesy on account of the strangeness.

Hu learned that the master had a daughter and repeatedly hinted that he wished to make a marriage match. The master pretended not to understand. One day, Hu borrowed leave and departed. The next day, a visitor came to call, tethering a black mule at the gate. The master received him and brought him inside. The man was over fifty, his clothes and shoes fresh and clean, his manner calm and refined. After they sat, he introduced himself, and the master learned he had come as matchmaker for the Hu family. The master was silent for a long time, then said, "My friendship with Mr. Hu has been the closest—why must there be a marriage? Moreover, my daughter has already been betrothed. Please convey my thanks to the gentleman." The visitor said, "I am certain your daughter is still waiting to be asked for. Why refuse so firmly?" He pressed the matter again and again, but the master would not consent. The visitor showed a look of shame and said, "The Hu family is also an old lineage. How could they be inferior to you?" The master told him plainly, "I have no other objection—I simply dislike that he is not of our kind." The visitor flew into a rage. The master also grew angry, and the two attacked each other with increasing vehemence. The visitor rose and seized the master. The master ordered his servants to beat him and drive him out, and the visitor fled. He left behind his mule. They examined it: black fur, cropped ears, a long tail—a great beast. They could not drag it; when they drove it, it stumbled at a touch and turned out to be nothing more than a tiny grasshopper chirping in the grass.

The master, angered by the visitor's words, knew there would be revenge and made preparations. The next day, a great host of fox-soldiers arrived: some on horseback, some on foot, some with spears, some with crossbows. Horses neighed and men clamoured—a tremendous din. The master dared not go out. The foxes announced they would build houses, and the master grew even more frightened. A strong man led the household servants out with a shout, hurling stones and loosing arrows. The two sides clashed, and both suffered injuries. The foxes gradually broke and withdrew in disorder. They left blades on the ground, gleaming like frost and snow; but when the men came close to pick them up, they turned out to be sorghum leaves. The crowd laughed and said, "Their tricks go no further than this!" Still, fearing they might return, they increased their vigilance. The next day, the men were gathered in conversation when suddenly a giant descended from the sky: over ten feet tall, his body several feet across, swinging a great sword the size of a door, chasing and slaying the men. They rained arrows and stones upon him, and he toppled and died—only a straw effigy. The crowd grew even more contemptuous. The foxes did not return for three days, and the men relaxed their guard somewhat. The master had just gone to the privy when he saw fox-soldiers arrive with bows and arrows, shooting wildly at him. Arrows clustered in his buttocks. Terrified, he shouted for the others, and they rushed to fight, whereupon the foxes withdrew. He pulled out the arrows and examined them—all stalks of artemisia. This went on for over a month, the foxes coming and going at irregular intervals. Though they did no great harm, the household was on alert every day, and the master suffered grievously.

One day, Mr. Hu led a group to the house. The master went out to meet them. Hu saw him and hid among the crowd. The master called to him, and Hu had no choice but to come forward. The master said, "I have shown no discourtesy to you, sir. Why raise arms?" The foxes wanted to shoot, but Hu stopped them. The master stepped forward, took his hand, and invited him into his old study, where he set out wine and entertained him. He said with composure, "You are a man of understanding and will surely appreciate my feelings. Given our friendship, would I not be glad to join our families by marriage? But your carriages and horses, your dwellings—these are not the same as those of men. If my frail daughter were to follow you, even you, sir, would know it could not work. And as the proverb says: 'A fruit plucked before its time does not suit the palate.' What would you gain from it?" Hu was deeply ashamed. The master said, "No harm is done; our old friendship remains. If you do not disdain me for my worldly dust, I have a youngest son, fifteen years of age, who would be honoured to receive a bride. Do you have someone of similar age?" Hu said gladly, "I have a younger sister, one year younger than your son, and she is by no means ill-favoured. If she might serve as your daughter-in-law, what would you say?" The master rose and bowed; Hu bowed in return. Thereupon they drank together with great joy, all past rancour forgotten. The master ordered wine brought to reward all the followers, and high and low alike were gratified. He then asked in detail about Hu's home, intending to send the betrothal gifts. Hu declined. As evening fell and candles were lit, they drank until drunk and departed. From then on, there was peace.

A year passed, and Hu did not come. Some doubted that his promise was genuine, but the master waited faithfully. Another half year went by, and Hu suddenly arrived. After exchanging greetings, he said, "My sister has grown up. Please choose an auspicious day, and I will send her to serve your parents." The master was overjoyed, and together they set a date, after Hu departed. That night, carriages and horses indeed arrived to escort the bride. Her dowry was sumptuous, filling nearly the entire room. When the new daughter-in-law met her parents-in-law, she was exceptionally gentle and beautiful. The master was delighted. Mr. Hu and a younger brother came to escort the sister, both refined in speech and fond of drinking. They departed at dawn. The new bride could foresee whether each year would be plentiful or lean, and all plans for the household's livelihood were made accordingly. Mr. Hu, his brother, and the old Mrs. Hu came often to visit their daughter, and everyone in the household saw them.

**Tricks of the Trade**

# Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume 3

## The Trick with the Bucket

There was a performer with a bucket that could hold a sheng measure. It had no bottom, hollow within, like the common street tricks. The performer laid two mats on the street, then took a sheng measure and thrust it into the bucket. When he pulled it out, it was filled to the brim with white rice, which he poured onto the mat. He drew it out again and poured again, and in a short while both mats were covered. Then he measured it all back in, and when he was done and lifted the bucket, it was still empty. The wonder lay in the abundance.

Li Jiantian of Lijin was wandering leisurely among the pottery kilns of Yan Town when he wished to buy a large jar. He quarreled with the potter over the price and left in anger. That night, more than sixty jars remained uncollected from the kiln. When the kiln was opened, they were all gone. The potter was greatly alarmed and suspected Li. He went to Li's door to demand them back. Li professed ignorance. The potter pleaded earnestly, and Li finally said, "I helped you unload the kiln—not a single jar was damaged. Are they not at the foot of the Kuixing Tower?" They went to look as he had said, and indeed every jar was there. The tower stood on the southern hill of the town, more than three li from the kiln. It took hired laborers three days to carry them all back.

## The Beggar Monk

A monk in Jinan, whose origins no one knew. He went barefoot, wearing a robe of a hundred patches, and every day visited the Furong and Minghu temples, reciting sutras and soliciting alms. Offered wine, food, or money and grain, he refused everything. Asked what he needed, he would not answer. From morning to evening, no one ever saw him eat. Someone admonished him, "Since Master does not consume meat or wine, you should beg in remote mountain villages. Why do you come and go every day in these bustling, greasy places?" The monk closed his eyes and continued chanting. His eyelashes were as long as fingers. He seemed not to hear. A moment later, the man spoke again. The monk suddenly opened his eyes and said fiercely, "This is how I must convert!" and resumed chanting. After a long while, he left on his own. Someone followed him, pressing him insistently for the reason he must do this, but he walked on without answering. Asked several times more, he again cried out in a fierce voice, "This is not for you to understand! This old monk must convert in this way!"

Several months passed. He suddenly left by the southern gate and lay by the roadside as if dead, motionless for three days. The residents feared he would starve and become a burden to the neighborhood, so they gathered and urged him to move elsewhere. They wished to feed him and give him money. The monk remained motionless with his eyes closed. The crowd shook him and spoke to him. The monk grew angry, drew a short knife from within his robe, and cut open his own belly. He reached inside with his hand and arranged his intents upon the road, and his breath ceased with it. The crowd was terrified and reported it to the prefecture. He was given a humble burial. Days later, a dogs dug at his grave, and the mat covering him was revealed. Stepped upon, it seemed hollow. When they opened it, the mat was sealed as before, as empty as a cocoon.

## Subduing the Fox

A certain Grand Historian was bewitched by a fox and fell gravely ill. When talismans and exorcisms had all failed, he requested leave and returned home, hoping he could escape it. But as the Grand Historian traveled, the fox followed him. Terrified, he knew not what to do. One day he stopped at Zhuō. Outside the gate was a traveling physician of the ear and eye, who claimed he could subdue foxes. The Grand Historian invited him in. The medicine he administered was the arts of the bedchamber. He urged the Grand Historian to take it all, then had him couple with the fox. His advance was sharp and unstoppable. The fox retreated in alarm and pleaded piteously to stop, but he would not listen, pressing forward with ever greater vigor. The fox struggled desperately to escape but could not get away. After a while, there was silence. When he looked, the fox had revealed its true form and lay dead.

In former times in my hometown, there was a young man who had long borne the reputation of a Lao Ai, and he himself declared that in all his life he had never had a truly satisfying encounter. One night he lodged in an isolated inn, with no neighbors on any side. Suddenly a woman came running in; before the door was open she was already inside. He knew in his heart she was a fox, but he was nonetheless delighted and eager to dally with her. He had barely unbuttoned her clothes when he drove straight in like piercing leather. The fox, in shock and pain, cried out with a shrill shriek, like a hawk escaping its tether, and burst through the window. The man leaned toward the window making intimate noises, calling to her pitifully, hoping she would return, but all was already silent. Truly this was a fierce general for hunting foxes! He ought to hang a sign on his gate reading "Fox Exterminator"—it could be his trade.

## The Hibernating Dragon

Lord Yintai of Qū in Yulíng was reading in his study upstairs. It was a dark, overcast, rainy day when he saw a small creature, glowing like a firefly, wriggling along. Where it passed, it left a trail black as a cricket's mark. It gradually coiled upward, and the scroll it coiled upon was scorched. Thinking it was a dragon, he took the scroll in his hands and carried it out. Reaching the gate, he stood holding it for a long time, but the creature did not stir at all. Lord Yintai said, "Perhaps it thinks me disrespectful?" He took the scroll back, placed it on the table, put on his cap and sash, and bowed deeply as he sent it off. Just as it reached beneath the eaves, he saw it suddenly raise its head and stretch out, leave the scroll and fly horizontally across. There was a hissing sound and a streak of light like a thread. A few paces away, it turned back toward the Lord—its head was larger than a jar, its body dozens of arm-spans thick. It curved once more, and with a thunderclap that shook the heavens, it soared into the sky and was gone. Looking back at the path it had traveled, he saw it had come winding out from his book chest.

## Su the Immortal

When Gao Mingtu served as prefect of Chēnzhou, there was a commoner's daughter named Su who washed clothes in the river. In the river was a large rock, upon which she sat. A strand of moss, green and glossy and lovely, floated on the water and drifted in circles around the rock three times. The girl gazed at it and her heart was stirred. After she returned home, she became pregnant, and her belly grew large. Her mother questioned her privately, and the girl told her what had happened. Her mother could not understand it. After several months, she gave birth to a son. The family wished to abandon him in a narrow alley, but the girl could not bear it. She hid him in a chest and raised him. She then resolved never to marry, to show that she had no other man. Yet to become pregnant without a husband remained a source of shame. When the boy was seven years old, he had never been brought out to see anyone. The boy suddenly said to his mother, "I am growing up—how long can I be kept hidden? Let me go, so I will not be a burden to you." She asked where he would go. He said, "I am not of human seed. I shall soar to the sky and stride through the valleys." She wept and asked when he would return. He answered, "I shall come when you are on your deathbed. After I leave, if you have need of anything, open the chest where you kept me and search within—it will surely answer your wish." Having spoken, he bowed to his mother and departed. She went out to look for him, but he had already vanished. The girl told her mother, who marveled greatly.

**The Jade Box**

The woman remained steadfast in her old resolve, depending on her mother, yet their household grew still more impoverished. One morning when they happened to lack even a simple meal, she looked about the house in despair, with no idea what to do. Suddenly she remembered her son's words and went to open the casket—sure enough, she found rice, and thereby managed to light the fire and cook. From then on, whatever she asked for was granted.

After three years, her mother fell ill and died; all the funeral furnishings were obtained from the casket. Once the burial was completed, the woman lived alone for thirty years and never once stepped outside her door. At one point, a neighbor's wife came to borrow fire and saw her sitting bolt upright in her empty chamber; they spoke for some time before the visitor left.

Not long afterward, suddenly colorful clouds were seen encircling the woman's dwelling, rising tall like a canopy. Within the clouds stood a person in splendid attire—on closer inspection, it was the woman of Su. She hovered and circled for a long time, then gradually rose higher and disappeared. The neighbors all were puzzled. They peeped into her room and saw her sitting in elegant adornment, perfectly still—her breath had already stopped. Since she had no one to return to, they discussed arranging her funeral.

Suddenly a young man entered, handsome and imposing, and expressed his thanks to the assembled neighbors. The neighbors had long secretly known that the woman had a son, so they did not suspect him. The young man provided gold for his mother's burial, planted two peach trees at her tomb, and then took his leave. A few paces away, clouds sprang up beneath his feet, and he could be seen no more. In time, the peaches bore fruit, sweet and fragrant; the locals called them "Su Immortal Peaches." The trees flourished year after year, never decaying or withering. Officials who governed the area always took the fruit to present to friends and relatives.

---

**Li Boyan**

Li Boyan was a native of Yishui. He was upright and straightforward, a man of courage and loyalty. He suddenly fell gravely ill. His family offered him medicine, but he refused it, saying: "My illness cannot be cured by drugs and potions. A vacancy has arisen in the court of the Underworld, and they wish me to temporarily assume the post. When I die, do not bury me—wait for him." That very day, he died.

Grooms and attendants led him away, and he entered a palace. They presented him with a crown and robes. Clerks and functionaries awaited him with great respect. On his desk, documents lay piled high.

One case concerned a certain man from Jiangnan, who was found to have seduced eighty-two virtuous women in his lifetime. Li examined him, and the supporting evidence was irrefutable. By the laws of the Underworld, he was to be punished by branding on the heated pillar.

In the hall stood a bronze pillar, eight or nine chi high and about the span of a man's arms in circumference. It was hollow inside, filled with burning charcoal, so that it glowed red through and through. The demons drove the man up with iron-tipped whips. He moved his hands and twisted his feet to climb. The moment he reached the top, smoke and fumes billowed upward with a sudden crackling explosion like a firecracker, and he fell. After curling on the ground for some time, he regained consciousness. He was whipped again and fell just as before. After the third fall, he dissolved into smoke swirling across the ground and could no longer assume human form.

Another case involved a certain Wang of the same county, who was accused by a maid's father of seizing his living daughter by force. Wang was in fact the father-in-law of Li's own family. Earlier, someone had sold a maid; Wang knew she had not come by honest means, but he was tempted by her low price and bought her. Now Wang had died suddenly. The next day, his friend Zhou happened to meet him on the road and, recognizing him as a ghost, fled in terror to his own quarters. Wang followed him inside. Zhou, frightened, prayed and asked what Wang wanted. Wang said: "I would trouble you to serve as a witness in the court of the Underworld." Zhou asked in alarm: "In what matter?" Wang replied: "I actually paid a fair price for my maid, but I have been falsely accused. You personally witnessed this matter. I need only your word—nothing more." Zhou firmly refused. Wang came forth and said: "I fear you may not have the choice." Before long, Zhou indeed died, and they went together before the King of Hell to be examined. When Li saw Wang, he secretly harbored a bias in Wang's favor. Suddenly he saw fire erupt in the hall, its flames consuming the beams and rafters. Li was greatly alarmed and stood on one side. An official hurried forward and said: "The realm of the dead is not like the world of men—not the slightest private thought can be tolerated. Banish that thought at once, and the fire will extinguish itself." Li collected his mind and stilled his thoughts, and the fire instantly went out.

Afterward, the trial proceeded. Wang and the maid's father wrangled back and forth. Zhou was questioned and answered truthfully. Wang was sentenced to be beaten for his deliberate offense. Once the beating was completed, all were sent back to the world of the living. Both Zhou and Wang revived after three days.

When Li's duties were concluded, he returned by carriage and horse. Along the way, he saw several hundred beings with severed heads and broken feet, lying prostrate on the ground and crying out in misery. He stopped his carriage and questioned them closely. They were ghosts from foreign lands who wished to return to their native soil but feared the mountain passes and checkpoints would block their way—they begged for a travel permit. Li said: "I held the post for only three days and have already relinquished it. How can I help you?" They said: "Hu Sheng of South Village is about to perform a great sacrifice. If you entrust him with a request, it may be granted." Li agreed. When he reached home, all the grooms and attendants departed, and Li came back to life.

Hu Sheng, styled Shuixin, was a good friend of Li's. Hearing that Li had revived, he came at once to visit. Li immediately asked: "When is the purification ritual to be held?" Hu was astonished and said: "Since the ravages of war, my wife and children have barely survived. I made this vow with my wife in the privacy of our chamber—I have not spoken of it to a single soul. How did you know?" Li told him everything. Hu sighed and said: "A word spoken in the inner chambers has echoed through the realm of the dead—how frightening!" He then respectfully promised and departed.

The next day, just as Wang had said, Wang still lay exhausted. When he saw Li, he rose with solemn respect and expressed his gratitude for Li's protection. Li said: "The law cannot show leniency. Are you fortunate to be unharmed?" Wang replied: "There are no other ailments, but the beating wounds have festered and suppurated." It was more than twenty days before he was fully healed. The flesh of his buttocks had rotted and fallen away, leaving scars like those from a cudgel.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "The punishments of the Underworld are more cruel than those of the world of men, and the demands are harsher than those of the world of men. Yet because private influence cannot operate there, those who suffer the cruelest torments bear no grudge. Who can say that the realm of darkness knows no sun and sky? I only regret that there is no fire to burn the halls of those who sit in judgment over the people!"

---

**Huang Jiulang**

He Shican, styled Zixiao, maintained a studio east of the Tiao Stream, its gate facing an broad wilderness. One evening at dusk, he happened to go out and saw a woman approaching on a donkey, with a young man following behind her. The woman was about fifty, with a refined and elegant air. He turned to look at the young man—fifteen or sixteen years old, with a countenance surpassing even that of a beautiful woman. He Shican had long been inclined toward the love of handsome youths. Seeing the boy, his very soul left his body. He stood on tiptoe, watching until the figure vanished, and only then did he return home.

The next day, he waited for him early. As the sun sank into the gathering dusk, the young man finally passed by. He Shican greeted him with elaborate courtesy and asked with a smile where he had come from. The boy replied, "My maternal grandfather's home." He invited him to rest a while in his studio; the boy declined, saying he had no time. He Shican pressed him insistently, and at last the boy entered. He sat briefly, then rose to leave, resolutely refusing to stay. He Shican took his hand to see him off, earnestly entreating him to pass by again whenever he was in the neighborhood. The boy assented and departed.

From that day, He Shican was consumed with longing, pacing back and forth, gazing and watching, his feet never resting.

One day, when the sun hung like a half-circle, the young man suddenly arrived. Delighted, the scholar invited him inside and ordered the houseboy to serve wine. He asked his name and courtesy name. The youth replied, "My surname is Huang, and I am the ninth. A young boy like me has no courtesy name." The scholar asked, "Why do you visit so often?" He answered, "My mother is at my maternal grandfather's house and is often ill, so I visit frequently." After several rounds of wine, the youth wished to take his leave. The scholar seized his arm to detain him, locking the gate. Huang the Ninth had no choice; his face flushed, he sat back down. They lit a lamp and conversed together. He was gentle as a maiden, but when the talk turned to playful games, he grew shy and turned his face toward the wall. Before long, the scholar led him to share his bed. Huang the Ninth refused, firmly pleading that he slept poorly. After being urged repeatedly, he at last removed his outer garments and lay on the bed in his trousers. The scholar snuffed the candle. After a short while, he moved to share the pillow, bending his elbow and pressing his thigh against him in an intimate embrace, eagerly seeking to caress him. Huang the Ninth was angered and said, "I took you for a refined gentleman, and so I have kept your company. But to do this—to treat me as a beast while professing human affection!" Before long, the morning stars glittered brightly, and Huang the Ninth left directly. The scholar feared he would cut off contact entirely, so he watched for him again, pacing anxiously, his gaze fixed northward as though trying to pierce through the Dipper. Several days later, Huang the Ninth finally appeared. Overjoyed, the scholar greeted him and apologized for his transgression, then forcefully pulled him into the study, pressed him to sit, and spoke with laughter, secretly hoping he would not hold a grudge over the past. Before long, the scholar removed his shoes, climbed onto the bed, and again caressed and entreated him. Huang the Ninth said, "The feelings of attachment you bear are already engraved upon my heart and lungs. But must intimacy take this form?" The scholar used sweet words to press his case, begging only once to touch his jade-like skin. Huang the Ninth consented. The scholar waited until he fell asleep, then secretly took liberties. Huang the Ninth woke, gathered his clothes, rose swiftly, and fled into the night. The scholar was desolate, as though he had lost something precious. He forgot to eat and abandoned his pillow, growing weaker day by day. He had only the houseboy keep watch each day.

One day, as Huang the Ninth passed the gate, he was about to walk straight on. The houseboy seized his garment and pulled him inside. Seeing the scholar emaciated, he was greatly alarmed and offered comfort. The scholar told him the truth of his feelings, tears streaming down his face as he spoke. Huang the Ninth said softly, "My humble concern is truly this: that loving me brings no benefit to you, young sir, but harm to you, and so I have refused. Since you find such joy in it, why should I hold back?" The scholar was overjoyed. After Huang the Ninth left, his illness immediately abated, and within several days he had fully recovered. Huang the Ninth indeed came, and they lay entwined together. He said, "Now I have勉承 your wishes. Pray do not make this a constant practice." Then he added, "There is something I wish to ask. Will you help?" The scholar asked what it was. He replied, "My mother suffers from heart pain. Only the Grand Physician Qi Yewang's Prenatal Elixir can cure it. You are on good terms with him—you should be able to obtain it." The scholar promised. As he left, Huang the Ninth urged him again. The scholar went into the city to seek the medicine and gave it to him that evening. Huang the Ninth was pleased and raised his hands in thanks. The scholar again pressed him to lie together. Huang the Ninth said, "Do not entangle me thus. Let me carefully seek out a beautiful woman for you—one who surpasses me ten thousandfold." The scholar asked who she was. Huang the Ninth said, "I have a younger cousin, beautiful beyond compare. If you would consider her, I will act as the go-between." The scholar smiled and said nothing. Huang the Ninth took the medicine and departed. He returned three days later, again seeking medicine. The scholar resented his tardiness and spoke with reproach. Huang the Ninth said, "It was because I could not bear to bring calamity upon you that I kept my distance. Since you will not show understanding, do not regret what follows." From then on, there was not a single evening without their meetings.

Every three days he would beg for the medicine. Qi found this frequency strange and said, "This medicine has never been taken more than three times. Why is she still not cured?" So he wrapped three doses and gave them all at once. He also looked at the scholar and said, "Your complexion is dim and haggard. Are you ill?" "No," said the scholar. Qi felt his pulse and was alarmed. "You have a ghostly pulse. The illness lies in the lesser yin. If you do not take care, you are in grave danger!" The scholar returned and told Huang the Ninth. Huang the Ninth sighed and said, "A fine physician! I am truly a fox. I fear that prolonged association will bring you no good fortune." The scholar suspected he was lying and hid the medicine, not giving it all to him, fearing he would not come again. Before long, he indeed fell ill. He summoned Qi for a diagnosis. Qi said, "You did not speak truthfully before. Now your soul has already wandered among the tombs. What can even Qin Huan do?" Huang the Ninth came daily to visit and tend him, saying, "You did not heed my words, and now it has come to this!" The scholar soon died. Huang the Ninth wept bitterly and departed.

Earlier, in the county there was a certain Grand Secretary who had studied with the scholar in their youth. At seventeen he was elevated to the Hanlin Academy. At that time, a Qin prince was greedy and violent, yet he bribed his way into the good graces of court officials, and none dared speak out. The Grand Secretary submitted a memorial impeaching his wickedness and was dismissed for overstepping his authority. The prince was promoted to Provincial Governor of that very province and watched daily for an excuse to strike at the Grand Secretary. The Grand Secretary had enjoyed a fine reputation since youth and had once attracted the favorable notice of a rebel prince. The Qin prince purchased the old correspondence between them and used it to threaten him. The Grand Secretary, in fear, hanged himself. His wife also hanged herself by the sash. The next day, the Grand Secretary suddenly revived and said, "I am He Zixiao." When questioned, everything he said concerned the He family's affairs, and it became clear that he had borrowed the body to return his soul. They could not keep him. He fled to his old residence. The Grand Secretary's family suspected deception and were determined to ruin him, sending men to demand a thousand taels of silver from him. He gave a false promise, yet his grief and despair were overwhelming. Suddenly, Huang the Ninth arrived. They were delighted to talk together, their joy and sorrow intertwined. The Grand Secretary then wished to lie with him again. Huang the Ninth said, "Do you have three lives?" The Grand Secretary said, "I regret the toil of living; death would be more restful." Huang the Ninth pondered with quiet sorrow. After a moment he said, "Fortunately, we have been reunited in life. You are alone without a match. The cousin I mentioned before—clever, beautiful, and full of resourcefulness—will surely be able to share your sorrows." The Grand Secretary wished to see her face. Huang the Ninth said, "It is not difficult. Tomorrow she will be passing this way to accompany my old mother. Pretend to be my elder brother's younger brother, and I will feign thirst and ask for a drink. If you say 'The little donkey is lost,' she will agree." The plan was made, and they parted.

**Tomorrow at noon, Jiulang did indeed pass by the gate with the young woman.** The gentleman greeted him with clasped hands and engaged him in lengthy conversation. Glancing briefly at the young woman, he noted her elegant brows and graceful bearing—truly an immortal being. Jiulang asked for tea, and the gentleman invited them in to drink. Jiulang said, "Third Sister, do not be alarmed. This gentleman is my sworn friend; there is no harm in resting here a while." He helped her down, tethered his donkey at the gate, and entered. The gentleman himself rose to brew tea in their honor. He then looked at Jiulang and said, "What you said before did not tell the whole story. Now I have found the place where I would gladly die." The young woman seemed to realize that these words were meant for her; she rose from the couch and stood, murmuring, "Let us go!" The gentleman looked outside and said, "The donkey has bolted!" Jiulang rushed out in haste. The gentleman embraced the young woman and sought to lie with her. Her face turned purple with distress; she was mortified as though imprisoned, and she cried out for Brother Nine, but there was no answer. She said, "You already have a wife—why would you so destroy a person's honor and shame?" The gentleman declared that he had no household. The young woman said, "If you can swear by the rivers and mountains that you will never cast me aside like an autumn fan, then I will obey your every word." The gentleman then swore by the bright sun. She no longer refused. When it was over, Jiulang returned. The young woman, flushed with anger, reproached him. Jiulang said, "This is no ordinary man—a renowned scholar of old, now a Grand Historian. He and I are the closest of friends, and he is someone you can trust. Even if we inform his aunt, she will not hold it against us." As the day grew late, the gentleman pressed her to stay and would not hear of her leaving. The young woman feared her aunt would be alarmed and astonished. Jiulang took it upon himself and rode away directly on his donkey.

**Several days later, a woman carrying a maid passed by, about forty years old in appearance, with a bearing and demeanor very much resembling Third Sister.** The gentleman called the young woman out to look, and indeed it was her mother. Catching sight of her daughter, she asked in surprise and puzzlement, "How did you come to be here?" The young woman was too ashamed to answer. The gentleman invited the mother in, bowed, and told her everything. The mother laughed and said, "Jiulang is so impetuous—why did he not think this through?" The young woman went into the kitchen herself, prepared a meal for her mother, and after the meal was finished, the mother departed.

**The gentleman had obtained a beautiful match and was greatly pleased in his heart; yet dark thoughts haunted him, and he wore a look of constant sorrow.** The young woman asked him about it, and he recounted the whole story from beginning to end. The young woman smiled and said, "This matter can be resolved by Brother Nine alone. Why do you worry?" The gentleman pressed her for the reason. She said, "I have heard that the Governor is infatuated with music and song and keeps young boys as favorites—these are precisely Brother Nine's talents. Present him with what he desires, and resentment can be dispelled, and revenge can be taken." The gentleman worried that Jiulang would not agree. The young woman said, "Simply beg him with earnest entreaty." The next day, when the gentleman saw Jiulang coming, he advanced on his knees to meet him. Jiulang was startled and said, "Our friendship spans two generations—I would devote myself to you entirely, and would not grudge even the top of my head or the heel of my foot. Why do you suddenly adopt this posture before me?" The gentleman laid out the whole plan. Jiulang showed reluctance. The young woman said, "I gave my body to this gentleman—who was truly responsible for it? If by chance he should perish along the way, what would become of me?" Jiulang had no choice but to consent. The gentleman secretly made arrangements with him and sent a letter to his good friend, the Grand Historian Wang, presenting Jiulang to him. Wang understood his intention and laid on a grand banquet, inviting the Governor to drink. He had Jiulang dress as a woman and perform the Dance of the Heavenly Demons, looking every inch a beautiful woman. The Governor was captivated and urgently begged Wang to let him have Jiulang, offering a great sum of gold and fearing only that the price might not be enough. Wang pretended to deliberate in order to make difficulties. After a long delay, he finally presented the gentleman's proposal. The Governor was overjoyed, and all previous grievances were immediately forgotten. From the moment he obtained Jiulang, the two were inseparable in all their movements; his ten or more concubines he regarded as so much dust and dirt. Jiulang was provided with food and furnishings fit for a king and was given gold beyond counting. Half a year later, the Governor fell ill. Jiulang knew that he was nearing the road to the underworld, so he loaded gold and silk and returned on leave to the gentleman's house. Soon after, the Governor died. Jiulang used his wealth to build houses, acquire furnishings, keep maids and servants, and establish his mother, the gentleman, and his aunt all in one household. When Jiulang went out, his carriages and horses were splendid, and no one knew he was a fox. I have written a "Judgment in Jest" on this matter, which I record here:

**The union of man and woman in one chamber is the great bond of husband and wife; the exchange of moisture and dryness is the proper passage of yin and yang. To welcome the breeze and await the moon already invites censure for transgressing propriety; to share the sleeve or divide the peach cannot escape the shame of a covered nose. A man must be a Hercules before the bird-path dares to be opened; if the cave is not the Peach Blossom Spring, how could the fisherman's pole be permitted to stray in? Now this certain person has followed the lower course and forgotten to return, abandoning the proper road and refusing to take it. Before clouds and rain have even begun, he already moves his hands up and down; with yin and yang reversed, he actually joins in deceit both inside and out. The Florid Pool is placed in a land of no use—falsely claiming it is an old monk entering meditation; the barbarian cave is a barren region, yet it makes a one-eyed commander brandish his spear. To tether a Red Hare at the stable gate, as if about to shoot a halberd; to probe for a great bow in the national armory, intending to storm the pass. Perhaps it is the Yellow Eel within the Yellow Supervisor's quarters—seeking to renew old ties from the night before; clearly the red plum of the Wang family—demanding a reward for a future life. If the troops of Black Pine Forest suddenly arrive, all is well and peaceful enough; but should the tide of Yellow Dragon Prefecture come rushing in, how then shall one resist? One should sever the root of his drilling and piercing, and at the same time block the road of his coming and going.

**The Woman of Jinling**

A certain man of Yishui, a commoner named Zhao, was returning from the city on business when he saw a woman dressed in white weeping by the roadside, her grief most pitiful. He looked at her and found her beautiful. Delighted, he stared and would not leave. The woman, tears falling, said, "You, sir—why do you not go on your way but stare at me?" Zhao said, "I see no one on this open moor, and yet you weep with such anguish—it truly pierces my heart." She said, "My husband is dead and I have no way forward; that is why I grieve." Zhao urged her to choose another good match. She said: "This small body of mine—how could I choose? If I could find someone to entrust myself to, I would even serve as a concubine." Zhao joyfully offered himself, and the woman accepted. Zhao, considering the distance from home, wished to find her a mount. The woman said, "There is no need." She went on ahead, floating along like an immortal in flight. When they reached his home, she worked at the well and mortar with great diligence. After more than two years had passed, she said to Zhao, "I am grateful for your devoted affection in following me, and for your humble company—suddenly three years have gone by. Now it is time for me to leave." Zhao said, "You said before that you had no family—where will you go?" She said: "I spoke carelessly then. How could I have no family? My father trades in medicine in Jinling. If you wish to see me again, you may carry medicines there—it will help with your traveling expenses." Zhao made arrangements and hired a carriage and horses. The woman declined them, walked out the gate, and went straight on her way; he tried to follow her but could not catch up, and in an instant she had vanished.

# From *Liaozhai Zhiyi* (Volume 03)

## Zhao the Brave

After living there for a long time, he grew somewhat nostalgic and longing, so he bought some medicine and went to Jinling. He stored his goods at an inn and wandered about the streets to make inquiries. Suddenly, an old man in a medicine shop caught sight of him and cried, "My son-in-law has come!" He pulled him inside. The woman was washing clothes in the courtyard. She said neither a word nor smiled upon seeing him, and kept on washing without pause. Zhao, nursing his grievance, hurried out. The old man pulled him back again. She paid him no more heed than before. The old man ordered a meal prepared and planned to give him a generous parting gift, but the woman stopped him, saying, "He is a man of thin fortune—too much would overwhelm him. It would be better to give him a little to ease his hardships, along with a dozen or so medical formulas, and he will have more than enough to live on." The old man asked about the medicine he had brought, and the woman said, "It has all been sold. The money is right here."

The old man then produced the formulas, gave him the money, and sent Zhao home. He tested the formulas and found them remarkably effective. In Yishui there were still people who knew of these formulas. Using a garlic mortar to catch rainwater dripping from a thatched eaves, then washing warts and growths with it—that was one of the formulas, and it worked very well.

## Lord Tang

Tang Gong, whose name was Pin, was a *jinshi* of the Xinchou year. He lay gravely ill, at death's door. Suddenly he felt a hot vapor rising from the lower part of his body: when it reached his thighs, his feet died; when it reached his abdomen, his thighs died next; when it reached his heart, the death of the heart was the hardest of all. Every trivial thing from childhood on, even matters long forgotten, came back with the blood's tide, washing over him one by one. For each good deed, his heart felt pure, calm, and at peace; for each evil deed, he felt anguish and torment, as though oil were boiling in a cauldron—the agony of it was beyond words. He recalled that at the age of seven or eight he had once taken a baby bird from its nest and killed it. This single act alone sent a surge of hot blood through his heart that took the space of a meal to pass. Only when everything he had done in his life had washed over him did he feel the hot vapor thread upward, passing through his throat into his brain, emerging from the top of his head, rising like steam from a cooking pot. After several tens of quarter-hours, his soul left its shell, and he forgot all about his body.

He drifted, without destination, wandering along country roads. A giant came along, nearly eight *xun* tall, picked him up, and stuffed him into his sleeve. Inside the sleeve, shoulders pressed upon shoulders and thighs upon thighs—there were so many people packed in. The stifling, oppressive air was almost unbearable. Lord Tang suddenly thought that the Buddha could deliver one from suffering, so he began to chant the Buddha's name. After only three or four utterances, he floated out and fell from the sleeve. The giant put him back in. Three times he was put in and three times he fell out, and then the giant gave up and left. Lord Tang stood alone, hesitating, not knowing where to go. He remembered that the Buddha dwelt in the Western Land, so he headed west. Before long, he saw a monk sitting in meditation by the road. He hurried forward, bowed, and asked the way. The monk said, "The record of life and death for scholars is kept by Wenchang and the Sage Confucius. You must have your name struck from the registers of both before you can go elsewhere." Lord Tang asked where they dwelt, and the monk showed him the way. He hurried on.

Presently he arrived at the Confucian temple and saw the Exalted Sage sitting facing south. He bowed and prayed as before. The Exalted Sage said, "The removal of your name from the register still requires the Lord Sovereign." He then pointed out the way, and Lord Tang hastened on again. He saw a palace such as a king would inhabit. He stooped and entered, and indeed there was a divine being, just like the images of the Lord Sovereign handed down through the ages. He prostrated himself and made his plea. The Lord Sovereign examined the register and said: "Your heart is sincere and upright, and you ought to return to life. But your mortal shell has already rotted—only the Bodhisattva has the power to help." He gave directions telling him to go at once. Lord Tang followed his instructions. Soon he saw lush forests and tall bamboo, and splendid, beautiful halls. He entered and saw a figure with a spiral topknot, dignified and solemn, with a golden face full as the moon; a vase held willow branches, their emerald green trailing like smoke. Lord Tang bowed reverently, kowtowed, and recounted what the Lord Sovereign had said. The Bodhisattva expressed difficulty. Lord Tang pleaded and prayed without cease. A venerable monk beside him spoke up: "Let the Bodhisattva exercise his great power of transformation—he can take earth to make flesh and break willow branches to make bones." The Bodhisattva did as requested: he broke off a willow branch with his hand, poured water from the vase, mixed it with pure earth to make mud, and pressed it onto Lord Tang's body. He had a boy escort him to the place where his soul belonged, and there they pushed him back into his body. The coffin stirred with a groan, and suddenly he was well. His family gathered in amazement, helped him out, and discovered that his breath had been stopped for seven days.

## Yanzhao

Li Zhongzhi, a scholar of Laiwu, was upright and honest, never bending to flattery. Every few days he would die, lying rigid as a corpse, and would not revive for three or four days. When asked what he had seen, he kept it secret and would not reveal it. At that time there was a certain Zhang Sheng in the county who also died every few days. He told people, "Li Zhongzhi is Yama, King of Hell. When I went to the underworld, I was one of his subordinate officials." He could even recite the couplets on the gate and hall. Someone asked, "What did Li go to the underworld to do yesterday?" Zhang said, "I cannot tell you everything. But he was examining Cao Cao and gave him twenty strokes with the bamboo."

The Historian of the Strange says: "The case of Cao Man must have been considered by several dozen Yamas by now. The realms of beasts and the Mountain of Swords are all in place—what crime should he deserve, requiring no effort to determine? Yet for thousands of years the judgment has not been settled. Why? Could it be that for a prisoner awaiting execution, a quick death is too merciful, so they make him beg for death and be unable to obtain it? How strange!"

## Liansuo

Yang Yuwei moved to the banks of the Si River. His study faced the open wilderness, and beyond the wall there were many old graves. At night he heard the white poplars rustling, their sound like the surging of waves. Late at night, by candlelight, his heart grew desolate and sorrowful. Suddenly someone beyond the wall began to recite:

"In the dark night, the mournful wind blows backward,

Fireflies tease the grass and cling to the gauze curtains."

The voice repeated the lines over and over, plaintive and sorrowful. Listening closely, he thought it sounded like a woman's voice. He was puzzled. The next day he looked beyond the wall and found no trace of anyone. There was only a purple sash left among the brambles. He picked it up and placed it on his window. That night, around the second watch, the recitation came again as before. Yang moved a stool over and climbed up to look, and the recitation stopped at once. He understood it was a ghost, yet his heart was drawn to her with admiration.

The following night, he waited in ambush atop the wall. As the first watch was drawing to a close, a woman came forth gracefully from the grass, leaning upon a small tree, her head bowed in sorrowful song. Yang gave a slight cough, and the woman suddenly vanished back into the wild grass. From then on, Yang kept watch below the wall. When he heard her finish her verse, he continued it from the other side, saying: "Who sees this hidden passion, this bitter grief? Cold upon the emerald sleeves, the moon climbs high." For a long while, all was silent. Yang then went inside. He had scarcely sat down when suddenly a beautiful woman entered from outside. She gathered her robes and said, "You are truly a man of refinement, but I have been much afraid and have kept my distance." Yang was overjoyed and drew her to sit beside him. She was thin and frail, chilled as though she could scarcely bear the weight of her garments. He asked, "Where is your home? How long have you dwelt here?" She replied, "I am from Longxi. I came here with my father when he was exiled. I fell gravely ill and died at seventeen. It has been more than twenty years now. In the wilderness of the Nine Springs, I am as solitary as a lone duck. The verses I recited were my own composition, written to convey my hidden sorrow. I had long sought a fitting continuation, and you, sir, have supplied it—joy is born even in the grave!" Yang wished to lie with her. She frowned and said: "The rotting bones beneath the night platform are not as the living. If we were to share secret pleasures, it would shorten a man's span of years. I cannot bear to bring calamity upon you, sir." Yang desisted. He playfully reached out to touch her breast, and found the flesh firm as the head of a pullet—she was still a maiden. He then wished to see the twin hooks beneath her skirt. She lowered her head and laughed: "What a tiresome rascal you are!" As Yang fondled her, he saw that her moonlit brocade stockings were fastened by a single thread of colored silk. Looking at the other foot, he found it bound with a purple ribbon. He asked, "Why do you not wear matching fastenings?" She said, "Last night I fled in fear of you, and I know not where I dropped the other one." Yang said, "Let me replace it for you." He immediately took it from the window and gave it to her. She asked in surprise how he had come by it, and he told her the truth. She then removed the thread and fastened the ribbon. She turned over the books on the desk and suddenly saw the "Ballad of Lianchang Palace." With emotion she said, "This was my favorite reading when I was alive. Now to look upon it is like waking from a dream!" They discussed poetry and literature, and she was clever and charming beyond words. Trimming the candle by the western window, he felt as though he had found a true friend. From then on, each night he would hear a faint song, and shortly thereafter she would arrive. She always cautioned him: "Keep this secret and tell no one. I am timid by nature and fear that some ill-mannered intruder might come." Yang promised. The two were as joyful as fish in water. Though they did not go so far as to couple, what passed between them in the bedchamber was indeed far more intimate than the painting of brows. Each night by lamplight she wrote characters for Yang, her calligraphy elegant and graceful. She also selected a hundred palace poems of her own choosing and copied them for him to recite. She had Yang prepare a chess board and purchase a pipa. Every night she taught him weiqi, or else she would pluck the strings, playing the tune "Rain upon the Plantain Window," which pierced the heart with sorrow; Yang could not bear to listen to the end, so she would then play the melody "Orioles in the Morning Garden," and at once his heart felt open and at ease. They played their games by lamplight and were so merry that they forgot the dawn. When the window showed the first light of day, she would flee in alarm.

One day, a certain Xue came to visit and found Yang sleeping during the daytime. He looked about the room and saw the pipa and the chess board—things Yang had never been skilled at. He turned over some books and found the palace poems, and seeing that the handwriting was neat and fine, he grew even more suspicious. When Yang awoke, Xue asked, "Where did these playthings come from?" Yang replied, "I wish to learn them." Xue then asked about the poetry scroll, and Yang said he had borrowed it from a friend. Xue examined it again and again, and on the last leaf he found a line of small characters: "Written by Liansuo on such-and-such a date, month, and year." He laughed and said: "This is a young woman's given name. How can you deceive me so?" Yang was mortally embarrassed and could not utter a word. Xue pressed him all the harder, but Yang would not tell. Xue rolled up the scroll and tucked it under his arm. Yang grew still more flustered and at last told him everything. Xue begged to see her. Yang repeated her warning. Xue was consumed with longing, and Yang, having no choice, promised. When night fell, the woman came, and Yang conveyed Xue's wish. The woman was furious. "What have you been saying? You have already chattered about me to someone!" Yang confessed the truth. She said, "Our bond is ended!" Yang pleaded with a hundred words of comfort, but she remained displeased. She rose to leave, saying, "I shall avoid this place for now." The next day, Xue came, and Yang explained on her behalf that it was impossible. Xue suspected he was being put off. That evening he came with two friends from his school and lingered on purpose, deliberately making a disturbance. They made a racket all night long, earning the angry glares of Yang, who could do nothing about it. After several nights in which no one appeared, the visitors gradually began to think of leaving, and their clamor subsided. Suddenly they heard the sound of singing, and all listened together—it was mournful and piercing enough to break the heart. Xue was straining his ears in rapt attention when among them a military student named Wang seized a great stone and hurled it, shouting: "Putting on airs and refusing to see guests—how could you produce fine verses? All this whimpering and grieving—it makes a man sick with frustration!" The singing stopped at once. The others were furious at Wang. Yang's anger showed plainly on his face. The next day, they at last departed together.

Yang slept alone in his empty studio, hoping the woman would come again, but there was not the slightest trace of her. After two days had passed, she suddenly arrived, weeping. "You brought those dreadful guests—they nearly frightened me to death!" Yang apologized profusely. She abruptly went out, saying, "I said our fate was ended—from this day we part." He tried to hold her back, but she was already gone. A month passed, and she did not return again. Yang thought of her until he was wasted to bone and spirit, yet there was no way to call her back.

One evening, Yang was drinking alone when suddenly the woman lifted the curtain and entered. Overjoyed, he said, "Have you forgiven me?" The woman's tears fell upon her bosom, and she remained silent. He pressed her urgently, and she seemed to wish to speak but restrained herself, saying, "I left in anger, and now in my haste I must seek help from another—how can I not feel ashamed?" After Yang questioned her repeatedly, she finally said: "I know not whence came a wretched petty clerk, who tried to force me to become his concubine. But remembering that I come from a pure and honorable line, how could I debase myself to become the ghost of a menial servant? Yet I am but a frail and helpless creature—how could I resist? If you would count me among your wives, you would not let me fend for myself." Yang flew into a rage and wanted to kill the man, but he feared that the paths of the living and the dead were different, and he would be powerless. The woman said, "Come to sleep early tomorrow night, and I will invite you into my dream." Thereupon they talked together again and sat until dawn. As she was about to leave, he warned him not to sleep during the day, but to wait for their nighttime tryst. Yang promised. That afternoon he drank lightly, and in a tipsy state climbed onto his couch, covered himself with his cloak, and lay down. Suddenly he saw the woman come, hand him a dagger at her waist, and lead him by the hand. They arrived at a courtyard compound, and just as they had closed the door and were speaking, they heard someone pounding on the gate with a stone. The woman cried out in alarm, "Our enemy has arrived!" Yang opened the door and rushed out. He saw a man wearing a red cap and blue clothes, with coarse bristles encircling his mouth. Yang angrily berated him. The clerk glared back with hatred and spoke with savage insolence. Yang was furious and charged at him. The clerk seized stones and hurled them, swift as a sudden rain—one struck Yang's wrist, and he could not grip his blade. At this moment of peril, he saw someone in the distance, a bow at his waist, hunting in the wilds. He looked more closely—it was Wang. Yang shouted loudly for help. Wang drew his bow and hurried forward, shooting the clerk in the thigh; he shot again, and the clerk was dead. Yang was overjoyed and thanked him. Wang asked what had happened, and Yang told him everything. Wang was pleased that his former transgression could be atoned for, and together they entered the woman's chamber. She trembled and shrank back, standing far away and not uttering a word. On the table lay a small dagger, barely a foot long, mounted in gold and jade; when she took it from its case, its brightness reflected like a mirror. Wang sighed with admiration and could not put it down. After speaking briefly with Yang, seeing the woman's pitiful shame and fear, he departed and took his leave. Yang also made his home, but climbing the wall he fell, and thus awoke with a start—he heard the village cocks crowing in confusion. He felt great pain in his wrist; when he examined it in the morning, the flesh was red and swollen.

After some time, Wang came and spoke of the strange dream he had had that night. Yang said, "Did you not dream of shooting?" Wang was astonished that he had known beforehand. Yang showed him his hand and told him why. Wang recalled the man's appearance in the dream and regretted that he had not truly seen him; he congratulated himself on having rendered the woman a service and asked Yang to speak on his behalf. That night, the woman came to express her gratitude. Yang credited Wang and conveyed his earnest feelings. The woman said, "The help of a strong friend—I dare not forget such a debt of gratitude. But he is so fierce and martial—I truly fear him." Then she added, "He loves my dagger. The dagger was in fact purchased by my father for a hundred pieces of gold while on a mission to Guangdong. I loved it and kept it, wrapping it in gold thread and setting it with bright pearls. My father pitied my early death and buried it with me. Now I am willing to part with it as a gift—to see the dagger is to see me." The next day, Yang conveyed this message. Wang was overjoyed. That night, the woman indeed came carrying the dagger. She said, "Tell him to treasure it—this is not a thing from the Central Lands." From then on, their visits resumed as before.

Several months passed. Suddenly, by lamplight, she turned toward Yang with a smile, as if she wished to say something, but blushed and stopped three times. He embraced her and asked why. She replied, "Through your long affection, I have received the living breath of a human. Eating daily of smoke and fire, my white bones have suddenly begun to stir with life. But I need the living blood and essence of a man—then I can be restored to life." Yang smiled and said, "You yourself were unwilling—was I deliberately stingy?" She said, "After our union, you will surely fall gravely ill for twenty or thirty days, but medicine can cure you." Thereupon they lay together. Afterward, she rose and dressed, and said, "I still need a drop of living blood—can you endure the pain for love's sake?" Yang took a sharp blade and pierced his arm until it bled; the woman lay upon the couch, and he let the blood drip into her navel. Then she rose and said, "I shall not come again. Remember the hundred-day mark: watch my grave, and when you see bluebirds singing in the tree above it, quickly dig me out." Yang carefully received her instructions. As he was leaving, she warned him once more: "Remember well—do not forget, neither too soon nor too late!" Then she departed. More than ten days later, Yang indeed fell ill, his belly swollen as if he were about to die. A physician gave him medicine, and foul matter like mud passed from him; he recovered in twelve days. When the hundred days were nearly up, he had his servants wait with mattocks. As the evening drew on, he indeed saw a pair of bluebirds singing. Yang said joyfully, "Now it can be done!" He cut through the brambles and opened the tomb. He saw that the coffin had already rotted, but the woman's appearance was as in life. He touched her—she was slightly warm. He covered her with his cloak and carried her home, placing her in a warm spot; her breath came faintly, thin as a thread. Gradually he fed her broth, and by midnight she revived. She often said to Yang, "More than twenty years—it was like a single dream."

Shan the Taoist Priest

### Master Han

Master Han was a member of an old established family in the county. There was a certain Daoist named Shan, who was skilled at performing magic tricks. The master loved his art and kept him as a guest of honor. When Shan was walking or sitting with others, he would suddenly vanish. The master wished to learn his method, but Shan refused. The master pressed him earnestly. Shan said, "I am not begrudging my art, but I fear it would ruin my Dao. It could be passed on to a gentleman—but otherwise, someone might use it to commit theft. I am sure you, Master, would not stoop to that, yet if you happened upon a beautiful woman and were pleased, and used the invisible art to enter her boudoir, that would be abetting evil and promoting licentiousness. I dare not obey." The master could not force him, but harbored anger in his heart and secretly plotted with his servants to have him beaten and humiliated. Fearing he might flee and hide, he had fine dust scattered over a wheat-threshing floor, reasoning that though the heretic art could make one invisible, the feet must leave traces, and he could be struck swiftly wherever the prints appeared. He then lured Shan there and had men stand by with ox-whips to beat him. Shan suddenly vanished, and sure enough, footprints appeared on the dust. The attendants struck wildly in all directions, and in an instant Shan was nowhere to be found. When the master returned home, Shan was already there. He said to the servants, "I can no longer stay here! I have been put to trouble serving you; now we part, and I shall repay you." From his sleeve he produced a vessel of fine wine, then drew out a basket of delicacies, and laid them both on the table. Having set them down, he reached in again; after some ten such reaches, the table was full. He then invited everyone to drink; all became drunk. One by one he returned each item to his sleeve. When Master Han heard of this marvel, he asked Shan to perform another trick. Shan painted a city wall on the wall, and pushed it with his hand—the city gate swung open. He then took his bags and cases of clothing and threw them all inside the gate, bowed and said, "I am off!" He leapt into the city, the gate closed at once, and the Daoist vanished without a trace. Later it was heard that he was in the Qingzhou marketplace, teaching children to draw ink circles on their palms; they would playfully toss them at passersby, and wherever the circle landed—on face or on garment—it would lift off and leave its mark. It was also said he was skilled in the arts of the bedchamber, capable of making the lower body suck up an entire vessel of burning wine. The master once tested this on him.

### Bai Yuyu

Wu Qing'an, styled Yun, was renowned from a young age. Grand Historian Ge, upon reading his writings, always praised him highly. Through a mutual friend, he invited Qing'an to his home and observed his discourse and bearing. He said, "How could a man of Wu's talent remain poor and lowly all his life?" He therefore had his neighbor convey the message: "If Qing'an aspires to soar above the clouds, I will give him my daughter in hand, to tend his towel and comb." At that time the Grand Historian had an incomparably beautiful daughter. Qing'an was overjoyed and fully believed it. But when he failed the provincial examination that autumn, he sent word to the Grand Historian: "Wealth and honor are inherent in one's fate; all that is uncertain is whether they come early or late. Give me three years; if I fail, then let her marry." From then on he applied himself with even greater rigor.

One night, in the bright moonlight, a scholar came to call—fair-skinned, with a short beard, a slender waist, and long fingernails. Asked whence he came, he said, "My surname is Bai, my style is Yuyu." After a brief conversation, Qing'an felt his mind opened wide. He was delighted and asked him to stay the night. At dawn, when Yuyu wished to leave, Qing'an urged him to pass by often on his way. Moved by his earnestness, Yuyu offered to lodge there himself, and they parted after setting a date. On the appointed day, an elderly servant arrived first with cooking utensils. Shortly after, Yuyu came, riding a steed swift as a dragon. Qing'an lodged him in a separate room. Yuyu ordered his servant to lead the horse away. From then on they spent their days and evenings together, in perfect harmony. Qing'an looked at the books Yuyu read—none were what he had seen or heard of before, and they contained no examination essays. Surprised, he asked about it. Yuyu smiled and said, "Each scholar has his own ambition; I am not a man for fame and office." Each night he would invite Qing'an to drink and present him with a scroll, all on the art of breath cultivation—much of which Qing'an could not understand, so he set it aside as something remote and impractical. Another day Yuyu said to him, "What I taught before is the essential teaching of the *Huangting* scripture, the ladder to immortality." Qing'an laughed and says, "That is not what I am anxious about. Besides, one who seeks immortality must sever all emotional ties and let ten thousand thoughts fall still—I am afraid I cannot manage that." Yuyu asked, "Why not?" Qing'an said he was worried about the continuation of the family line. Yuyu said, "Why have you not married for so long?" Qing'an smiled and said, "'I have a weakness—I am fond of beauty.'" Yuyu also smiled and said, "'Let Your Majesty not be fond of petty beauty.' What sort of beauty do you favor?" Qing'an told him everything. Yuyu doubted she was truly so beautiful. Qing'an said, "This is known far and near—it is not that my eyes are poor judges." Yujyu smiled slightly and said no more. The next day, he suddenly packed and announced his departure. Qing'an spoke to him with sorrow, unable to stop. Yuyu then ordered his page to carry the luggage ahead. The two clung to each other. Just then a green cicada alighted on the table with a cry, and Yuyu took his leave, saying, "The carriage is ready; let us part from here. If you think of me, lie down on my couch." As Qing'an was about to ask more, in the blink of an eye Yuyu shrank to the size of a finger, gracefully mounted the cicada's back, and flew off with a chirping sound, vanishing into the clouds. Only then did Qing'an know he was no ordinary man. He was dumbfounded for a long time, lost in melancholy.

Several days passed, when a light rain suddenly gathered, and his longing for Bai became all the more acute. Looking at the couch where he lay, he saw it covered with the trivial traces of mice; he swept it clean with a sigh, spread a mat, and went to sleep. Before long, he saw Bai's young servant come to summon him, and he gladly followed. Suddenly a phoenix soared and alighted, and the boy caught it and said to the gentleman: "The dark path is hard to travel—you may ride this instead." The gentleman worried that the bird was too small to bear him. The boy said: "Try riding it." The gentleman did as asked, and found it spacious with plenty of room; the boy also mounted its tail. With a sharp cry, it rose into the sky. Soon they saw a vermilion gate. The boy dismounted first and helped the gentleman down as well. He asked: "What place is this?" The boy said: "This is the Gate of Heaven." Beside the gate crouched a huge tiger. The gentleman was terrified, but the boy stood before him as a shield. He saw that the scenery everywhere was utterly unlike the mortal world. The boy led him into the Palace of Boundless Cold, where the steps were of crystal, and those walking upon them seemed to be inside a mirror. Two cassia trees, their branches intertwining in the sky, required several men to encircle them; the fragrance of their flowers drifted on the wind without cease. The pavilions all had red windows, and from time to time beautiful women passed in and out, of such exquisite grace and refined bone that the mortal world held no equal. The boy said: "The ladies of the Queen Mother's palace are even more surpassing." But fearing his master would wait long, he had no leisure to linger, and led him out quickly.

After some time, he saw Bai waiting for him at the gate. They clasped hands and entered. Outside the eaves he saw clear water and white sand, flowing gently in a thin stream; jade steps and carved railings—it might well have been a cassia palace. He had scarcely sat down when two maids of eight, bewitchingly beautiful, came to present fragrant tea. Shortly after, wine was ordered. Four lovely women, smoothing their garments and making obsequious gestures, attended to the service on either side. The moment he felt a slight itch on his back, one of the beauties would slip her slender fingers with long nails beneath his clothes and scratch for him. He felt his heart and spirit swaying, utterly unable to compose himself. Soon he grew slightly drunk and gradually lost control; smiling, he turned to the beauties and flirted with them in conversation. The ladies would only smile and avoid him. Bai had them sing to accompany the wine. One dressed in crimson silk raised her cup toward the guest and then sang a clear, melodious song right there before the feast. Among the other ladies, those with bamboo pipes and one in purple robes, together with another in pale white soft silk, tittered in the shadows, each deferring to the other, neither willing to come forward. Bai ordered that one pour and one sing. The purple-robed one then came to hold the cup. The gentleman took the cup and playfully brushed her delicate wrist. The woman laughed and let slip her hand; the wine cup tilted and fell. Bai reproached her. She picked up the cup with a smile, lowered her head, and said softly: "Cold as a ghost's hand—how it grips and seizes one's arm!" Bai laughed loudly and punished her by ordering her to sing and dance. When the dance was done, the one in pale white silk raised another goblet to him. The gentleman pleaded he could not drink. She held the cup with a look of shame, and he forced himself to drink it. Looking closely at the four ladies, each was of such graceful charm that none was not peerless. He abruptly said to his host: "Rare beauties of the mortal world—I sought even one and found it difficult; you have gathered all these flowers—can you truly make me lose my soul?" Bai smiled and said: "In your heart you already have your own lady; how can these be worthy of your great eyes?" The gentleman said: "Only now do I know how narrow my vision has been." Bai then summoned all the ladies and let him choose. The gentleman was so bewildered he could not decide. Bai, seeing that the purple-robed one had already shared his arm, sent her with bedding to attend the guest. Soon the love of pillow and mat was consummated in the most intimate fashion. The gentleman asked for a token, and the woman removed her golden bracelet and gave it to him. Suddenly the boy entered and said: "The paths of immortals and mortals are different—you must leave at once." The tiger roared and leapt up; the gentleman fled in alarm. He looked down into a bottomless void, yet his feet were already falling. He started awake—the morning sun was already red. Just as he was about to rise, something smooth and soft clung to his mat; looking at it, it was the bracelet. His heart was all the more astonished. From that time his former passions cooled, and he constantly wished to seek out Chisongzi in his wanderings, yet still worried about leaving an heir.

More than ten months later, he was napping soundly in the daytime when he dreamed that the purple-robed lady came from outside, holding an infant in her swaddling clothes. She said: "This is your flesh and bone. It is hard to keep this creature in heaven—I respectfully bring it to you." She laid it on the bed, pulled his clothes over it, and hurried to leave. He detained her and made love. She then said: "Once was for the wedding cup; this once is for eternal parting. A hundred years of husband and wife—all is contained in these two meetings. If you have the will, perhaps there will be another day." He awoke and saw the infant lying on his mat, still in its swaddling clothes. He told his mother. She was overjoyed, hired a wet nurse to feed it, and named the child Mengxian. The gentleman then sent word to the Imperial Historian, saying he himself was about to withdraw from the world and asking him to choose another good match. The Historian refused. The gentleman firmly persisted in declining. The Historian told his daughter, and she said: "Far and near, all know that I was promised to Master Wu. To change it now would be to be widowed twice." She conveyed this meaning to the gentleman. He said: "I not only have no ambition for fame and office, but have also renounced the pleasures of the bedchamber. The only reason I do not enter the mountains at once is that my old mother is still alive." The Historian discussed it with his daughter again. She said: "Master Wu is poor—I am content with his coarse greens; Master Wu departs—I will serve his parents-in-law: I will not marry another." Messengers went back and forth three or four times, but no agreement was reached. At last a day was chosen, carriages and dowry were prepared, and she was married into the gentleman's household. The gentleman was moved by his wife's virtue, and his reverence and love reached the utmost. The wife served her mother-in-law with filial devotion, accommodating her wishes in every way, surpassing even a poor man's daughter. After two years, the mother died; the wife sold her dowry to provide for the funeral rites, leaving nothing undone. The gentleman said: "With a wife like you, what have I to worry about? But I recall that when one man attains the Way, the whole household rises to heaven together. I shall go far away, and entrust everything to you." The wife was perfectly calm and made no effort to detain him. The gentleman then departed.

[This passage could not be machine-translated — see the original Chinese]

One day, the female goblins all rose early, each stringing a necklace of bright pearls about her neck, and went out by turns, as if waiting for some distinguished guest. They told Xu to boil a large quantity of meat. Xu asked the female about it, and she replied, "It is the birthday of the Spirit of Longevity." She then went out and said to the other goblins, "My husband has no *gǔtūzi*." Whereupon each of them took off five pearls and gave them to her. She herself also took off ten, making in all fifty, which she strung on a cord of wild hemp and hung around Xu's neck. Xu looked at them and reckoned that each pearl was worth a hundred or so taels of gold. Soon they all went out. When Xu had finished boiling the meat, the female came to fetch him, saying, "To receive the Heavenly King." They went to a large cave, several acres in extent. Inside there was a stone, smooth and flat like a table, and all around were stone seats. The top seat was covered with a leopard skin, the rest with deer hides. Some twenty or thirty goblins were seated there, filling the place. In a little while, a great wind arose and raised the dust, and they all rushed out in confusion. Then they saw a huge creature coming, also in the shape of a goblin, who made straight for the cave, squatted down on the seat, and looked around with piercing eyes. The others followed him in and stood in rows to the east and west, all raising their heads and crossing their arms over their chests. The great goblin bowed his head and counted them, asking, "Are all of the Mount Wo Mei people here?" They all shouted in reply. Then he turned his eyes toward Xu and asked, "Where does this one come from?" The female answered that he was her husband. Several of them also praised his cooking. Immediately two or three goblins ran to fetch the boiled meat and placed it on the table. The great goblin scooped it all up and ate his fill, praising it highly and ordering that it be regularly supplied. Then he looked at Xu and said, "Why is his *gǔtūzi* so short?" They replied, "He has only just come and was not prepared." The creature then took a string of pearls from his own neck, removed ten, and gave them to Xu. They were all as large as a fingertip and round as pellets. The female quickly took them and strung them for Xu. Xu also crossed his arms and spoke in the goblin tongue to thank him. The creature then departed, treading the wind and flying swiftly away. The others then enjoyed what remained of the food and dispersed.

After living there for over four years, the female suddenly gave birth, bringing forth in one litter two males and one female, all in human form and bearing no resemblance to their mother. The goblin tribe were all delighted with the children and would fondle and play with them. One day, they all went out to seize food, leaving Xu sitting alone. Suddenly a female from another cave came and wished to have relations with Xu, but he refused. The female goblin in a rage struck Xu and knocked him to the ground. Xu's wife came in from outside, and in a violent rage grappled with her, biting off her ear. Before long, the other female's husband also returned and intervened to make her leave. From then on, the female always watched over Xu, never leaving his side whether he moved or rested. After another three years, the children could all walk. Xu taught them human speech, and gradually they began to talk. Among their chirping, there was now a human air. Though still children, they could run over the mountains as if walking on level ground, and there was a tender affection between father and son. One day, the female went out with one son and one daughter and did not return for half a day. Meanwhile, a strong north wind arose. Xu was moved with sorrow as he thought of his homeland and took his son to the seashore, where he found his old boat still there, and planned to return together. The son wished to tell his mother, but Xu stopped him. Father and son boarded the boat and in one day and night reached Jiaozhi. When they arrived home, Xu's wife had already remarried. He took out two pearls and sold them for a fortune in gold, and his family became quite prosperous. He named the son Biao. At fourteen or fifteen, Biao could lift a hundred *jun* and was rough and fond of fighting. The commander of Jiaozhi, seeing something remarkable in him, made him a *qiānzǒng*. When border troubles arose, he distinguished himself wherever he went, and at eighteen he was made a deputy general.

At this time, a merchant was crossing the sea when he too was blown by a wind to Mount Wo Mei. He had just come ashore when he saw a young man, and stared at him in surprise. Knowing he was Chinese, he asked where he lived. The merchant told him. The young man pulled him into a secluded valley to a small stone cave, overgrown with brambles outside, and told him not to come out. After a while, he returned with venison to feed the merchant. He said, "My father is also a man of Jiaozhi." The merchant questioned him and learned that it was Xu. The merchant had known him in his travels. He said, "He is an old friend of mine. His son is now a deputy general." The young man did not understand what that meant. The merchant said, "That is the name of an official rank in China." He asked again, "How does one become an official?" The merchant replied, "When he goes out, he has carriages and horses; when he enters, he sits in a high hall; one shout from above and a hundred responses from below; those who see him look askance and stand on tiptoe—this is what it means to be an official." The young man was greatly stirred. The merchant said, "Since your honored father is in Jiaozhi, why do you linger here so long?" The young man told him the truth of the matter. The merchant urged him to return south, and the young man said, "I have often had the same thought. But my mother is not Chinese, and her speech and appearance are very different. If her kind found out, they would surely destroy her. That is why I have hesitated." Then he came out and said, "Wait for the north wind to rise, and I will come to send you off. Please send a message to my father and brothers." The merchant hid in the cave for nearly half a year. From time to time he peered out through the brambles and saw goblins coming and going on the mountain. He was terrified and dared not move. One day, when the north wind was blowing sharply, the young man suddenly arrived and led him away in haste. He said, "Do not forget what I have told you." The merchant promised. The young man also placed meat on the table, and the merchant then made his way home.

He delivered the letter to the Vice-General's residence and described all that he had seen. Upon hearing this, Biao was grief-stricken and wished to go in search of them. His father, fearing that the sea was a lair of demons and too perilous to venture into, tried with all his might to dissuade him. Biao beat his breast and wept bitterly, and his father could not stop him. He then informed the Governor of Jiao and, taking two soldiers with him, proceeded to the sea. Headwinds blocked their boat, and they tossed and pitched upon the waves for half a month. Gazing in all directions, there was no shore to be seen; they were lost and bewildered, unable to distinguish north from south. Suddenly, surging waves reached the sky, and the boat capsized. Biao fell into the sea, drifting with the waves. After a long while, he was seized by some creature and dragged away. He arrived at a place where there were actually houses. Biao looked and saw a creature in the shape of a yaksha. Biao then spoke in the yaksha tongue. The yaksha, startled, questioned him, and Biao told him where he wished to go. The Yaksha said with delight: "Wo Mei—that is my native place! Your intrusion is pardonable! You have strayed eight thousand *li* from the proper route. This way leads to the Kingdom of the Poison Dragon; it is not the road to Wo Mei." The yaksha then found a boat to send Biao on his way. The yaksha pushed the boat through the water like an arrow, covering a thousand *li* in an instant. After one night, they had already reached the northern shore. Biao saw a young man standing by the water, gazing out. Knowing that no humans lived in those mountains, Biao suspected it was his brother. As he drew near, it was indeed his brother. They grasped hands and wept. Biao then asked after his mother and sister, and was told both were hale and well. Biao wished to go with him, but his brother stopped him and hurried away. When Biao turned to thank the yaksha, it had already gone. Before long, his mother and sister both arrived. Seeing Biao, they all wept. Biao told them his intentions. His mother said, "I fear that if we go, we may be bullied by others." Biao replied, "Your son enjoys great honor and wealth in China—no one would dare to mistreat you." The decision to return was made, but they lamented the difficulty of crossing against the headwinds. As mother and son hesitated, they suddenly saw a cloth sail moving southward, rustling in the wind. Biao rejoiced: "Heaven aids us!" They boarded the boat one after another, and the waves shot forward like arrows. In three days they reached the shore. Those who saw them all fled. Biao removed his robes and trousers and divided them among the three. When they arrived home, the mother yaksha saw the old man and railed at him in anger, resenting that he had not consulted her. Biao hastened to apologize without delay. The household servants bowed to their new mistress, trembling without exception. Biao urged his mother to learn the Chinese language, to wear brocade robes, and to eat fine meats and grains, whereupon she was greatly delighted.

Both mother and sister dressed in men's clothing, in the Manchu fashion. After a few months, they could make out the language somewhat, and the brother and sister gradually grew fairer in complexion. The brother was called Bao, the sister Ye'er, and both were fierce and strong. Biao was ashamed that he was unlettered and taught his brother to read. Bao was the most intelligent—he grasped the classics and histories at a single reading. But Biao did not wish him to pursue a scholarly career; instead, he had him draw powerful crossbows and ride spirited horses. Bao passed the militaryjinshi examination and married the daughter of Colonel A. Ye'er, being of a different race, found no one willing to marry her. It happened that a certain Commander Yuan, under the banner, had lost his wife, and he forced Ye'er to marry him. Ye'er could draw a bow of one hundred *dan* and shoot small birds at over a hundred paces without ever missing. Whenever Yuan went on campaign, he always took his wife with him. He rose through the ranks to commandant and general, and half his extraordinary achievements came from within the women's quarters. At the age of thirty-four, Bao was invested with the seal of office. His mother once accompanied him on a southern campaign. Whenever he faced a great enemy, she would don armor and take up weapons to support her son, and none who saw her failed to draw back in awe. An imperial edict enfeoffed her as a baron. Bao submitted a petition on his mother's behalf declining the title, and she was instead enfeoffed as a Lady.

The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: "A yaksha lady—this too is rarely heard of, yet upon reflection, it is not rare at all: every household has a yaksha at its bedside."

**The Small Topknot**

A certain resident of Changshan, living in leisure, was frequently visited by a short stranger with whom he conversed at length. Having no knowledge of the man's background, he harbored suspicions. The stranger said, "In three or four days I shall move and become your neighbor." Four or five days later, he said, "I am now in your same village; I may call upon you at any time." Asked where he had moved, the stranger gave no clear answer, but merely pointed northward with his hand. From then on, he came once daily. He sometimes borrowed utensils from others; if anyone was stingy and refused, the item would vanish of its own accord. All suspected him of being a fox spirit. To the north of the village there was an ancient tomb, sunk to an unfathomable depth, and they supposed he must dwell there. Together they took up weapons and went. They crouched and listened for a long while, but heard nothing unusual. As the first watch drew to a close, they heard a rustling from within the tomb, as though several tens or hundreds of people were whispering to one another. The crowd remained still and motionless. Then, in an innumerable stream, tiny figures emerged one after another from the tomb, too many to count. The crowd raised a cry and struck at them all at once. Every blow burst into flame, and in an instant the figures scattered in all directions. Only a small topknot was left behind, shaped like a walnut shell, draped in gauze and threaded with gold. When they sniffed it, its rank stench was beyond description.

**The Western Monks**

Two monks came from the Western Regions—one bound for Mount Wutai, the other to reside on Mount Tai. In their dress, speech, and appearance, they were all markedly different from the Chinese. They said: "We crossed the Flaming Mountain. Its peaks were layered upon layered, and its vapors rose seething like a furnace. One must always cross after rain, concentrating the mind and fixing the eyes, stepping lightly and treading with care; but if one should accidentally kick a stone, flying flames leap up and sear. We also crossed the Flowing Sand River. In the river there is a Crystal Mountain, its sheer cliffs piercing the sky, transparent on all four sides, as though there were no barrier at all. There is also a narrow pass wide enough for a single cart, guarded by two dragons facing each other, their horns interlocked. Those who pass must first pay homage to the dragons; if the dragons permit passage, their mouths and horns open of their own accord. The dragons are white, and their scales and whiskers are all like crystal." The monks said: "We spent eighteen winters and summers on the journey. Of the twelve who left the Western Lands, only two have survived to reach China. The Western Lands speak of four famous mountains in China: one is Mount Tai, one Mount Hua, one Mount Wutai, and one Mount Luojia. It is said that the ground everywhere is covered with gold, and that Guanyin and Manjushri still live. If one can reach those places, one's body becomes a Buddha, living forever without death." Listening to their accounts, it is no different from the way worldly people long for the Western Lands. If there were a traveler heading west who met one heading east halfway, and each recounted what they had seen, they would certainly look at each other and laugh, both spared the trouble of the journey.

**Liancheng**

Qiao Sheng was a man of Ningjin. In his youth he was renowned for talent, yet by the age of twenty-odd he still languished without success. He was a man of loyalty and courage. He and Gu Sheng were close friends; when Gu died, Qiao looked after his wife and children from time to time. The county magistrate valued him highly for his literary merit; when the magistrate died in office, his family was stranded and unable to return home. Qiao sold property to finance the return of the coffin, traveling over two thousand li back and forth. For this, the scholar-official community respected him all the more, yet his household grew ever poorer.

Magistrate Shi had a daughter named Liancheng, skilled in embroidery and well-read in books. Her father doted on her and kept her close. She produced an embroidery entitled "Weary Embroidery" and solicited verses from young men, her father's intention being to choose a son-in-law. Qiao presented a poem that read:

"Her languid coils and towering coils of green,

She embroidered lotus leaves by the orchid window long ago.

When she reached the mandarin ducks, her soul nearly broke—

She secretly paused her needle and thread, knitting her moth-like brows."

He also praised the craftsmanship of her needlework:

"The embroidery thread, drawn forth, seems like sketching from life;

The flowers and birds in the frame are wrought as if by Heaven's design.

Weaving brocade in years past was no great feat—

Lucky to have stirred the age with palindrome verse in this sacred time."

The girl was delighted with the verses and praised them to her father. Her father, however, was poor. Liancheng spoke of Qiao to everyone she met; she also sent an old woman, pretending to act on her father's orders, to give him money to help with his lamp oil and firewood. Qiao sighed and said, "Liancheng is my true understanding friend!" He poured out his heart and brooded on her, as hungry as if he wished to devour her.

Before long, Liancheng was betrothed to Wang Huahua, the son of a salt merchant. Qiao at last despaired; yet even in his dreams and wandering thoughts he still cherished her. Not long after, the girl fell ill with consumption and lay bedridden, beyond recovery. There was a monk from the Western Regions who claimed he could cure her, but he required one qian of flesh from a man's chest, to be pounded and mixed with medicine. Shi sent someone to inform the betrothed household. The betrothed laughed and said, "That foolish old man wants me to carve the flesh from my own heart!" and sent the messenger back. Shi then announced to others, "Whoever is willing to cut flesh from his own body shall have my daughter as his wife." Qiao heard of this and went at once. He drew a blade himself, cut the flesh from his chest, and handed it to the monk. Blood soaked through his trousers; only after the monk applied medicine did the bleeding stop. Three pills were compounded. After taking them over three days, her illness vanished as if it had never been.

Shi prepared to honor his promise but first informed Wang. Wang was furious and wished to bring a lawsuit. Shi then held a banquet and invited Qiao, placing a thousand taels of gold on the table before him, saying, "I am deeply indebted to your great virtue and wish to repay you with this." He then explained in full the reason for breaking the betrothal. Qiao said angrily, "The reason I did not begrudge the flesh from my chest was merely to repay my understanding friend—how could I trade flesh for goods!" He turned on his heel and left.

When the girl heard of this, she was truly moved with pity. She sent an old woman to comfort him and to say, "With his talent, he cannot remain downcast for long. Are there not fine women everywhere in the world? I have had an ill omen in a dream—I shall surely die within three years. There is no need to fight with another for a thing already destined for the grave." Qiao told the old woman, "'A gentleman dies for the one who truly understands him'—it is not for beauty's sake. I truly fear Liancheng may not truly understand me. What harm is there in not marrying?" The old woman, speaking on the maiden's behalf, swore her sincerity and laid bare her heart. Qiao said, "If that is so, then when we meet, give me one smile, and I shall die without regret."

The old woman left. Several days later, Qiao happened to go out and encountered Liancheng returning from her uncle's house. He glanced at her. Her eyes swept toward him, and she parted her lips in a radiant smile. Qiao was overjoyed and said, "Liancheng truly understands me!" Just then Wang's family came to discuss the wedding date, but the girl's former illness returned, and within a few months she died. Qiao went to mourn her and, overcome by grief, died on the spot. Shi had his body carried back to his home.

Qiao knew he was dead but felt no sorrow. He left the village, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Liancheng. In the distance he saw a road running north and south, with travelers streaming along like ants, and he mingled his body among them. Before long, he entered a government office, where he happened upon Gu Sheng, who exclaimed in surprise, "How did you get here?" Gu took his hand and was about to send him back. Qiao heaved a long sigh and said, "My heart's business is not yet finished." Gu said, "I serve here as a clerk and have gained some trust. If I can be of help, I will spare no effort." Qiao asked about Liancheng. Gu led him through many turns until he saw Liancheng sitting with a young woman in white, their tear-stained brows dark and sorrowful, seated by the corridor wall. When she saw Qiao arrive, she started up as if with joy and briefly asked where he had come from. Qiao said, "You are dead—how dare I live?" Liancheng wept and said, "Such an unrighteous man—you still do not cast me off. Why did you sacrifice your life for me? But since I cannot promise you this life, I vow it for the next." Qiao told Gu, "If you have business of your own, attend to it. I would rather die than live. But please find out where Liancheng will be reborn, and I will go with her." Gu agreed and left.

The young woman in white asked who Qiao was. Liancheng told her in full. When the young woman heard, she seemed overcome with grief. Liancheng told Qiao, "This is my cousin, young name Binniang, daughter of Prefect Shi of Changsha. We traveled here together and grew fond of each other." Qiao looked at her—her manner and bearing were deeply pitiable. He was about to inquire further when Gu returned and congratulated Qiao, saying, "I have settled the matter for you with certainty. I will instruct the young lady to return to life with you—shall I?" Both were delighted. Just as they were about to bow and take leave, Binniang burst into loud weeping. "If my sister goes, where shall I go? I beg you to take pity and save me—I will serve your sister, holding her towel and basin." Liancheng was stricken with sorrow and at a loss for what to do. She turned to Qiao for help. Qiao in turn pleaded with Gu. Gu found it difficult and firmly refused, saying it could not be done. Qiao insisted. Gu then said, "Let me try something rash." He left for the time it takes to eat a meal and returned, shaking his head. "What of it? Truly, it is utterly beyond my power!" When Binniang heard this, she writhed in tender weeping, clinging only to Liancheng's elbow, fearing she would leave at any moment. There was no remedy for their anguish; they faced each other in silence. Yet seeing their grieving faces and sorrowful countenances, one's very heart and entrails ached with tenderness. Gu said angrily, "Take Binniang with you. If there is any blame or fault, I, this humble scholar, will bear it myself!" Binniang was then overjoyed and followed Qiao out.

Qiao worried that the road was long and she would have no companion. Binniang said, "I am going with you and do not wish to return." Qiao said, "You are very foolish indeed. If you do not return, how can you live? When the day comes that I reach Hunan, do not run and hide from me—that would be more than enough good fortune." It so happened that two old women were traveling to Changsha carrying official documents. Qiao entrusted Binniang to them, and Binniang tearfully parted from him.

Along the way, Liancheng walked slowly and haltingly, resting after every few paces; after more than ten such pauses, they finally reached the gate of the Li household. Liancheng said, "After this rebirth, I fear there may be reversals. Please retrieve my bones and bring them here—if I am reborn into your household, I shall have no regrets." The scholar agreed. Together they returned to the scholar's home.

The girl moved timidly, as though unable to walk, and the scholar stood waiting for her. She said, "Since arriving here, my limbs tremble as though they have no master. I fear my wish may not be fulfilled—we should still plan carefully. Otherwise, once I am alive again, how can I be free?" They went together into a side chamber. After sitting in silence for a while, Liancheng smiled and said, "Do you detest me?" The scholar, startled, asked why. Blushing, she said, "I fear the matter may not succeed, and I would be burdening you further. Let me first repay you as a ghost." The scholar was overjoyed, and they gave themselves to the deepest passion and love. Because of this, he lingered and dared not rush her to life; she remained in the side chamber for three days.

Liancheng said, "There is an old saying: 'An ugly daughter-in-law must eventually meet her in-laws.' To remain in this state of anxiety is no long-term solution." So she urged the scholar to enter the main house. He had barely reached the coffin when she suddenly revived. The household was astonished and brought her broth and water. The scholar then sent for Master Shi and asked for Liancheng's body, saying he could bring her back to life. Shi was delighted and complied. As they were carrying her into the chamber, they saw that she had already awakened.

She told her father, "I have already given myself to Scholar Qiao—there can be no question of returning. If there is any change, I will simply die again!" Shi returned home and sent a maid to serve her. Wang heard of the matter and filed a complaint with the authorities. The official accepted a bribe and ruled that she should return to Wang. The scholar was consumed with rage and despair, but there was nothing he could do.

When Liancheng arrived at the Wang household, she was so angry she would not eat or drink, begging only for a swift death. When no one was in the room, she would hang herself from the beam with a sash. After a day, she grew weaker, nearly at the point of death. Wang, terrified, sent her back to Shi. Shi carried her back to the scholar's household. When Wang learned of this, he could do nothing about it and let the matter rest.

After Liancheng recovered, she often thought of Bin-niang and wished to send someone to inquire after her, but the journey was long and difficult. One day, a servant came in and said, "There are carriages and horses at the gate." The couple went out to look, and there was Bin-niang, already in the courtyard. They met with mingled grief and joy. The Prefect himself had come to deliver the girl, and the scholar invited him inside. The Prefect said, "My daughter owes her life to you and has vowed to belong to no other man. Today I honor her wish." The scholar bowed and thanked him with proper ceremony. The Filial and Incorrupt gentleman also arrived and they discussed their family connection.

The scholar's given name was Nian, his courtesy name Danian.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "A single smile of understanding, and she pledged her body to him—the world may call her foolish. Were the five hundred followers of Tian Heng all fools? It is the rarity of true understanding that makes worthy and noble souls feel such a bond that they cannot control themselves. Yet when one looks upon the vastness of the world, it causes only that talented men of refinement should give their hearts to a single smile from a woman's brows. Alas!"

Huo Sheng

In Wendeng there was a Huo Sheng, who from youth was on familiar terms with a Yan Sheng, and as they grew older they exchanged banter. They vied in quickness of speech, each fearing to be outdone. Huo had a neighbor's old woman who had once assisted Yan's wife in childbirth. She happened to speak with Huo's wife and mentioned that Yan's wife had a growth on her private parts. The wife told Huo. Huo plotted with his cronies: knowing Yan was about to arrive, he deliberately whispered, "So-and-so's wife is the most intimate with me." The others did not believe him. Huo then fabricated a detailed account, adding, "If you don't believe me, she has a pair of growths on her vulva." Yan, stopping outside the window, heard everything clearly and left without entering. When he reached home, he beat his wife savagely. She would not confess, and the beating grew even more brutal. Unable to endure the torment, she hanged herself. Huo was filled with great remorse, but he did not dare go to Yan to confess his slander.

After Yan's wife died, her ghost wailed at night, and the whole household had no peace. Before long, Yan himself died suddenly, and the ghost stopped wailing. Huo's wife dreamed of a woman with disheveled hair who cried out loudly, "I died in terrible suffering—how can you two be happy?" She woke up ill and died within days. Huo also dreamed of a woman pointing at him and cursing him, slapping him across the mouth. He woke in fright and felt a dull pain on his lips. When he touched them, he found they were swollen; within three days, a pair of growths had formed. They became a chronic affliction. He dared not speak or laugh too broadly; if he opened his mouth too suddenly, the pain was unbearable.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "That the dead can become vengeful is the energy of injustice. That a private ailment should afflict his lips and mouth—the spirit works in ways close to jest."

In a certain county, a man surnamed Wang was intimate with a fellow student. The fellow student's wife was visiting her parents' home. Wang knew that her donkey was prone to startle; he hid in the undergrowth and waited. When the woman approached, he leaped out suddenly. The donkey was frightened and the woman fell. She had only one young servant with her, who could not help her remount. Wang then eagerly helped her up and held the reins, and the woman did not know who he was. Wang boasted about this, telling the servant to chase the donkey away, and claimed he had had his way with the woman in the undergrowth, describing her clothing and footwear in great detail. The fellow student heard this and left in great shame. Shortly afterward, Wang saw through a window crack that the fellow student was coming, one hand gripping a blade and the other seizing his wife, his expression full of rage and hatred. Wang was terrified and fled over the wall. The fellow student pursued him for two or three li but could not catch him and turned back. Wang ran with all his might, his lungs straining, and as a result he developed a wheezing ailment that did not heal for several years.

Wang Shixiu

Wang Shixiu was a native of Luzhou. He was strong and courageous, capable of lifting a huge stone mortar. Both father and son were skilled at cuju. His father, in his forties, drowned while crossing the Qiantang River. After some eight or nine years, Wang happened to travel to Hunan and moored his boat on Dongting Lake for the night. The moon was rising in the east, and the clear river gleamed like white silk. As he gazed out, suddenly five men emerged from the lake carrying a large mat, which they spread flat upon the water's surface—it covered roughly half a mu. They set out food and wine upon it; the vessels clinked and scraped against one another, but the sound was mellow and warm, unlike that of earthenware. Then three of them stepped onto the mat and sat, while two served the wine. Of those seated, one wore yellow and two wore white; all had dark turbans that rose high and extended down to their shoulders and backs—of an extremely strange and ancient style. But the moonlight was dim, so they could not be clearly made out. Both attendants wore brown garments; one appeared to be a youth, the other an old man. They heard the man in yellow say, "The moonlight tonight is excellent—quite enough for some cheerful drinking." One of the men in white said, "The scenery tonight is very much like the time the King of Guangli feasted on Pear Blossom Island." The three urged one another to drink, raising their cups and draining them in quick succession. But their voices were somewhat low, and beyond this nothing could be heard. The boatmen hid themselves and dared not stir or breathe.

Wang examined the attendants closely. The old man bore a striking resemblance to his father, yet when he listened to his voice, it was not his father's. The second watch was drawing to a close when someone said, "With such a bright moon, we should have a game of ball-kicking to amuse ourselves." At once a boy was seen drawing water from the river and bringing out a round ball, large enough to fill one's arms, filled inside like mercury, luminous both within and without. Those seated all rose. A man in yellow robes called out to the old man to kick the ball together. It was kicked over ten feet high, its light flickering and dazzling the eyes. Suddenly it soared up and flew far away, then dropped into the boat. Wang, itching to play, kicked it with all his strength. It felt extraordinarily light and soft. He kicked too hard and it seemed to burst; it leaped several zhang high. Light leaked from within, shooting down like a rainbow, and then with a whoosh it fell swiftly, like a comet streaking across the sky, plunging straight into the water, bubbling and hissing until it vanished. Those at the table all angrily said, "What sort of creature are you, to ruin our refined pleasure?" The old man laughed and said, "Not bad, not bad—that's our family's Meteor Whirl!" The man in white resented his playful words and said angrily, "We are all vexed and annoyed—how dare the old slave make sport of this? Go with Little Wupi and seize this madman; otherwise, your shins and thighs will feel the hammer!" Wang reckoned he had nowhere to escape, yet he was not afraid either, and stood in the boat grasping his sword.

Suddenly he saw the boy and old man coming with weapons. Wang looked intently—it was truly his father. He cried out, "Father! Your son is here!" The old man was greatly startled, and they looked at each other in sorrow. The boy immediately turned and went back. The old man said, "Hide quickly, child. Otherwise, we shall all die!" Before he finished speaking, the three had already boarded the boat. Their faces were pitch black, their eyes larger than pomegranates. They seized the old man and dragged him out. Wang struggled fiercely with them to pull him back, shaking the boat and snapping its mooring rope. Wang slashed with his sword and severed one of their arms, whereupon the man in yellow fled. A man in white rushed at Wang; Wang chopped at his head, which fell into the water with a splash. Then all plunged into the water together. They were planning to cross the river that night when suddenly a huge beak emerged from the water's surface, deep as a well. Lake water rushed in from all sides, roaring and crashing. In a moment, a great surge erupted, waves reaching to the stars, and ten thousand boats rocked. The people on the lake were terrified. On the boat were two stone drums, each weighing a hundred jin. Wang lifted one and hurled it in, stirring the water with a thunderous roar, and the waves gradually subsided. He threw the other one, and the wind and waves grew calm.

Wang suspected his father was a ghost. The old man said, "I have never died. Of nineteen people who drowned in the river, all were devoured by monsters. I survived by virtue of my ball-kicking skill. The creatures have offended the Lord of Qiantang, so they have moved to hide in Dongting. The three were fish spirits, and the ball they kicked was a fish's placenta." Father and son rejoiced together and set off rowing at midnight. When dawn broke, they saw a fish fin in the boat, about four or five feet across, and realized it was the arm severed during the night.

Shangguan the Third

In old Zhuge City there was a man named Shang Shiyu, a scholar. After drinking, he offended a local magnate with his jesting. The magnate incited his household slaves to beat him savagely. He was carried home and died. Shiyu had two sons: the elder was named Chen, the younger Li. He also had a daughter, called Shangguan the Third. She was sixteen years old, and the date for her marriage had been set, but because of her father's death it could not take place. Her two elder brothers went to file a lawsuit, but after a whole year it remained unresolved. The groom's family sent someone to consult the mother, requesting that they proceed with the marriage as a matter of expediency. The mother was about to agree, but the daughter stepped forward and said, "How can one hold a wedding ceremony while her father's corpse is still warm? Does he have no parents?" When the groom's family heard this, they were ashamed and desisted.

Before long, the two brothers' lawsuit remained unsuccessful, and they returned home in defeat. The whole family was filled with grief and indignation. The brothers planned to keep their father's corpse unburied as grounds for a second lawsuit. Shangguan said, "When a man is murdered and not buried, the state of affairs in the times can be imagined. Will Heaven specially create a pure Judge Bao for you alone? To leave his bones exposed—how can you bear it in your hearts?" The two brothers were convinced by her words and buried their father. After the burial, Shangguan left in the night, and no one knew where she went. The mother was ashamed and fearful, afraid the groom's family would learn of it. She dared not tell the clan or relatives, but only instructed her two sons to search for her secretly. After nearly half a year, she could not be found.

It happened that the magnate's birthday was approaching, and he engaged actors to perform. Among them was an actor named Sun Chun, who brought two disciples to serve. One was Wang Cheng, of ordinary appearance but with a clear and penetrating voice, praised by all. The other was Li Yu, as handsome and delicate as a pretty girl. When asked to sing, he declined on the grounds of unfamiliarity; pressed, he sang tunes half of which were vulgar dongs for children, and the entire company clapped their hands in amusement. Sun was greatly embarrassed and said to the host, "This boy has studied with me for only a short time; he knows only how to serve wine. Please do not punish him." He then ordered him to pour wine. Li Yu came and went attending to the guests, carefully observing the host's moods. The magnate was pleased with him. When the wine was finished and the guests dispersed, he kept Li Yu to sleep with him. Li Yu helped the magnate point to his bed and remove his shoes, attending to him with the utmost care and thoroughness. The magnate, drunk, made familiar advances, but Li Yu only smiled. The magnate became more and more infatuated. He sent all his servants away, keeping only Li Yu. Li Yu waited until the servants had left, then closed the door and bolted it. The servants went to another room to drink. After some time, they heard a creaking sound from the hall. A servant went to look and saw the room was pitch dark and silent. Just as he was about to turn back, there was a tremendous sound, as if a heavy object had been suspended and its rope snapped. He urgently called out, but no one answered. He called everyone to force the door open, and they found the master's body and head severed from each other. Li Yu had hanged himself, the rope having broken and fallen to the ground, with the remnant of the noose still hanging visibly from the beam. Everyone was greatly alarmed and spread the word to the inner quarters, but no one could make sense of it. They moved Li Yu's body to the courtyard and noticed his socks and shoes were empty as if they contained no feet. When they removed them, they found white shoes curved like hooks—it was a woman. They were even more alarmed and summoned Sun Chun to question him. Sun was utterly terrified and did not know how to respond. He only said, "Li Yu came to me as a disciple a month ago, wishing to wish the master a long life. I truly do not know where she came from." Because she wore the clothes of one who had committed a violent act, they suspected she was an assassin from the Shang family. They stationed two men to watch over her. The woman's face was as if alive; when they touched her, her limbs were warm and soft. The two men secretly plotted to violate her. One man was holding the body and turning it, just about to loosen her clothing, when suddenly his head was struck as if by something, blood gushed from his mouth, and in an instant he was dead. The other was greatly frightened and reported to the others. They regarded her with the awe due to a god or spirit. They also reported the matter to the prefecture. The prefectural official questioned Chen and Li, who both said, "We do not know. But our sister disappeared half a year ago." They were sent to examine the body, and it was indeed Shangguan. The official considered it remarkable. He ruled that the two brothers should take charge of the burial and ordered the magnate's family not to seek revenge.

The Historian of Stranges said: "If a household has a daughter like Yu Rang and does not know it, then what kind of men the brothers are can be known. Yet as for Shangguan's character, even the sighing winds of the Yi River would be ashamed and would not flow; how much more so those who drift through the world in mediocrity! I wish that all women under heaven would buy silk and embroider her image—their merit would be no less than serving the Martial Lord."

The Countryman Yu Jiang

A countryman named Yu Jiang's father had been sleeping in the fields when he was devoured by a wolf. Jiang was sixteen at the time. He found his father's abandoned shoe and, consumed with grief and hatred, wished to die. One night, after his mother had fallen asleep, he secretly took an iron hammer and went to lie down where his father had been killed, hoping to avenge him. Before long, a wolf came, circling and sniffing. Jiang did not move. Finding nothing amiss, the wolf wagged its tail and swept it across his forehead, then gradually lowered its head to lick his thigh. Jiang remained motionless throughout. Then the wolf leaped forward joyfully, about to bite into his neck. Jiang swiftly struck the wolf's skull with his hammer, killing it at once. He rose and placed it among the grass. Shortly after, another wolf came, behaving just as the first had, and he killed it too. By midnight, no others had come. He dozed off briefly and dreamed that his father said, "You have killed two creatures—enough to vent my hatred. But the one that first killed me had a white nose; these were not it." Jiang awoke and lay in wait resolutely. By daybreak, he had caught nothing more. He wanted to drag the wolves home but feared alarming his mother, so he threw them into a dry well and returned. He went back the following night, but none came. This happened three or four nights running. Then suddenly a wolf came and bit his foot, dragging him along. After several steps, thorns pierced his flesh and stones scraped his skin. Jiang lay as though dead. The wolf set him on the ground, intending to bite open his belly. Jiang suddenly rose and struck it with his hammer, felling it; he struck again and again until it was dead. Examining it closely, he saw it was truly a white-nosed wolf. Overjoyed, he carried it home and at last told his mother. She wept and went with him; they searched the dry well and retrieved the two wolves.

The historian of marvels remarks: "A mere farmer—yet he produced such a heroic figure! His righteousness and fierce resolve sprang from blood-deep sincerity. This was not mere courage; his wisdom was remarkable as well."

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Xiao'er

Zhao Wang of Teng County and his wife were devout Buddhists who abstained from meat and blood. The villagers called them "the Good People." Their household was moderately prosperous. They had a daughter named Xiao'er, exceptionally beautiful and clever, whom they cherished dearly. At the age of six, she was made to study alongside her elder brother Changchun under a tutor, and in five years she had mastered the Five Classics. A fellow student, Ding Sheng, courtesy name Zimo, three years her senior, was gifted with literary grace and charm. They were deeply drawn to each other. Ding privately spoke to his mother and sought Zhao's permission to marry the girl. Zhao, however, intended to betroth his daughter to a great family and refused.

Before long, Zhao fell under the sway of the White Lotus Sect. When Xu Hongshu rose in rebellion, the entire Zhao family was drawn into the uprising. Xiao'er, being literate and quick to comprehend, mastered at a single glance all the arts of conjuring soldiers from paper and horses from beans. Among the six young women who served as Xu's disciples, only Xiao'er was judged the finest, and so she received the complete transmission of his arts. Because of his daughter, Zhao Wang was greatly trusted and given important responsibilities.

By then Ding was eighteen and a student at the Teng County school. He refused to discuss marriage, for he had not forgotten Xiao'er. He secretly made his way to Xu's camp and presented himself. The girl was overjoyed to see him and treated him with unusual courtesy and respect. As Xu's foremost disciple, Xiao'er oversaw military affairs, coming and going day and night, so that her parents could not get in to see her. Each evening when Ding visited, she dismissed all her attendants, and they would talk until the third watch. Ding said to her privately, "Do you know why I have come, my dear?" She said, "I do not know." He said, "I do not come out of some foolish ambition to ride a dragon. The truth is, I came for you alone. These heretical ways lead nowhere—they bring only ruin. You are a wise woman; have you not considered this? If you will flee with me, I swear I shall never betray your trust."

Xiao'er was moved and troubled, then suddenly awakened as if from a dream. She said, "To abandon one's parents and flee—that is unfilial. I must tell them." The two went in and laid out the dangers before Zhao Wang. But Zhao would not listen. He said, "Our master is a divine man—how could he be mistaken?" Knowing she could not dissuade him, Xiao'er unbound her child's hair-knots and dressed her hair in the style of a married woman. She produced two paper kites, and she and Ding each mounted one. The kites rustled and spread their wings, like paired mandarin ducks flying wing to wing. By dawn they had reached the borders of Laiwu. Xiao'er pinched the neck of her kite with her fingers, and at once it folded and descended. They put the kites away and continued on foot, traveling to Yinli in Shanyin, where they posed as refugees fleeing the chaos and rented a house.

The two had left in haste and were poorly provided for; they had no fuel or grain. Ding was greatly worried. He tried to borrow grain from the neighbors, but none would lend so much as a peck. Xiao'er showed no distress—she simply pawned her hairpins and earrings. They sat quietly behind closed doors, guessing lantern riddles and reciting passages from books they had once known, competing to see who knew more. The loser would have two fingers rapped smartly on the wrist or arm.

Their western neighbor was a man surnamed Weng, a hero of the greenwood hunts. One day he returned from a hunt. Xiao'er said, "'Wealth through one's neighbor'—why should I worry? I need to borrow a thousand taels. Will he give them to me?" Ding thought it impossible. Xiao'er said, "I will make him glad to contribute." She cut paper into the shape of a magistrate and placed it on the ground, covering it with a chicken coop. Then she took Ding by the hand and led him to the bed, where they brewed stored wine and used the *Rites of Zhou* as their drinking game: either of them would name any volume, any leaf, and any character on that leaf; they would then turn to the page together. Whoever's character had the "food" radical, the "water" radical, or the "wine" radical had to drink; whoever got a character from the "wine" section had to drink twice as much. In the course of the game, Xiao'er happened to get the character *jiuren* ("wine steward"), and Ding filled a great goblet to the brim and urged her to drain it. Xiao'er then made a wish: "If we succeed in borrowing the gold, my lord shall get a character from the 'drinking' section." Ding turned the page and found the character *bieren* ("turtle steward"). Xiao'er laughed aloud: "It is accomplished!" She poured out the wine and handed him the cup. Ding protested. Xiao'er said, "My lord belongs to the water tribe—you must drink as a turtle drinks." While they were still wrangling and laughing, they heard a clattering sound from inside the coop. Xiao'er rose and said, "He is here." She opened the coop and examined the contents: inside a cloth bag was a vast quantity of gold, piled high and overflowing. Ding was speechless with astonishment and joy.

Later, old Mrs. Weng came carrying her grandson to play, and she let slip what had happened: "When my husband first returned home that night, he was sitting by lamplight when the ground suddenly split open, impossibly deep. A magistrate emerged from within and said, 'I am a registrar of the Underworld. The Lord of Mount Tai is convening the courts of the dead to compile a register of wicked robbers. He requires a thousand racks of silver lamps, each rack weighing ten taels. If you donate a hundred racks, your sins will be erased.' My husband was terrified. He burned incense, kowtowed, and prayed, then presented a thousand taels of gold. The magistrate slowly withdrew, and the ground closed up again as before."

The husband and wife listened to her tale and marveled at the strangeness of it. From then on they gradually acquired cattle and horses, kept servants and maids, and built their own mansion.

A scoundrel in the village, coveting his wealth, gathered a band of ruffians and scaled the wall to rob Ding. Ding and his wife awoke from their sleep to find reed torches blazing and robbers filling the room. Two of them seized Ding; another reached his hand into the woman's bosom. She sprang up bare, pointed at them, and cried, "Stop! Stop!" The thirteen robbers all stood with tongues lolling, motionless as wooden puppets. The woman then put on her trousers and stepped from the bed, summoned the household servants, bound each robber's arms behind his back, and forced them to confess everything in full. She then rebuked them: "We came from afar to live in these valleys, hoping for mutual aid—how could you be so inhuman? Hardships come to all men; had you been in straits, you need only have told me plainly. Am I one who hoards her wealth and refuses to share? The way of the wolf and jackal deserves utter destruction; but out for mercy's sake I shall let you go this time. Offend again and I will not forgive you!" The robbers kowtowed their thanks and departed.

Before long, Hongru was apprehended, and Zhao with his wife and children were all put to death. Ding took gold and ransomed Hongru's young son, bringing him home. The child was three years old at the time, and Ding raised him as his own, giving him the surname Ding and naming him Chengtiao, to continue the ancestral line. After this, the villagers gradually learned that she was of the White Lotus sect's kin.

When a plague of locusts damaged the crops, the woman had several hundred paper kites flown into the fields, and the locusts kept far away, never entering her plots, so that her harvest remained unharmed. The villagers resented her for it and went in a body to accuse her before the magistrate, claiming she was an accomplice of Hongru. The magistrate, coveting her wealth, looked upon Ding as a feast of flesh and had him arrested. Ding bribed the magistrate heavily and was at last released.

The woman said: "Wealth that comes by crooked means is bound to be scattered and lost. Besides, a land of scorpions and vipers is no place to dwell long." She sold her property cheaply and departed, settling on the western outskirts of Yidu.

The woman was clever and shrewd in managing affairs, more capable than any man. She opened a glassworks and personally directed the workers. Every chess lamp she produced, with its wondrous forms and dazzling colors, surpassed those of any other shop, so that her goods fetched high prices and sold quickly. After several years, her wealth grew ever more formidable.

She governed her maids and servants with strict discipline—though she fed several hundred mouths, there was no idle one. In her leisure she would brew tea and play chess with Ding, or read history and books for pleasure. Every five days she would audit the accounts of money and grain, as well as the work of the maids and servants; the woman herself held the tally, while Ding checked the ledgers and called out names and figures. The diligent received rewards of varying degrees; the idle were flogged and forced to kneel as punishment. On these days the workers were given leave to rest at night, and the husband and wife would set out food and wine, calling the maids to sing rustic songs for amusement. The woman's perception was godlike—no one dared deceive her. Yet her rewards always exceeded the labor given, and so tasks were easily accomplished. Two hundred families in the village—all those in poverty—were given capital according to their needs, and because of this there were no idle vagrants in the township.

In a year of great drought, the woman bade the villagers erect an altar in the fields. She rode out in a carriage, performed the Pace of Yu with magic arts, and sweet rain poured down in abundance—all within five li received its full share. The people regarded her as ever more divine.

The woman went abroad without ever veiling her face, and all the villagers saw her. Sometimes young men gathered in groups and privately discussed her beauty; but when they met her face to face, they all drew themselves up in solemn awe, none daring to look up. Every autumn, when village children were too young to work the fields, she gave them money to gather wild tea and thistles. For nearly twenty years, the accumulation filled several rooms. People secretly mocked her for it. Then Shandong suffered famine, and men devoured one another; the woman opened her stores, mixing the greens with grain to feed the starving, and the people of nearby villages, relying on her, all survived—none fled.

The historian of strange tales said: "What the two accomplished was surely heaven's gift, not merely human effort. Yet had it not been for a single word of enlightenment, they would both long since have died. From this we may observe that the world holds no small number of people of extraordinary talent who perished through misguided paths. Who can say that among the six fellow students there was not such a person? One cannot but wish that they had met a man like Ding."

Gengniang

Jin Dayong was the son of an old family in Zhongzhou. He was betrothed to the daughter of Prefect You, named Gengniang—beautiful and virtuous. Their love was deep and true. When the roving rebels caused turmoil, the family was scattered. Jin fled south with his household. On the road they met a young man also fleeing with his wife; he gave his name as Wang Shibai of Guangling and offered to lead the way. Jin was pleased and went along with him.

When they reached the river, the woman whispered to Jin: "Do not share a boat with that young man. He keeps glancing at me, and his eyes and expression shift—there is no telling what he is thinking." Jin agreed. Wang was most attentive, finding a large boat for them and carrying Jin's baggage with the utmost labor and care. Jin could not bring himself to refuse. Moreover, thinking that Wang had his own young wife with him, he assumed there would be no trouble. Wang's wife and Gengniang shared quarters, and her manner was gentle and agreeable besides. Wang sat at the bow speaking with the boatman, apparently an old acquaintance and friend.

Before long, the sun set. The river journey stretched endlessly on, vast and dark, with no distinguishing north from south. Jin looked around at the desolate, treacherous scene and grew somewhat uneasy. Presently the bright moon rose, and he saw stretching as far as the eye could reach nothing but reeds. When they moored, Wang invited Jin and his father to step out on deck for some air. Seizing the moment, he pushed Jin into the water. Jin's father saw it and tried to cry out, but the boatman struck him with a pole and he drowned as well. Jin's mother came out to look at the sound, and was likewise struck and drowned. Only then did Wang raise a cry for help. When the mother had come out, Gengniang was behind her and had seen it all. Upon learning that her entire family had drowned, she showed no alarm. She only wept and said: "My father-in-law and mother-in-law are both dead—where shall I go?" Wang came in and urged: "Do not grieve, my lady. Come with me to Jinling. I have land and a house enough to support you—you will want for nothing." The woman dried her tears and said: "If it is so, my wish is fulfilled." Wang was greatly pleased and treated her with the greatest generosity.

At nightfall he dragged her to his bed, desiring her favors. She pleaded that she was unwell, and Wang went instead to his own wife. The first watch had scarcely ended when the husband and wife began quarreling loudly, though no one knew the cause. They only heard the wife say: "What you have done—thunder would shatter your skull for it!" Wang then beat his wife. She cried out: "Kill me and be done! I will not be the wife of a murderer!" Wang roared in fury, seized his wife, and threw her out. Then came a heavy splash, and there was a clamor that the wife had drowned.

Before long they arrived at Jinling, and Wang led Gengniang to his home and into the main hall to meet his mother. The old woman was startled, for she saw this was not the former wife. Wang explained, "Your daughter-in-law drowned in the river. This is my new bride." Returning to the bedroom, he again tried to force himself upon her. Gengniang smiled and said, "A man of thirty, and still unversed in the ways of men and women? Even a street urchin on his first wedding night must offer a cup of thin wine. Your family is well-off—surely this is no difficulty. What sort of conduct is it to meet with clear heads?" Wang was delighted, and set out wine for them to drink together. Gengniang raised her cup and urged him on with warm earnestness. Wang grew tipsy and declined to drink further. Gengniang took up a large bowl and pressed him enticingly. Wang could not bear to refuse and drank again. Soon he was dead drunk, and stripping off his clothes, urged her to sleep. Gengniang removed the cups and snuffed the candle, pretending she needed to relieve herself. She left the room, took a knife, and entered again. In the dark she groped for Wang's neck with her hand; he still seized her arm and murmured endearments. Gengniang cut hard with the knife but could not kill him. He cried out and sprang up. She swung again, and only then did he die. The old mother heard something and hurried to ask what had happened. The woman killed her as well. Wang's younger brother, Nineteen, awoke. Knowing she could not escape, Gengniang hastily tried to cut her own throat. But the blade was dull and could not pierce. She opened the door and fled. Nineteen pursued her, and she had already thrown herself into the pond. He called out to the neighbors, but when they pulled her out she was already dead, her beauty as fresh as in life. Together they examined Wang's corpse and found a letter on the windowsill. Opening it, they saw that the woman had set out the full account of her wrongs. All considered her a woman of heroic virtue and made plans to collect funds for her burial. By daybreak several thousand people had gathered to see her; beholding her countenance, they all bowed in reverence. In a single day they raised a hundred pieces of gold, and so she was buried in the southern suburbs. Admirers provided her with a pearl-embroidered headdress and robes, and her grave goods were rich and plentiful.

Earlier, when Jin Sheng had drowned, he had floated on a plank and so survived. Near dawn he reached Huai and was rescued by a small boat. The boat belonged to a wealthy man, Old Master Yin, who had specially set it out to save drowning victims. When Jin Sheng revived, he went to express his gratitude. The old man treated him generously and kept him to tutor his son. Jin Sheng, not knowing what had become of his parents, wished to go and find out, but could not bring himself to leave. Then word came: "An old man and an old woman have been pulled from the water, dead." Jin Sheng suspected they were his parents and rushed to verify—it was indeed them. The old man provided coffins. As the young man was weeping in grief, it was further reported: "A drowned woman was saved. She says Jin Sheng is her husband." Jin Sheng burst out weeping and hurried out. The woman had already arrived—it was not Gengniang, but Wang Shiba's wife. She wept loudly before Jin Sheng, begging him not to abandon her. Jin Sheng said: "My mind is in turmoil. How can I make plans for anyone else?" The woman wept even more bitterly. When Old Master Yin learned the story, he rejoiced that heaven had arranged this match and urged Jin Sheng to take the woman as his wife. Jin Sheng declined on the grounds of mourning, and also because he intended to avenge himself, fearing that a delicate woman would be a burden. The woman said: "If what you say is so, and if Gengniang were still alive, would you put her aside on account of revenge and mourning?" The old man, thinking her words wise, asked to take her in for the time being, and Jin Sheng agreed. He divined an auspicious day and buried the old man and woman. The woman wore mourning garments and wept as though for her own parents-in-law. After the burial, Jin Sheng took up a knife and a begging bowl, intending to go to Guangling. The woman stopped him: "My surname is Tang. My ancestors lived in Jinling, the same hometown as that jackal's son. When I said Guangling before, I lied. Besides, the river pirates are mostly his associates. You cannot avenge yourself—you would only bring disaster upon yourself." Jin Sheng hesitated, not knowing what to do. Then news spread of the woman who had killed her enemy—it was on everyone's lips along the rivers and canals, with her name given in full. Jin Sheng was gladdened by it, but also grieved the more. He took leave of the woman, saying: "I am grateful you were not violated. I have such a heroic wife at home—how could I be so heartless as to take another?" But the woman, believing the match was already arranged, would not consent to a parting, and offered to serve merely as a concubine.

It happened that a Vice-General Yuan, an old acquaintance of Old Master Yin's, was passing through on his way west. He met Jin Sheng and took an immediate liking to him, asking him to serve as his secretary. Before long, rebel bandits rose in insurrection, and Yuan won great merit. Jin Sheng, having participated in strategic planning, was rewarded for his service and returned home with the rank of Youji. The couple then at last performed the wedding rites. After a few days, he brought his wife to Jinling, intending to visit Gengniang's grave. They passed through Zhenjiang and wished to climb Mount Jin. As they drifted their boat midstream, suddenly another skiff passed by, carrying an old woman and a young wife. The young wife struck him as remarkably like Gengniang. The boat passed swiftly, and the woman peered at Jin Sheng from the window—her expression was even more like her. Startled and suspicious, he dared not call out to question her, but cried urgently: "Look at the flock of ducks flying up to the sky!" The young woman, hearing this, called back: "Is the greedy little dog wanting to eat the cat's fishy smell?"—for these had been secret jokes between them in the women's quarters. Jin Sheng was greatly startled. He turned his boat and drew near—it was truly Gengniang. A maid helped her across to his boat. They embraced and wept bitterly, moving the hearts of passersby. Tang came forward and greeted Gengniang with the rites due to the principal wife. Gengniang was astonished and asked why. Jin Sheng then explained everything from the beginning. Gengniang took her hand and said: "We spoke together on that boat, and I never forgot it. I never imagined we would become one family. You buried my parents-in-law in my stead—I should be the first to thank you. Why show me such deference?" They compared ages: Tang was a year younger than Gengniang, so she addressed her as elder sister.

Before this, ever since Gengniang had been buried, she did not know how many years had passed. Then someone called out: "Gengniang! Your husband is not dead. You shall be reunited." And she awoke as from a dream. She felt around her—walls on all sides. She realized she had been dead and buried. She felt only drowsy, with no other suffering. A wicked youth, having heard of the richness of her grave goods, broke open the tomb and coffin. As he was about to rummage through it, he saw that Gengniang was still alive. They were all terrified. Fearing they would harm her, she pleaded: "It is fortunate you have come, for now I can see the sun again. Take all the hairpins and earrings from my head. If you sell me to become a nun, you can get a little more money. I will not reveal this." The robber bowed and said: "Lady, your chastity and heroism are revered by gods and men alike. We poor wretches acted only out of desperate poverty. We are grateful you will not speak of this—how dare we sell you to be a nun!" Gengniang said: "This is my own wish." Another robber said: "The Lady of Zhenjiang, Madam Geng, is a widow without sons. If she saw you, she would be overjoyed." Gengniang thanked them. She pulled off her own pearl ornaments and gave them all to the robbers. They dared not accept them, but she insisted, and together they bowed and received them. They then carried her to Madam Geng's house, claiming she had been lost in a boat blown off course. Madam Geng was from a great family, a widow living alone. She was overjoyed to see Gengniang and treated her as her own child. It happened that the mother and son were returning from Mount Jin. Gengniang related her story at length. Jin Sheng then boarded the boat and paid his respects to the mother, who received him as a son-in-law. She invited him home and kept him for several days before he left. Thereafter they visited each other without interruption.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When a great catastrophe strikes, the licentious are spared, while the chaste perish. The spared ones make men's eyes split with rage; the dead ones bring tears to wash away men's sorrows. But to face danger with calm laughter and slay one's enemy with one's own hand — among heroic men through the ages, how many can match such a one? Who says that women cannot walk in the footsteps of Yan Yun?"

Gong Mengbi

Liu Fanghua was a man of Baoding. He was the wealthiest man in the district, generous and hospitable, and his table often seated a hundred guests. When others were in urgent need, he would not stint even a thousand pieces of gold. His friends and guests borrowed freely and often never repaid. There was only one guest, Gong Mengbi, a man from Shaanxi, who in his entire life never asked for a favor. Whenever he arrived, he would stay for a year or more. His conversation was refined and elegant, and Liu spent more time with him than with any other. Liu's son was called He, who was still a boy at the time, and he addressed Gong as "uncle." Gong also enjoyed playing with He. Whenever He returned from school, Gong would lift the floor tiles, bury stones in the ground, and pretend he was hiding gold for amusement. The house had five bays, and they had dug for buried treasure all over. Everyone laughed at his childish behavior, yet He alone delighted in him and was especially close to him, more so than to any other guest.

More than ten years later, the family gradually declined and could no longer satisfy the demands of so many guests, so the visitors grew fewer; still, a dozen or so would sit up all night talking and feasting, as had always been the custom. As Liu grew old and his fortunes waned daily, he still sold land to raise money for chicken and millet to entertain his guests. He too became lavish, emulating his father by befriending young companions, and Liu did not restrain him. Before long, Liu fell ill and died, and there was not even money to provide for the funeral. Gong then drew from his own purse and arranged the funeral for Liu. He was all the grateful to him. Matters great or small were all entrusted to Uncle Gong. Whenever Gong came in from outside, he would always have tiles and rubble in his sleeves; once inside the house, he would toss them into dark corners, and no one understood what he meant by it. He often spoke to Gong of his poverty. Gong said: "You do not know how hard it is to earn one's living. Never mind having no gold — even if I gave you a thousand pieces of gold, you would spend it in no time. A man's concern should be whether he can stand on his own; why worry about being poor?"

One day, Gong said he wished to return home. He tearfully begged him to come back soon, and Gong promised, then left. He could not support himself, and his pawned possessions were gradually exhausted. He looked forward every day to Gong's return, expecting him to manage his affairs, but Gong vanished without a trace, gone like a yellow crane into the void.

Before this, when Liu was alive, he had arranged a betrothal for He with the Huang family of Wuji, a family of substantial means. Later, when they heard of Liu's poverty, they secretly harbored thoughts of breaking the engagement. When Liu died, the funeral notice was sent, yet the Huangs did not even come to mourn; they merely excused themselves on the grounds of the great distance. When He had completed his mourning period, his mother sent him to his future in-laws' home to set a wedding date, hoping that the Huangs might show him pity and consideration. When he arrived, the Huangs saw that his clothes and shoes were worn and ragged, and they ordered the gatekeeper not to admit him. A message was sent out: "Go and find a hundred pieces of gold, then you may return. If not, let this be the end between us." Hearing these words, He wept bitterly. Old Mother Liu, who lived across the street, took pity on him, gave him food, presented him with three hundred coins, and comforted him, sending him home. His mother too was grief-stricken and at her wits' end. She thought that among the old guests who owed debts, eight or nine out of ten were in that category, and she told He to choose among the wealthy ones and seek their help. He said: "Those who befriended me in the past did so for my wealth. If I were riding in a four-horse carriage and could borrow a thousand pieces of gold, that would not be difficult. But in my present circumstances, who would remember past favors or recall old friendships? Besides, when my father gave money to others, he never demanded a bond or a guarantor — it would be hard to hold anyone accountable." His mother nevertheless insisted, and He obeyed her instructions. For more than twenty days, he could not obtain a single coin. Only the actor Li Si, who had formerly received Liu's kindness and charity, hearing of the situation, gave one piece of gold out of a sense of righteousness. Mother and son wept bitterly, and from that point they abandoned all hope.

The Huang daughter had already reached the age of hairpins when she heard that her father had broken off the engagement with He, and in her heart she thought it unjust. The Huang wanted to marry her to someone else. The daughter wept and said: "Young Master Liu was not born poor. If his wealth were to multiply tenfold in the future, could those who bear a grudge against him take it from him? To abandon him now because he is poor — that is unrighteous!" The Huang was displeased and tried every manner of persuasion, but the daughter's resolve never wavered. Both the old man and his wife grew furious and berated her morning and evening, yet the daughter remained calm. Before long, bandits raided the house at night, and the Huang couple were tortured with heated irons and nearly killed; everything in the house was swept away. Three years passed, and the family fell further into ruin. A merchant from the west heard that the daughter was beautiful and offered fifty pieces of gold as a bride-price. The Huang, tempted by the profit, agreed and tried to force her to yield to his will. The daughter saw through his scheme, disheveled her hair and smeared her face, and fled by night, begging for food along the road. After two months, she finally reached Baoding, found out where He lived, and went straight to his house. His mother took her for a beggar woman and spoke harshly to her. The daughter sobbed and explained who she was. Her mother-in-law took her hand and wept, saying: "My child, how has your body come to such a state?" The daughter then told her story with a sorrowful expression. Both mother and son wept. They bathed her and washed her hair, and her face glowed with fresh color, her brows and eyes radiant with beauty. Both mother and son rejoiced. However, the household of three had only one meal a day. The mother wept and said: "My son and I are used to this; what I pity is that we have wronged our virtuous daughter-in-law!" The daughter smiled and comforted her: "Your daughter-in-law has lived among beggars and knows their condition well. Looking at things today, I feel there is the difference between heaven and hell." Her mother-in-law was comforted and smiled.

One day, the daughter went into an empty side room and saw that broken straw was piled everywhere, with no bare ground. She went further into the inner chamber; dust had accumulated on the floor, and in the dark corners there were things piled up that hurt her foot when she kicked them. She picked one up and found it was a silver ingot. She ran to tell He in alarm. He went together with her to verify, and they saw that all the tiles and rubble Gong had tossed in the past had turned to white silver. He recalled how as a child he had often buried stones in the room with Gong — could all of them be gold? But the old house had been pawned to an eastern neighbor. He hastily redeemed it. The broken bricks were in disarray, and the stones he had buried were clearly visible, which made him somewhat disappointed; but when he dug up other bricks, they were all gleaming white silver. In an instant, he possessed tens of thousands. From then on, he redeemed his fields and property, bought servants and slaves, and his household became more splendid than in the old days. He resolved to himself: "If I do not stand on my own, I will betray Uncle Gong!" He devoted himself to his studies with fierce determination and passed the provincial examination within three years. Then he personally carried silver to repay Old Mother Liu. His fine clothes dazzled the eyes; he had more than ten servants, all riding spirited horses like dragons. The old woman had only one small house, and He sat on her bed. People shouted and horses reared, filling the neighborhood.

Old Master Huang, ever since his daughter's disappearance, and the western merchant's demand for the return of the bride-price, had already spent nearly half his fortune. He sold his house and land to make restitution. Thus he was reduced to the same straitened circumstances as He had been in former days. Hearing of his former son-in-law's brilliance and glory, he shut his door and grieved alone. The old woman bought wine and prepared a meal for He, speaking of his daughter's virtue and lamenting her flight. She asked whether He had married. He said: "I have." After the meal, he urged the old woman to come and see his new bride, and brought her back with him. When they arrived at the house, the daughter came out in splendid dress, surrounded by a bevy of maids like a celestial being. When they met, they were greatly astonished. They spoke of the past and asked with warm concern after her parents' well-being. After several days of generous hospitality, He had fine clothes made for them, new from head to foot, and then sent her home.

The old woman went to Huang's house to report the girl's death and to convey their condolences. The couple was greatly alarmed. The old woman urged them to go and seek out their daughter, but Huang hesitated. Eventually, driven by cold and hunger beyond endurance, he had no choice but to go to Baoding. Upon arriving at the gate, he saw that the compound was grand and imposing, and the gatekeeper glared fiercely; all day long, he could not gain admission. A woman came out, and Huang spoke with a warm expression and humble words, stating his surname and asking her to secretly inform his daughter. After a short while, the woman emerged again and led him into a side room. She said, "The young mistress very much wishes to see you; however, she fears her husband knows and is waiting for an opportune moment. When did you arrive? Are you hungry?" Huang then recounted his hardships. The woman brought out a cup of wine and two dishes of food, setting them before Huang. She also gave him five gold coins, saying, "My master is feasting in his chamber; the young mistress fears she cannot come. Tomorrow morning, you should leave early, lest my master hear of this." Huang agreed. He rose early to prepare for departure, but the locks had not yet been opened, so he sat by the gate on his bedding roll, waiting. Suddenly there was a commotion as the master came out. Huang was about to withdraw and hide, but He had already seen him and asked in surprise who he was; none of the servants could answer. He angrily said, "This must be some villain! Seize him and take him to the authorities." The servants responded with alacrity and came out, binding Huang with a short rope to a tree. Huang was ashamed and terrified, not knowing what to say. Before long, the woman from the previous evening came out and knelt, saying, "This is my uncle. He came late last night, so I did not inform the master." He ordered them to untie him. The woman escorted him out the gate, saying, "I forgot to instruct the gatekeeper, and so this mistake occurred. The young mistress says: When you long for her, you can have the old lady pretend to be a flower seller and come with Old Woman Liu." Huang agreed and returned to tell the old woman. The old woman longed for her daughter as if parched, so she told Old Woman Liu, and Liu indeed went together to He's house. They passed through more than ten gates before reaching the daughter's quarters. The daughter wore a shoulder covering and a topknot, adorned with pearls, kingfisher feathers, and fine silk, her fragrance striking the people around her; with a soft murmur, young and old maids rushed in, filling the sides; they moved a golden chair and bed and placed them close together. A clever maid brewed tea; each spoke in veiled language to exchange pleasantries, and they gazed at one another with glistening tears. By evening, they cleared a room to lodge the two old women; the bedding was warm and soft, such as they had not even experienced in former years of wealth.

After staying three or five days, the daughter showed deep affection. The old woman would lead her to a secluded place and weep as she confessed her former wrongs. The daughter said: "What fault do mother and child not forgive? It is only that the husband's anger is not yet resolved, and we must keep it from his ears." Whenever He came, she would flee and hide. One day, they were sitting knee to knee, when He suddenly entered, saw them, and raged: "What rustic old crone dares to sit in such proximity with the young mistress? I ought to pluck out every strand of your hair!" Old Woman Liu hastened forward and said: "This is a relative of mine, Old Woman Wang the flower seller; I pray you do not punish her." He then rose and apologized for his offense. He sat down and said: "You have been here several days, and I have been terribly busy, unable to pay my respects. Is that old beast of the Huang household still alive?" She smiled and said: "They are all well. But their poverty is unbearable. You, sir, are greatly wealthy and honored; why do you not think of the bond between father-in-law and son-in-law?" He struck the table and said: "In former years, had you not taken pity on me and given me a bowl of congee, how could I have ever returned home? Now I would like to skin him alive—what bond is there to consider!" When his words reached the peak of fury, he would stamp his foot and rise to curse. The daughter said angrily: "Even if he lacks virtue, he is my father. I came from afar, my hands cracked and chapped, my toes all pierced through—I believed I had done you no wrong. How then can you curse my father in front of his own daughter, making it unbearable for me?" He then suppressed his anger and rose to leave. The old woman Huang was mortified and crestfallen, her face drained of color, and she wished to take her leave. The daughter secretly gave her twenty gold coins. After returning home, all correspondence was severed, and the daughter deeply missed them. He then sent someone to summon them. The husband and wife arrived, so ashamed and awkward that they could find no place to hide themselves. He apologized: "Last year you honored us with a visit, but I was not properly informed, and so I committed many offenses against you." Huang could only bow and murmur assent. He provided them with new clothes and shoes. They were kept for over a month, but Huang's mind was never at ease, and he repeatedly asked to return. He gave him a hundred taels of silver: "The western merchant gave fifty gold coins; I now double that." Huang received it with a flushed face and sweat on his brow. He sent them back with a carriage and horses, and that year they were said to have had a modest harvest.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "After the lament at Yongmen, the red shoes vanished beyond reach—it makes one so indignant that one bars the gate and wishes to receive not a single guest again. Yet when a good friend buries one's bones and turns stone into gold, it cannot be said that this is not the reward of a generous and hospitable man. The woman in the inner chambers enjoys high maintenance and lavish treatment, as stately as a palace consort; had her husband not been as chaste and extraordinary as Master Huang, who could have borne this without shame? Thus does the Creator bestow blessings without caprice."

There was a wealthy man in the village who amassed goods to overflowing and counted his coins to the marrow. He stored hundreds of ingots of silver in a cellar, fearing lest anyone know of it; he wore ragged cotton clothes and ate chaff and broken grains to appear poor. When relatives or friends occasionally visited, he never once prepared a meal of chicken and millet. If anyone said his family was not poor, he would glare in fury, as if nursing a hatred that could not be borne under the same sky. In his old age, he ate a daily measure of elm bark, the skin on his arms folding and hanging an inch long, yet he would never open his hoard. Later he grew increasingly emaciated and weak. When he was near death, his two sons surrounded him asking, but he still did not quickly tell them; when he felt truly that the crisis was imminent and wished to tell his sons, by the time they arrived his tongue was already stiff and he could make no sound, only clawing at his chest, heh-heh. After his death, his sons and grandsons could not afford a coffin, so they wrapped him in straw and buried him. Alas! If one hoards gold and considers that wealth, then the great treasury of tens of millions—why could one not claim it as one's own? How foolish!

The Myna

Wang Fenbin said: In his hometown there was a man who raised a mynah bird and taught it to speak. They became very intimate, and whenever the man went out, he always took the bird with him, and they had been together for several years. One day, he was about to pass through Jiangzhou, but his money was exhausted, and he was worried and at a loss. The bird said, "Why not sell me? Take me to the prince's mansion, and you will get a good price; then you need not worry about having no funds for your journey home." The man said, "How could I bear to part with you?" The bird said, "It's no matter. Once you get the price, hurry on your way, and wait for me at the grove twenty li west of the city." The man agreed. He took the bird to the city, where they conversed back and forth, and onlookers gradually gathered. A eunuch of influence saw it and reported it to the prince. The prince summoned them and wished to buy the bird. The man said, "We depend on each other for our lives; I do not wish to sell." The prince asked the bird, "Are you willing to stay?" It said, "I am willing." The prince was delighted. The bird then said, "Give a price of ten taels of gold, and no more." The prince was even more pleased and immediately gave the ten taels. The man put on an air of deep regret and left. The prince spoke with the bird, and it answered with great facility. He called for meat and fed it. After eating, the bird said, "Your servant wishes to bathe." The prince ordered a golden basin filled with water and opened the cage for it to bathe. After bathing, it flew to the eaves, preened its feathers and shook its plumage, still chattering away with the prince. After a while, its feathers dried, and it fluttered up, speaking in the Jin dialect: "Your servant is off!" And before the prince could look around, it had vanished. The prince and his attendants looked up at the sky and sighed with regret. They hurried to find the man, but he had already disappeared. Later, someone traveling to Qinzhong saw the man carrying the bird in the market at Xi'an. Recorded by Mr. Bi Zaiji.

Liu Haishi

Liu Haishi was a man of Putai. He fled from turmoil to Binzhou. At the time he was fourteen years old and studied in the same schoolroom with a Binzhou scholar named Liu Cangke. They became good friends and swore an oath of brotherhood. Before long, Haishi lost his parents and returned home for the funerals, and from then on they lost all contact.

Cangke's family was quite well off. At the age of forty, he had two sons: the eldest, Ji, seventeen years old, was a famous scholar in the county; the second son was also clever. Cangke also took a daughter of the Ni family in the county as his concubine and greatly favored her. Half a year later, the eldest son died of a violent headache, and the husband and wife were overcome with grief. Before long, the wife also died of illness; after several months, the eldest daughter-in-law also died; and the deaths of servants and maids followed one after another. Cangke mourned and grieved until he could barely endure it. One day, as he sat lost in sorrow, a servant suddenly announced the arrival of Liu Haishi. Cangke was overjoyed and hurried out to welcome him in. Just as he was about to exchange pleasantries, Haishi suddenly exclaimed in alarm, "Brother, you are facing the calamity of the extinction of your whole family—do you not know it?" Cangke was stunned and could not understand why. Haishi said, "Having long lost touch, I secretly feared that your recent circumstances might not be good." Cangke shed tears and told him everything. Haishi sighed with sorrow. Then he smiled and said, "The disasters are not yet over—at first I came to offer you condolences. But fortunately you have met me, and I must now offer you congratulations." Cangke said, "It has been a long time since we met. Have you recently mastered the 'physician of Yue's arts'?" Haishi said, "That is not my specialty. But I have studied the geomancy of dwellings to some degree." Cangke was pleased and asked him to examine his house. Haishi entered the house and inspected every part, inside and outside. Then he asked to see all the members of the household. Cangke followed his instructions and had his sons, daughters-in-law, and concubines all appear in the hall. Cangke pointed them out one by one. When it came to the Ni woman, Haishi looked up to the sky and laughed uncontrollably. Everyone was startled and suspicious, but they saw the Ni woman trembling and drained of color; her body suddenly shrank, and she was only two feet tall. Haishi struck her head with his carpenter's square, producing the sound of stone striking pottery. Haishi seized her hair and examined the back of her head, where he found several white hairs and tried to pull them out. She cringed, knelt, and wept, saying she would leave, but begging him not to pull them. Haishi said angrily, "Has your vicious heart not yet died?" He pulled them out from the back of her neck. She changed at once, turning black like a wildcat. Everyone was greatly horrified. Haishi picked her up and put her in his sleeve, then said to the daughter-in-law, "The daughter-in-law has been poisoned deeply; there must be something unusual on her back. Please let us examine it." The daughter-in-law was ashamed and refused to bare herself. Cangke's son insisted, and they saw white hairs on her back, about four fingers long. Haishi pulled them out with a needle and said, "These hairs are old; in seven days it will be too late to save her." He also examined Cangke's son, who also had hairs, about two fingers long. He said, "At this rate, he will die in about a month." He lanced Cangke and the servants as well. He said, "Had I not come today, not a soul in this household would have survived." They asked, "What kind of creature is this?" He said, "It is also of the fox kind. It absorbs people's vital spirit to gain power and thrives on human death." Cangke said, "It has been a long time since I saw you—how can you have such divine abilities! Are you perhaps an immortal?" He laughed and said, "I have merely learned a few minor skills from my teacher—why call me an immortal?" Asked who his teacher was, he replied, "The Mountain Stone Daoist. As for this creature, I cannot kill it; I will take it back as a trophy to present to my teacher." Having said this, he took his leave. He felt his sleeve was empty and said in alarm, "It's gone! There was a large hair at the end of its tail that I did not remove, and now it has escaped." Everyone was terrified. Haishi said, "The hairs on its neck are all gone, so it can no longer transform into a human; it can only transform into a beast, and it cannot have gone far." So he went inside to examine the cats, went outside to set the dogs on the scent, and found nothing. He opened the pigpen and laughed, "It's here." Cangke looked and saw an extra pig. When it heard Haishi laugh, it lay down and did not dare to move. He seized it by the ear and pulled it out, and saw a single white hair on its tail, hard as a needle. Just as he was about to pull it out, the pig rolled over with pitiful cries and would not let him. Haishi said, "You have already done so much harm—and you still refuse to part with a single hair?" He grabbed it and pulled it out, and at once it transformed back into a wildcat. He put it in his sleeve and was about to leave. Cangke earnestly pressed him to stay, so he stayed for a meal. Asked when they would meet again, he said, "That is hard to predict. My teacher has made great vows and often sends us out into the world to rescue living beings, so we may yet meet again." After he left, Cangke thought carefully about his teacher's name and suddenly understood: "Haishi must be an immortal. 'Mountain' and 'Stone' together make the character 'Rock'—that is the taboo name of Lü Dongbin."

When Shi Maohua of Qingzhou was still a scholar at the county school, there lay a great pool beyond the prefecture gate that neither dried up in drought nor swelled with rain. Once, several dozen notorious bandits captured in the district were executed by the pool. Their ghosts gathered to haunt the place, dragging passersby into the water. One day, a certain man surnamed Jia was in dire distress when he heard the ghosts fleeing in panic, shouting: "Lord Shi, the Imperial Secretary, is coming!" Before long, Lord Shi arrived, and Jia told him what had happened. Lord Shi took chalk and wrote on the wall:

"Shi Mou, issuing a prohibition: It is known that your wicked thoughts brought upon you the wrath of thunder; your treacherous schemes brought upon you the axe's blow. You should have returned to the hearts of the damned and repented one by one; thus perhaps washing the blood from your skulls and escaping this abyss. Yet having suffered the utmost penalty in life, you still gather to do evil in death. You leap and swagger, your hair disheveled, in packs; you stumble forward, beating your breasts to work your malice. With yellow mud stuffed in your ears, you vent the savagery of demon children; you play the demon in broad daylight, nearly cutting off the way of travelers! Those three-foot mounds of earth are subject to human authority—how can you, within the vastness of Heaven and Earth, be allowed to run rampant with your wickedness? Let it be known that henceforth each of you shall hide your tracks and persist no longer in your evil ways. Bones by the Wuding River, quietly await your reincarnation; souls in the dreams of golden chambers, return to your native soil. If you repeat your former sins, you will surely bring regret upon yourselves!"

From that day the ghostly plague ceased, and the pool soon dried up.

**The Mud Ghost**

In my county, the Hanlin Academician Tang Jiwu, when but a few years old, was playing in a temple with a cousin of his. The Academician, even as a boy, was open and fearless, with the boldest spirit. He saw among the side halls a mud idol with glassy eyes, gleaming and large; he loved them and secretly pried them out with his fingers, taking them home in his bosom. When they arrived at the house, the cousin fell suddenly ill and lay speechless for a long time. Then he rose and cried out fiercely: "Why did you pry out my eyes?" He screamed without stopping. No one understood. The Academician then confessed what he had done. His family prayed to the idol: "The child acted in ignorance and playfully injured your honored eyes. We will send them back at once." A great voice said: "If so, then I shall depart." With that, the cousin fell to the ground and lay as though dead. After a long while he revived, but when asked what had happened, he remembered nothing. The eyes were then returned and set back into the idol's sockets.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "To demand back one's eyes at the door—how powerful the clay image was! But since the Academician pried out the eyes, why did the anger fall upon his companion? Because, destined for the highest honor and possessed of the most forthright nature, he submitted memorials to the northern palace gates and brushed his sleeves as retired to the southern mountains—even spirits feared him, let alone ghosts!"

**Parting in a Dream**

The grandfather of Mr. Li Chunwang of Wang Village had the closest friendship with my granduncle Yutian. One night, he dreamed that my granduncle came to his house, speaking with a sorrowful expression. He asked: "Where have you come from?" He said: "I am about to depart on a long journey, so I have come to bid you farewell." He asked: "Where are you going?" He said: "Far away." Then he went out. My grandfather escorted him to a valley, where he saw a crack in a stone wall. My granduncle cupped his hands in farewell, turned his back to the crevice, and slowly backed into it. He called out but received no answer, and woke in alarm. At daybreak, he told his father, Lord Jingyi, and had mourning implements prepared. He said: "Lord Yutian has passed away!" His father wished to verify the news first before offering condolences, but he would not listen. He went in white mourning clothes to the gate, and there the funeral banners were already hung. Alas! The trust between the ancients in friendship, in life and death, was like this—was it not true that the coffin of Ju Qing waited for the arrival of a worthy friend before it moved?

**The Dog Lamp**

A servant of the Grand Commissar Han Qian, surnamed Guanglu, was spending the night in a loft when he saw a lamp on the upper floor, bright as a star. Before long, it floated down, flickering, and when it reached the ground, it turned into a dog. He watched it slink away behind the house. He rose quickly and followed it secretly to the garden, where it transformed into a woman. Knowing it was a fox, he returned to his bed. Soon the woman came from behind. He pretended to sleep and watched her movements. She bent down and shook him. He made as though waking and asked who she was. She did not answer. He said: "The lamp upstairs—was it not you?" She said: "Since you already know, why ask?" They then slept together. They parted by day and met by night, and this became the routine.

Their master found out and ordered two men to sleep on either side of the servant. When the two men woke, they found themselves lying under the bed, not knowing when they had fallen. The master was furious and told the servant: "Next time, you must capture her; if not, you will be whipped!" The servant dared not speak and withdrew, assenting. He thought: capturing her would be difficult; not capturing her, he would face punishment. He tossed and turned without a plan. Then he remembered the woman's small red garment, which she wore close to her body and never took off—it must be vital to her. If he seized it, he could threaten her. In the middle of the night, she came and asked: "Did your master tell you to capture me?" He said: "Indeed he did. But our affection is such that how could I do such a thing?" When they slept, he secretly grasped her garment. She cried out sharply and struggled free, fleeing away. From then on, she never returned.

Later, the servant came back from another place and saw the woman sitting by the roadside. When he came up, she raised her sleeve to cover her face. He dismounted and said: "Why act this way?" She then rose and took his hand: "I thought you had forgotten our old affection. Since you still cherish the feelings of an old friend, your sentiments can be forgiven. The earlier matter was done on my master's orders, and I do not blame you. But our destined connection is exhausted. Now I have prepared a small feast—please enter and let us part." It was early autumn, and the sorghum was lush. She led him inside, where there stood a great mansion. He tied his horse and entered; in the hall, wine and dishes had already been set out. He had scarcely sat down when a troop of maids served the food. As the sun was setting, the servant had business and wished to report to his master, so he took his leave. When he emerged, it was once again only the open fields.

**The Foreign Monks**

The monk Titi Kong said: "In Qingzhou I saw two foreign monks of strange and ancient appearance, with double rings hanging from their ears, wearing yellow cloth, and hair curled like wool. They said they had come from the Western Regions. Hearing that the governor revered Buddhism, they went to pay their respects. The governor sent two clerks to escort them to a monastery. The abbot, Lingwei, did not treat them with much courtesy. The monastery staff, seeing that they were unusual, entertained them privately and lodged them for the night. Someone asked: 'The Western Regions have many extraordinary men—do these arhats possess any strange arts?' One of them smiled cheerfully and drew his hand from his sleeve, holding in his palm a small tower barely a foot high, exquisitely lovely. On the highest part of the wall there was a small niche. The monk threw the tower into it, and it stood upright and firm, without the slightest tilt. They saw on the tower a relic emitting light, illuminating the whole room. After a while, he beckoned with his hand, and it fell back into his palm. Then the other monk bared his arm and extended his left forearm, which reached six or seven feet long, while his right arm had shrunk to nothing. He then extended his right arm, and it was the same as the left."

**The Fox Concubine**

Liu Dongjiu of Laiwu served as an official in Fenzhou. One day, sitting alone in his office, he heard laughter and chatter gradually approaching from outside the pavilion. Four women entered the room: one about forty years of age, one perhaps thirty, one around twenty-four or five, and a last one with hanging locks, still a child. They stood together before the desk, looking at one another and smiling. Liu well knew that government offices were often inhabited by fox spirits, so he paid them no heed. After a moment, the girl with the hanging locks produced a red kerchief and playfully tossed it at his face. Liu picked it up and tossed it aside toward the window, still ignoring them. The four women smiled and departed.

One day, the eldest woman came to him and said, "My younger sister and you are destined to be together. I hope you will not reject her, humble as she may be." Liu gave an indifferent reply. The woman then left. Shortly afterward, she returned accompanied by a maid, bringing the girl with the hanging locks, and seated her beside Liu. "A fine pair of phoenix mates—tonight you shall celebrate your wedding. Serve well with Master Liu, and I shall take my leave." Liu looked at her closely—her radiance was beyond compare, and he lay with her. He asked about her background. The woman said, "I am not truly human, yet I am in fact human. I was the daughter of the former official. I was bewitched by a fox and died suddenly, buried in the garden. The foxes used their arts to bring me back to life, and so I drifted about as a fox." Liu thereupon reached his hand to feel her backside. She noticed and laughed, "Surely you don't think a fox has a tail?" She turned around and said, "Please try feeling for yourself." From then on, she stayed and did not leave. Whenever Liu went about or sat, she was accompanied by the little maid. The family treated her with the respect due a proper wife. When the maidservants came to pay their respects, she rewarded them most generously.

On the occasion of Liu's birthday, there were many guests—more than thirty tables in all, requiring a great number of cooks. Summons had been sent in advance, but only one or two showed up. Liu was furious. The woman learned of this and said, "Do not worry. Since the cooks are insufficient, we might as well send away those who did come. Though I am not especially skilled, thirty tables are not difficult to manage." Liu was delighted and ordered that fish, meat, ginger, and cinnamon all be moved into the inner offices. Those in the family could only hear the sounds of knives and cutting boards, ceaseless and rapid. A table was set up inside the door; those carrying dishes would place their trays upon it, and when they turned to look, the dishes were already full. They took them away and returned, more than ten people coming and going in continuous succession, yet the supply was never exhausted. At last, a servant came asking for noodles in broth. From inside, the woman said, "The master did not give prior instructions—how can we prepare them at a moment's notice?" Then she added, "Very well, we shall borrow them." Shortly after, she called for the noodles in broth. When they were brought, there were more than thirty bowls, steaming upon the table. After the guests had departed, she said to Liu, "You should send money to pay for the noodles from that household." Liu sent someone with payment. It turned out that the household had lost their noodles in broth and were greatly perplexed; when the messenger arrived, their confusion was resolved.

One evening, as Liu was drinking, he happened to think of the bitter liquor of Shandong. The woman offered to fetch it. She went out the door and returned after some time, saying, "There is a jar outside that can supply several days' drinking." Liu looked and indeed found wine—it was truly the spring-brewed wine from his own household cask. Several days later, Liu's wife sent two servants to Fenzhou. Along the way, one servant said, "I hear the Fox Lady gives generous rewards. If we receive a reward on this trip, we could buy a fur coat." The woman in the office had already learned of this and said to Liu, "Someone from your household is coming. What I resent is that these vulgar servants are so ill-mannered—I must repay them." The next day, the servant had barely entered the city when his head began to ache terribly. Upon arriving at the office, he clutched his head and wailed. The others proposed giving him medicine. Liu smiled and said, "No need for treatment—when the time comes, it will heal on its own." Everyone suspected he had offended the young mistress. The servant reflected: he had just arrived and had not even unpacked—how could he have committed any offense? Having no one to appeal to, he crawled forward on his knees and begged piteously. A voice from behind the curtain said, "You may call me 'Lady,' and that would be one thing—but why must you say 'fox'?" The servant then understood and kowtowed without ceasing. The voice continued, "If you want a fur coat, how can you also be so ill-mannered?" Then she said, "You are cured now." The moment she finished speaking, the servant's ailment vanished as though it had never been. The servant bowed and was about to leave when suddenly a bundle was thrown from behind the curtain. "This is a lambskin fur coat—take it with you." The servant unwrapped it and found five pieces of gold. Liu asked about news at home. The servant said all was well, except that one jar of stored wine had been lost one night. When he reckoned the date, it was the very night the wine had been taken. Everyone feared her supernatural powers and called her "The Sacred Immortal."

Liu had a small portrait of her painted. At that time, Zhang Daoyi served as Commissioner of Education. Hearing of the strange matter, he visited Liu on the grounds of their shared hometown ties, hoping to meet her. The woman refused. Liu showed him the portrait, and Zhang took it away by force. He hung it by his bedside day and night, praying to it: "With your beauty, what destination could be unworthy? Yet you entrust yourself to that grizzled old man! Your humble servant is by no means inferior to Dongjiu—why not bestow a glance upon me?" The woman suddenly said to Liu in the office, "Master Zhang has been impudent—he deserves a small punishment." One day, as Zhang was praying, someone seemed to strike his forehead with a teacher's ruler, with a loud crack and great pain. Terrified, he rolled up the portrait and returned it. Liu questioned him, and Zhang concealed the truth and gave a false reply. Liu laughed and said, "Does your master's forehead happen to be hurting?" The servant could not deceive him and told him the truth. Before long, Liu's son-in-law, Qi Sheng, came to pay his respects. The woman firmly declined. Qi insisted strongly. Liu said, "A son-in-law is no outsider—why refuse him so stubbornly?" The woman said, "If the son-in-law meets me, I must give him something. His expectations of me are extravagant, and I know I cannot satisfy his wishes—that is why I do not wish to see him." When he pressed her firmly, she agreed to meet him in ten days. When the day arrived, Qi entered and bowed from behind the curtain, offering brief greetings. Her form was dimly visible, and he did not dare to look too closely. As he withdrew, a few steps away, he turned his head to gaze back. They only heard the woman say, "The son-in-law has looked back!" Then she laughed aloud, a harsh, booming cry like an owl's. Upon hearing it, Qi's legs grew weak, and he swayed as though his soul had left his body. After he emerged, he sat for some time before he began to recover. He said, "Just now when I heard that laugh, it was like hearing thunder—I was completely unaware that I even had a body." Shortly after, the maid, by the woman's order, presented Qi with twenty pieces of gold. Qi accepted it and said to the maid, "The Sacred Immortal lives daily with my father-in-law—surely she knows that I am by nature extravagant and unaccustomed to handling small sums?" The woman heard this and said, "I know full well. My purse happens to be empty. Recently I went with companions to Bianliang, which has been seized by the River God—all the treasuries are submerged underwater. We went into the water and each obtained a small amount; how could that satisfy insatiable desires? Moreover, even if I could give generously, his fortune is too thin to bear it."

# The Seeress

The woman could foresee everything; whenever there were difficulties and he consulted with her, she analyzed them all with clarity. One day, they were sitting together when she suddenly looked up to the sky and cried out in alarm: "A great calamity is approaching—what shall we do?" Liu, startled, asked about his family. She said: "The others will all be safe, but I worry for your two sons. This place will soon become a battlefield. You should request an assignment far away, so as to escape disaster." Liu followed her advice. He petitioned his superiors and was given the task of transporting military supplies to Yunnan and Guizhou. The distance was vast, and those who heard of it condoled with him, but the woman alone congratulated him. Before long, Jiang Xiang rebelled, and Fenzhou fell to the bandits. Liu's second son, who had come from Shandong, happened upon the uprising and was killed. When the city fell, all the officials perished, but Liu, being away on official duty, escaped. After the rebellion was quelled, Liu finally returned. Soon after, he was implicated in a major case through no fault of his own, and fell into such poverty that he could not provide his daily meals. Moreover, those in authority made constant demands upon him, and he was driven to such distress that he wished to die. The woman said: "Do not worry. There are three thousand taels of gold beneath the bed—enough to sustain us." Liu was overjoyed and asked: "Where did you steal it from?" She said: "The ownerless things of this world are inexhaustible—why should one need to steal?" Liu borrowed money to arrange his return home, and the woman went with him. Several years later she suddenly departed, leaving behind a paper bundle containing several items, among them a small banner such as mourning households hang at their doors, about two inches long. Everyone considered it an ill omen. Liu died soon after.

# The Thunder Spirit

Lè Yúnhè and Xià Píngzǐ had been neighbors since childhood and studied together as adults, their friendship being the closest possible. Xià had been gifted from a young age and was famous by the age of ten. Lè devoted himself wholeheartedly to serving him, and Xià in turn admonished him without growing weary. Lè's literary abilities improved daily, and as a result their reputations rose together. But they both struggled at the examinations, suffering defeat time and again. Before long, Xià fell ill to an epidemic and died. His family was too poor to bury him, and Lè took it upon himself to shoulder the responsibility single-handedly. Left behind were an infant in swaddling clothes and a widow. Lè provided for their household from time to time; every time he obtained a measure of grain or rice, he would divide it in two, and Xià's wife and child survived on this. Because of this, the scholar-officials esteemed Lè all the more highly.

Lè had never possessed much property, and now, bearing the additional burden of worrying about Xià's family, his household finances grew tighter by the day. He sighed and said: "A man of Píngzǐ's talent still ended his life in obscurity—and what of me? The wealth and honor of this life must be sought in good time. If I spend my whole year in anxious toil, I fear I shall go to the grave before my horse and dog, having wasted this life. Better to seek my own fortune early." Thereupon he abandoned his studies and became a merchant. After half a year in trade, his family's fortunes were somewhat improved.

One day, while visiting Jinling, he rested at an inn. He saw a man of tall stature with protruding sinews and bones, hovering beside his seat, his complexion dark and gloomy, his expression sorrowful. Lè asked: "Do you want something to eat?" The man said nothing. Lè pushed his food toward him; the man ate with his hands, devouring everything in an instant. Lè added enough food for two men, and that too was consumed. He then ordered the innkeeper to cut a pork shoulder and pile it with steamed buns, and the man ate enough for several people before finally satisfying his hunger and offering thanks. "In three years," he said, "I have never eaten so fully." Lè said: "You are clearly a strong man—why do you wander in such destitution?" He replied: "I am burdened with heaven's punishment—I cannot speak of it." Asked where he lived, he said: "On land I have no house; on water I have no boat. I pass from village to city from morning to evening."

Lè packed his things to depart, and the man followed him, lingering and unwilling to leave. Lè tried to dismiss him, but the man said: "You face a great calamity. I cannot bear to forget the kindness of a single meal." Lè thought this strange and went on together with him. On the road, he urged the man to eat with him. The man declined, saying: "I eat only a few meals in an entire year." Lè found this even more extraordinary.

The next day, as they crossed the river, a violent storm arose and all the merchant boats capsized. Lè and the man both sank into the river. Presently the wind died down, and the man carried Lè on his back, treading the waves to the surface. He boarded a passenger boat, then plunged back through the waves. After a while, he towed a boat over and helped Lè aboard, telling him to lie down and wait. He leaped into the river again and carried goods out under both arms, tossing them into the boat. He went in again and again, diving in and out repeatedly, until the boat was full of cargo. Lè thanked him: "You have given me my life—that is more than enough. How dare I hope for the return of my goods as well!" He examined his merchandise and found nothing missing. Delighted, he marveled that the man must be a divine being, and was about to set sail when the man announced his departure. Lè earnestly urged him to stay, and they crossed the river together.

Lè said with a laugh: "In that one calamity, I lost only a single gold hairpin." The man offered to search for it. Lè was just trying to dissuade him when the man had already plunged into the water and disappeared. Lè was stunned for a long time. Then suddenly the man emerged, smiling, and presented the hairpin to Lè. "Fortunate that I did not fail my mission." All those on the river were astonished beyond measure.

Lè brought him home, and they shared the same room and bed. The man ate only once every ten days or so, and when he did eat, his appetite was boundless. One day, the man spoke of leaving again, and Lè firmly urged him to stay. It happened that the sky had grown dark as if about to rain, and they heard the sound of thunder. Lè said: "I wonder what the clouds look like from within—and what is thunder? If only I could ascend to heaven to see it, this mystery could be resolved." The man laughed and said: "Would you like to take a journey among the clouds?"

After a while, Lè grew very tired and lay down on the bed to doze. When he awoke, he felt his body swaying as if he were no longer on the bed. He opened his eyes and found himself amid clouds and mist, his whole body as soft as cotton. Startled, he rose, feeling dizzy as if on a boat. When he stepped, the ground beneath him was soft and yielding. He looked up and saw the stars right before his eyes. He began to suspect it was a dream. Looking closely, he saw the stars embedded in the sky like lotus seeds in their pods—the large ones like jars, the next size like jars of a smaller kind, and the smallest like cups and basins. He reached out and shook them; the large ones were firm and immovable, but the small stars trembled and seemed as if they could be plucked and brought down. He picked one and hid it in his sleeve. Pushing aside the clouds and looking down, he saw a silver sea stretching endlessly, with cities and walls no bigger than beans. He thought with alarm: if I were to lose my footing, how could this body ever be recovered?

Suddenly he saw two dragons twisting and writhing, drawing a carriage draped with silk. Their tails flicked like the crack of an ox-whip. On the carriage was a vessel, several zhang in circumference, filled to the brim with water. There were several dozen men who ladled water from the vessel and scattered it all across the clouds. They suddenly noticed Lè and were all astonished. Lè saw that the strong man he had been with was among them and told the others: "This is my friend." He thereupon took a vessel and gave it to Lè, telling him to scatter water. At that time there was a terrible drought. Lè took the vessel and pushed through the clouds, looking toward his native region, and poured the water with all his might. Before long, the man said to Lè: "I am in fact a Thunder Spirit. I once erred in conducting rain and was punished with three years of exile. Now my term is fulfilled, and I ask to take my leave of you." He then threw a cord ten thousand feet long used for driving the carriage, letting it fall before Lè, and told him to grip the end and lower himself down. Lè was frightened, but the man smiled and said: "It will be all right." Lè did as he was told, and in the space of a breath he had descended to the ground. Looking around, he found himself fallen to his feet outside his village. The cord was gradually drawn up into the clouds and was no more to be seen.

At that time, a long drought had persisted. Beyond ten li, rain barely wetted a finger's depth, yet in the single hamlet of Dule, every ditch and canal brimmed full. He returned home and felt inside his sleeve—the Star was still there. He took it out and placed it on his desk: dark and dull like a stone; but when night fell, it blazed with radiance, illuminating all four walls on every side. He treasured it the more, wrapping it in layers and storing it away. Whenever he had a distinguished guest, he would bring it out to illuminate their drinking. If one gazed straight at it, its rays pierced the eye like shafts of light. One night, his wife sat facing him while he arranged her hair, when suddenly they saw the starlight gradually shrink until it was no larger than a firefly, gliding and darting through the air. His wife was just crying out in astonishment when it already flew into her mouth—she could not cough it up, and it had gone all the way down her throat. She rushed out in alarm to tell Lexing, who marveled at the tale as well. That night he dreamed that Xia Pingzi came and said: "I am the Star of Shaowei. Your kindness and friendship I never forgot, even in the midst of heaven. Moreover, you carried me back yourself from the sky—this may be called a fated bond. Now I shall be your child, to repay your great virtue." Lexing was thirty and had no son; he was overjoyed to receive this dream. From then on, his wife was indeed with child; and when the time of delivery came, the room was filled with a brilliant light, just as when the star had rested upon the desk. Therefore the child was named "Starling." He was extraordinarily quick and keen; at sixteen he passed the jinshi examination.

The Historian of Strange Tales remarks: "Lexing's literary fame was renowned throughout the world. But suddenly he perceived that the placement Heaven had for him lay elsewhere, and he cast aside his writing brush as easily as a worn-out shoe. How is this any different from the man with a swallow's jaw who threw down his pen? As for the Thunder Servingman who repaid the virtue of a single meal, and the Star of Shaowei who requited the understanding of a true friend—do these mean that spirits and immortals bestow private favors in return for kindness? No—it is simply that the Creator repays the worthy and the noble in a just and public way."

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GAMBLING TALISMANS

A Taoist priest surnamed Han lived in the Temple of Tianqi in the county seat. He practiced many illusions and was known to all as an "Immortal." My late father was on the closest terms with him; whenever my father went to the city, he would visit him. One day, my father went to the city with my late uncle, intending to call on Han. They happened to meet him on the road along the way. Han handed over his key and said: "Please go first, open the door, and sit down. In a moment I will be there." They did as he said. When they arrived at the temple and unlocked it, Han was already seated in the room. There were many instances of this sort.

Before this, a poor clansman of ours was addicted to gambling. Through my father, he also came to know Han. It happened that a monk arrived from the Great Buddha Temple who specialized in dice games and gambled on a grand scale. The clansman saw him and was delighted; he poured all his money into gambling and lost heavily. His craving only burned hotter—he pawned and mortgaged his land and returned, losing everything in a single night. Crestfallen and frustrated, he paid a casual visit to Han. His spirit was haggard and his speech incoherent. Han asked him about it, and he told him the whole truth. Han laughed and said: "Those who gamble always lose. If you can swear off gambling, I will win it back for you." The clansman said: "If I can get my pearls back from Hepu, I will grind the dice to pieces with an iron pestle!" Han then wrote a talisman in ink on paper and gave him it, telling him to wear it tucked in his sash. He instructed him: "Once you have recovered your original stake, that is enough. Do not covet more after getting what you wanted." He also gave him a thousand cash, agreeing to be repaid from the winnings. The clansman went off in high spirits. The monk examined his money, exchanged it, and disdained to gamble with him. The clansman insisted, begging to settle it with a single throw. The monk laughed and agreed. He then wagered the thousand cash as a single stake. The monk threw and won nothing; the clansman took the dice and threw a winning cast. The monk wagered two thousand. He lost again. The stakes gradually rose to more than ten thousand. The clansman clearly threw the highest casts—when he called out the dice, they turned into winning combinations every time. Calculating what he had previously lost, he recovered it all in an instant. He thought secretly that winning another few thousand would be even better, and gambled again—but the dice gradually turned against him. Puzzled, he got up and looked at his sash: the talisman was gone. He was greatly alarmed and stopped. He loaded his money and returned to the temple. After repaying Han, he reckoned it up carefully, including what he had lost at the very end—it came to exactly the original sum. He then went to Han and shamefacedly apologized for losing the talisman. Han laughed and said: "It is here with me. I strictly warned you not to be greedy, but you would not listen, so I took it back."

The Historian of Strange Tales remarks: "Nothing in the world ruins a family more swiftly than gambling; nothing in the world corrupts virtue more severely than gambling. Those who enter into it are like a man lost at sea, who will never know where the bottom is. The merchant and the farmer each have their proper trade; the scholar and the man of letters especially cherishes every moment of time. To carry a plow or to hold a classic across one's lap—these are the proper paths to establishing a family; to engage in pure conversation and light drinking—these are the pursuits to which one entrains one's spirit. Yet instead, one consorts with lewd companions, entangling oneself through endless nights. Emptying one's purse and overturning one's chest, one hangs gold upon a perilous height; calling for "pheasant" and crying "black!" one begs for power from lewd and muddled bones. The five dice spin like rolling pearls; the hand clutches many tiles like a round fan. Glancing left at others and looking right at oneself, one's eyes are strained like a demon's; appearing weak on the surface but using force beneath, one exhausts every trick of the shadow-fiend. Guests wait at the door, yet one lingers lovingly by the gaming table; smoke rises from the kitchen fire, yet one stares greedily into the dice bowl. Forgetting meals and abandoning sleep, one has long since sunk into delusion; tongue worn and lips parched, one looks at others and sees only ghosts. When at last the whole army is annihilated and hot eyes stare in vain—looking at the board, one sees clamorous wailing, the frustration of a hero's breast; glancing at the bottom of one's purse, one sees only empty strings, the heart of a brave man turned to cold ash. Craning one's neck and pacing back and forth, one feels the helplessness of empty hands; hanging one's head in desolation, one does not return until the dark night falls. Happily the one who scolds is asleep—one fears only that the dogs will bark; bitterly one's long-empty stomach hungers—dare one complain that the soup is gone? Then one sells children and mortgages land, hoping to recover one's pearls from Hepu—but instead, fire singes the feathers all away, and one fishes for the moon in the end, over the vast river. Only after defeat does one begin to reflect—and already one has become a creature of the lowest order. Ask who is the most skilled at gambling, and all will point to the gentleman without trousers. Indeed, when an empty belly becomes unbearable, one takes up residence among bandits; when scratching one's head brings no solutions, one ends up dependent upon a lady's toilet box. Alas! The corruption of virtue, the destruction of conduct, the ruin of property, the loss of life—are these not all brought about by the single path of gambling?"

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A-Xia

# Jing Xing

Jing Xing of Wendeng enjoyed great fame from a young age. He lived next door to a certain Chen Sheng, their study halls separated by a low wall. One day, as Chen was passing through a desolate stretch of wasteland at dusk, he heard a woman weeping among the pine and cypress trees. He approached and discovered a sash hanging from a horizontal branch—she was about to hang herself. Chen questioned her, and she answered through tears: "My mother has gone far away and entrusted me to my maternal cousin. I never imagined he would turn out a beast at heart, abandoning me without seeing me through. So alone and helpless as I am—I would be better off dead!" Having spoken, she wept again. Chen unfastened the sash and urged her to marry someone. The woman worried she had no one to turn to. Chen asked permission to shelter her at his home, and she agreed.

Once home, Chen lit a lamp and examined her closely—her beauty was extraordinary. Delighted, he sought to force himself upon her. The woman resisted fiercely with loud cries, and the commotion carried through the wall to the neighboring house. Jing Xing climbed over the wall to look, and Chen released the woman. She gazed at Jing, her eyes fixed and searching, then at last fled. Both men gave chase, but she vanished without a trace. Jing returned home, shut his door, and was about to retire when the woman emerged from his chamber, graceful and radiant. He asked her in surprise how she had come there. She replied: "That man is shallow in virtue and thin in fortune—he cannot be trusted with a lifelong commitment." Jing was overjoyed. When he asked her surname, she said: "My family has long lived in Qi. By the name of Qi, my pet name is A-xia." He spoke to her in playful words, and she did not refuse with displeasure; so they lay together.

Many friends came and went at Jing's study, and the woman always kept to the inner chambers. After several days, she said: "I will leave for a time. This place is too crowded and troublesome—it wears me out. From now on, please let me come by night." He asked: "Where is your home?" "Not far at all," she said. She departed early that day, and that night she came back as promised, their love and affection even deeper than before. After several more days, she said to Jing: "The affection between us is good, but it remains a clandestine union. My father is serving in an official post in the western regions, and tomorrow I must go to him with my mother. Allow me to find an opportunity to inform him, and then I will follow you for the rest of my days." He asked: "How many days until we part?" She set the time at ten days.

After she left, Jing considered that living in the study could not last forever; moving her into the main house, he feared his wife's jealousy. He concluded it would be better to divorce his wife. Once his resolve was firm, he berated his wife savagely whenever she came near. Unable to bear the humiliation, his wife wept and wished for death. Jing said: "I fear death would bring trouble for me. I ask you to return to your family soon." He then pressed her to leave. His wife wept: "I have followed you for ten years and have never been wanting in virtue—why are you so ruthless?" Jing would not listen and drove her away more urgently. His wife then departed through the gate. From that day forward, he whitewashed the walls and swept the floors clean, craning his neck and waiting eagerly; but to his dismay, no word came from his blue bird of love—it was like a stone sinking into the sea. After his wife had been fully sent back to her family, she repeatedly asked mutual friends to plead with Jing for reconciliation, but Jing refused. She then married into the Xiahou family. The Xiahou family's village bordered Jing's, and over a dispute about field boundaries, the two families had long nursed a grudge. When Jing learned of this, his rage and regret grew even greater. Still, he hoped A-xia would return, which might offer some consolation. More than a year passed, but there was no trace of her.

It happened that the Sea God's birthday was being celebrated, and men and women thronged inside and outside the temple. Jing was there too. In the distance he saw a woman who looked very much like A-xia. He drew near, but she vanished into the crowd; he followed her and she emerged outside the gate; he followed again, and she floated away and disappeared. Jing could not catch up and returned in frustration and sorrow. Half a year later, while traveling on the road, he saw a young lady dressed in vermilion, attended by a servant and riding a black mule with a bit in its mouth. He looked—it was Xia. He therefore asked her attendant: "Who is the lady?" The reply: "The second wife of Master Zheng of South Village." He asked further: "How long ago was the wedding?" "Half a month." Jing wondered—could he be mistaken? The young lady heard his words and turned her gaze to glance at him; Jing looked closely and she was indeed A-xia. Seeing that she had married another, his chest swelled with indignation. He shouted: "A-xia! How could you forget our old promise?" The attendants, hearing him call out to their mistress, were ready to rain blows upon him. The woman stopped them hastily. She drew back the curtain of gauze and said to Jing: "What face have you to show yourself to me?" Jing said: "You are the one who betrayed me—how have I ever betrayed you?" She said: "You wronged your wife far more than you wronged me! If you could treat your wedded wife this way, what of anyone else? I gave myself to you because your ancestors' virtue was deep and your name stood on the list of successful candidates. But because you abandoned your wife, the powers above have struck your rank and stipends from the registers. Wang Chang, who took the second place in this year's examination, has taken your name. I have married Master Zheng. Trouble me with your thoughts no more." Jing bowed his head and pressed his ears flat, unable to utter a single word. He watched the woman ride away on her donkey as if flying, and could only grieve.

That year, Jing failed the examination, and the second place was indeed won by one Wang Chang. Zheng also passed. Jing thereby earned the name of "fickle-hearted man." By forty he had no wife, and his household declined further; he often depended on relatives and meals at friends' homes. On one occasion he visited Zheng, who received him graciously and kept him as an overnight guest. The woman, seeing the guest through a screen, recognized him and took pity. She asked Zheng: "Is not the guest in the hall Jing Qingyun?" Asked how she knew him, she said: "Before I married you, I once took refuge at his home and received his generous care. Though his conduct has been base, his ancestors' virtue has not yet been exhausted. Moreover, he is an old acquaintance of yours—you should show him the charity of a warm coat." Zheng agreed. He replaced Jing's threadbare garments and kept him for several days. At night, when Jing was about to retire, a maid brought him more than twenty taels of gold and presented it to him. The woman, from outside the window, said: "This is my private savings, offered as a small repayment for old affection. Take it and go find a good match. Fortunately, your ancestors' virtue is still deep enough to reach your descendants. Do not again abandon propriety and shorten your remaining years." Jing thanked her profusely. Upon returning home, he used more than ten taels to buy a maid from an official's family—she was exceedingly ugly and fierce. She bore him a son, who later passed both the provincial and metropolitan examinations. Zheng rose to the rank of Director of the Ministry of Personnel. After his death, the woman escorted the funeral cortège home; when the curtain of the carriage was drawn back, it was empty—no one was inside. Only then did he know she was not human.

Alas! When a man lacks virtue, casting off the old in favor of the new—in the end, the egg is overturned and the bird flies away as well. Heaven's retribution is indeed severe!

# Li Sijian

Li Sijian was a provincial degree holder from Yongnian. On the twenty-eighth day of the ninth month in the fourth year of Kangxi's reign, he beat his wife Li to death. The local authorities reported the case to Guangping, and Yongnian was ordered to investigate and try it. While Li Sijian stood before the prefectural office, he suddenly seized a butcher's cleaver from beneath a meat rack and rushed into the City God Temple, mounting the stage and kneeling before the deity. He said: "The god reproves me for having listened to a wicked man and perverting right and wrong among my neighbors—he bids me cut off my ear." He then cut off his left ear and threw it from the stage. He said again: "The god reproves me for having cheated others of their silver and cash—he bids me chop off my finger." He then chopped off his left finger. He said again: "The god reproves me for having debauched women—he bids me cut off my organ." He then castrated himself and fell unconscious, stiff and prostrate. At that time, Governor Zhu Yunmen had submitted a memorial impeaching him and requesting his removal from office and full prosecution, and an imperial rescript had already been received—but Li Sijian had already met his punishment in the underworld. From the *Gazette*.

# The Lord of Five Black Rams

Hechang Chang Tiyu, courtesy name Ruyu, was a student when he dreamed of someone calling him "Lord of the Five Rams" and took it as a good omen. Later, when the roving bandits attacked, they stripped off all his clothes and locked him in an empty room for the night. It was winter, and bitterly cold; groping in the dark, he found several sheepskins to cover his body with and barely escaped death. At dawn, he looked and found there were exactly five. He laughed ruefully to himself that the gods had been playing a trick on him. He later passed the classical examination and was appointed magistrate of Luonan County. This is recorded in the annals of Mr. Bi Zaiji.

**The Hairy Fox**

A peasant boy named Ma Tianrong, in his twenties, had lost his wife and was too poor to remarry. Once while weeding in the fields, he saw a young woman in elaborate makeup crossing the paths between the crops. Her complexion was ruddy, her bearing quite alluring. Ma suspected she had lost her way. Seeing no one else around, he flirted with her playfully. She responded faintly. He wanted to couple with her in the wild, but she laughed and said: "Under this bright sky and white sun—is this really fitting? Go home, close your door and wait; I shall come at nightfall." Ma did not believe her, but she swore an oath, so he told her the exact orientation of his doors and windows, and she left. When night came, she indeed arrived, and they took pleasure in each other. He noticed her skin was extremely tender; when he held a lamp to it, her skin was red and thin as an infant's, with fine hair covering her whole body—strange. Then again, her movements seemed to leave no trace; he wondered to himself if she could be a fox. So he playfully interrogated her, and she admitted it without concealment. Ma said: "Since you are an immortal, you should be able to obtain anything. Now that we have been intimate, surely you could spare a few pieces of gold to relieve my poverty?" She promised. The next night when she came, Ma asked for the gold. She feigned surprise and said: "I just forgot." As she was leaving, Ma urged her again. That night he asked: "You haven't forgotten what I begged for, have you?" She smiled and asked him to wait a few more days. Several days passed, and Ma asked again. She smiled and pulled from her sleeve two silver ingots, worth perhaps five or six taels, with raised edges and fine patterns—quite lovely to hold. Ma was delighted and stored them carefully in a box. Half a year later, needing money by chance, he took them out to show someone. The person said: "This is tin." Ma bit it with his teeth, and a piece fell away instantly. Ma was greatly alarmed, stored them again, and went home. That night, when the woman came, he angrily reproached her. She laughed and said: "You have a thin fate—you cannot even handle real gold." And with that laugh, it was over.

Ma said: "I've heard that fox-spirits are all beauties of the realm—but apparently that's not always so." The woman said: "We all appear according to the person. Since you cannot even enjoy the fortune of a single piece of gold, how could you ever deserve a beauty who sinks geese and drownes fish? Being dull and plain as I am, I certainly am not fit for an upper-class man; but compared to one with huge feet and a hunched back, I am a beauty of the realm." After several months, she suddenly gave Ma three pieces of gold, saying: "You have asked me repeatedly, but your fate does not allow you to hoard gold. Now the matchmaking has been arranged—I give you the funds for a wife, and by this token we part." Ma explained that he had no such marriage plans. She said: "In a day or two, a matchmaker will come." Ma asked: "What does she look like?" She said: "Since you desire a beauty of the realm, she shall be a beauty of the realm." Ma said: "I wouldn't dare hope for that. But how can three pieces of gold buy a wife?" She said: "This is predestined by the Old Man Under the Moon—it is beyond human power." Ma asked: "Why must we part so soon?" She said: "Wandering by moonlight and starlight—this can no way be a lasting arrangement. 'The gentleman already has a wife'—what good is evasion?" At dawn she departed, giving him a knife-spoonful of yellow powder, saying: "After we part, you may fall ill; taking this will cure you."

The next day, a matchmaker indeed came. He first asked about the woman's looks; she replied: "Somewhere between pretty and plain." "How much is the bride price?" "About four or five taels." Ma did not haggle over the price but insisted on seeing the woman himself. The matchmaker feared a girl of good family would not show herself. Eventually they arranged to go together and seize an opportunity. When they reached the village, the matchmaker went ahead first, telling Ma to wait outside. After a long while, she returned and said: "It's settled. My cousin lives in the same courtyard as she. I just went there and saw the girl sitting in the room. Pretend to be visiting my cousin and walk past—you can glimpse her at arm's length." Ma did so. He indeed saw the girl sitting in the hall, lying prostrate on the bed while someone scratched her back. Ma walked past quickly and cast a glance—her looks were truly as the matchmaker had described. When they discussed the bride price, she did not bargain at all, asking only for one or two taels to outfit the bride for the wedding. Ma found this even cheaper, so he paid the gold; and after compensating the matchmaker and the scribe who drew up the contract, the three taels were entirely spent—not a single extra coin was wasted. He chose an auspicious day to welcome the bride home. When she entered the door, he saw that both her chest and back were hunched, her neck retracted like a turtle's, and looking down beneath her skirt, her lotus-boat shoes were a full foot long. Then he understood the reason behind the fox's words.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "Appearing according to the person—perhaps the fox-girl was mocking herself. Yet what she said about blessings and fortune deserves deep trust. I often say: without several generations of cultivation by one's ancestors, one cannot attain high office; without several generations of cultivation by oneself, one cannot obtain a worthy spouse. Those who believe in cause and effect will surely not take my words as empty and far-fetched."

**Piaopian**

Luo Zifu was a native of Binzhou. Both his parents died early. At eight or nine years old, he depended on his uncle, Luo Daye. Daye was a student in the Left Wing of the Imperial Academy, wealthy in gold and silk but childless, and he loved Luo Zifu as his own son. At fourteen, Zifu was led astray by bad companions and took up a life of debauchery. There happened to be a prostitute from Jinling residing in the prefecture, and the young man was infatuated and bewitched by her. When the prostitute returned to Jinling, the young man secretly followed her and fled. He lived at the brothel for half a year, until his money was entirely spent and he became the butt of his sisters-in-trade's scorn. Still, they did not immediately cast him out. Before long, his venereal sores festered and stained, contaminating the bed, and they drove him out. He begged in the marketplace. The townsfolk would avoid him from afar.

Fearing he might die in a foreign land, he begged for food as he journeyed west, covering thirty or forty *li* a day until he gradually reached the borders of Bin. Then, thinking that his ragged, pus-stained clothes made it shameful to enter his native village, he lingered hesitantly near the town. When the day grew late, he sought to hasten to a mountain temple for lodging. There he met a woman, her countenance like that of an immortal. She approached and asked, "Where are you going?" The scholar told her the truth. The woman said, "I am one who has left the world. I have a dwelling in a mountain cave where you may stay the night. I am not at all afraid of tigers or wolves." The scholar was delighted and followed her. Deep into the mountain they went, where he saw a grotto dwelling. Entering, he found a stream flowing across the doorway, spanned by a stone bridge. A few paces further, there were two stone chambers, bright and luminous throughout, needing no lamp or candle. She bade the scholar take off his tattered garments and bathe in the stream. "Wash yourself," she said, "and your wound will heal." She then spread a curtain, smoothed the bedding, and urged him to sleep. "Please rest now. I shall make you trousers." She took large leaves resembling those of the plantain, cut and stitched them into garments. The scholar lay watching her. In no time at all, she folded the finished garments and placed them at the head of the bed. "Put them on in the morning," she said. Then she slept in the bed opposite his. After bathing, the scholar felt no pain from his wound. When he awoke, he touched it and found a thick scab had formed. At dawn, about to rise, he doubted that banana leaves could be worn. He picked them up and examined them closely—they were green brocade, smooth as could be. Shortly after, she prepared a meal. The woman took mountain leaves, called them cakes, and he ate them—they were indeed cakes. She also cut leaves into the shapes of chickens and fish, and when cooked they were just as real as the genuine articles. In a corner of the room was a jar storing fine wine, which she drew and served whenever they drank. When it grew low, she would replenish it with stream water. After several days, the scabs had all fallen off, and he asked the woman to share his bed. The woman said, "You fickle creature! You've barely found a place to rest, and already you harbor reckless thoughts!" The scholar said, "Only to repay your kindness." So they lay together and were greatly enamoured with each other.

One day, a young woman entered laughing and said, "You little rascal, having the time of your life! When did that nun Sister Xue's dream come true?" The woman greeted her with a smile and said, "Lady Huacheng, your honoured feet have not trod this way for long! Today the southwest wind blew strong—it must have carried you here! Have you borne your little boy yet?" She replied, "Another little girl." The woman laughed and said, "Lady Huacheng is quite the tile kiln! Why didn't you bring her?" "I was just rocking her to sleep when she fell asleep." So they sat and drank leisurely. The young woman then turned to the scholar and said, "Young sir, you've burned some fine incense indeed." The scholar looked at her—she was twenty-three or twenty-four, with grace and beauty to spare. He was smitten. In peeling fruit, he let one slip and fall beneath the table. Feigning to pick it up, he secretly pinched her tiny bound-foot slipper. Huacheng glanced elsewhere and smiled, as though she knew nothing of it. The scholar was dazed, his spirit stolen, and suddenly his robes and trousers felt cold to the touch. Looking down at what he wore, he found it had all turned into autumn leaves. He was nearly overcome with terror. He sat stiffly for a while, and gradually his clothes returned to normal. He secretly rejoiced that the two women had not noticed. A short while later, during their exchanges of toasts, he again used his finger to tickle her slender palm. Huancheng laughed and chatted with perfect ease, entirely unaware. In the midst of his pounding, bewildered heart, his clothes had already turned to leaves; only after some time did they change back. From then on, he grew more guarded in his expression and checked his thoughts, daring not indulge in wild fancies. Huacheng laughed and said, "Your young master is quite the scoundrel! If he weren't for this vinegar-gourd lady, I fear he'd leap right up into the clouds." The woman also sneered and said, "That faithless creature—he'd deserve to freeze to death!" They clapped their hands together. Huacheng rose from her seat and said, "The little maid has woken—she'll cry her heart out." The woman also stood and said, "So absorbed in leading another family's man, you've forgotten little Jiangcheng will cry herself hoarse." After Huacheng left, the scholar feared he would be reproached; but the woman conversed with him as calmly as ever.

Before long, autumn waned and the wind grew cold; frost fell and the trees shed their leaves. The woman then gathered fallen leaves and stored provisions to withstand the winter. Seeing the scholar huddled and shivering, she took a cloth bag and collected the white clouds at the cave entrance, making them into wadding and layered garments. When he put them on, they were warm as a padded jacket, and light and soft as new cotton. A year later, she bore a son, extremely clever and beautiful. Each day the scholar amused himself in the cave playing with the child. Yet he often thought of his homeland and begged the woman to return with him. The woman said, "I cannot go with you. Otherwise, you may go yourself." Two or three years passed in this way, and the child gradually grew. A marriage was then arranged between the child and Huacheng's daughter. The scholar often thought of his aging uncle. The woman said, "Your uncle is indeed very old, but fortunately still hale and hearty—worry yourself needlessly. Wait until our child's wedding is settled; then you may go or stay as you please." In the cave, the woman would take leaves and write books to teach the child to read; the child understood them at a glance. The woman said, "This child has the marks of good fortune. Let him enter the mortal world and he will rise to high office without worry." Before long, the child was fourteen. Huacheng personally came to present her daughter. The girl arrived in splendid attire, her radiant beauty illuminating all who beheld her. The husband and wife were overjoyed, and the whole family gathered for a feast. Piaopian struck her hairpin and sang:

"I have a fine son—I envy not high office.

I have a fine daughter-in-law—I envy not silken finery.

Tonight we are gathered together;

All should be glad and merry.

I pour wine for you;

I urge you to eat your fill."

Afterward Huacheng departed, and the young couple took up residence in a chamber opposite the scholar's. The new daughter-in-law was filial, clinging to her parents-in-law's knees as though she were their own child. The scholar again spoke of returning home. The woman said, "You have mortal bones—you will never be of the immortal kind. Our son too is one destined for wealth and honour. You may take him with you; I will not hinder his life's path." The new daughter-in-law wished to bid her mother farewell, but Huacheng had already arrived. The children were reluctant to part, tears filling both their eyes. The two mothers comforted them: "You go for now, but you may return." Then Piaopian cut leaves into the shape of donkeys and bade the three mount them and ride home.

Daye had grown old and retired to his rural retreat. He believed his nephew was dead, and was overjoyed as though he had found a treasure when the scholar suddenly returned with a fine grandson and a beautiful daughter-in-law. Upon entering the house, they looked at their clothes—all were banana leaves. When they tore them open, the wadding rose steaming into the air and vanished. So they all changed their garments. Later, the scholar thought of Piaopian and went with his son to visit her. But yellow leaves covered the path, the cave entrance was lost in clouds, and they returned weeping.

The Historian of Strange Tales remarks: "Piaopian and Huacheng—were they perhaps immortals? Eating leaves and clothing themselves in clouds—how strange indeed! Yet their jokes within the bedchamber, their dalliance and the bearing of children—in what way did they differ from the human world? Fifteen years in the mountains, though there was no 'change of people and city walls' to mark the passage of time—yet the clouds veiling the cave entrance and the absence of any trace to follow—judging from the scene, it was truly like the moment when Liu and Zhen turned their boat back!"

Li Taigong Jingyi told me the following story: "A certain gentleman was in Shenyang, hosting a gathering atop a mountain. Gazing down at the mountainside, he saw a tiger carrying something in its mouth. The tiger dug a hole with its claws, buried the object, and departed. He sent men to investigate what had been buried and found a dead deer. They took the deer away and loosely covered the hole again. Shortly afterward, the tiger led a black beast to the spot, its fur several inches long. The tiger went ahead as if escorting a honored guest. When they reached the hole, the beast crouched and watched with fierce eyes. The tiger probed the hole and found the deer gone; it trembled and crouched down, not daring to move. The beast was enraged by the deception and struck the tiger on the forehead with its paw, killing it instantly. The beast then left straight away."

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "No one knows the name of this beast. Yet judging by its size, it was not much larger than the tiger—so why did the tiger stretch its neck to receive death, fearing it to such a degree? Every creature has something that subdues it, and this principle defies explanation. For example, macaques are most afraid of marmosets: when they spot one from afar, even a hundred or more macaques will form a ring, kneel down, and none dares to flee. With fixed eyes and held breath, they wait for the marmoset to arrive, which uses its paws to feel each one over for fatness or leanness; the fat ones are then marked with a stone placed on top of their heads. The macaques, bearing the stones, crouch motionless like wooden chickens, terrified lest the stones fall. Once the marmoset has finished marking them, it takes the stones off one by one and feeds on them, and only then do the rest scatter in a clamor. I have always said that corrupt officials are like the marmoset: they too feel out the fatness and leanness of the people, mark them, and then tear them apart and feed upon them. And the people, listening with pinned ears to be devoured, dare not even breathe—their foolishness is exactly the same. How pitiful!"

<End of Volume Three>