Volume 5

Volume 5

# The Marquis of Yangwu

Xue Gonglu, Marquis of Yangwu, was a native of Xue Family Island in Jiaozhou. His father, Old Master Xue, was extremely poor and herded cattle for a village schoolmaster. The schoolmaster had a plot of fallow land where Xue grazed his cattle. There he repeatedly saw snakes and rabbits fighting among the overgrown weeds. Thinking this a strange omen, he asked the owner to let him use the land for a homestead and built a thatched cottage to live there. Several years later, when his wife was about to give birth, a sudden rainstorm struck. It happened that two regional commanders, on a mission to inspect the coast, were passing by and took shelter from the rain in his doorway. Seeing a flock of crows and magpies gathered on the roof, competing to cover the leaks with their wings, they were amazed. When the old man came out, the commanders asked, "What were you doing just now?" He told them his wife was in childbirth. They asked what had been born, and he replied, "A boy." The commanders were even more astonished. "He must be destined for the highest rank! Otherwise, how could the two of us, commanders both, be assigned to guard his door?" They sighed with wonder and departed. When the marquis grew up, his face was always dirty and snot hung from his nose—he showed no sign of intelligence at all. The Xue clan on the island had long been registered in the military rolls. That year, it was the old man's family's turn to send a man to garrison Liaoyang. The old man's eldest son was deeply worried about this. At the time, the future marquis was eighteen years old. People thought him a great fool, and no one was willing to give him a wife. He suddenly said to his brother, "Elder Brother, you fret—is it because no one can be found to go on garrison duty?" "Yes," said the brother. The youth laughed and said: "If you would give me a maidservant as my wife, I will undertake this service." The brother was delighted and immediately matched him with a maid. The marquis then took his wife and set out for the garrison. After they had traveled only several tens of *li*, a sudden downpour gathered. There was a dangerous cliff beside the road, and the couple rushed to shelter beneath it. A short while later the rain stopped and they resumed their journey. They had gone only a few paces when the cliff collapsed. Villagers in the distance watched as two tigers leaped out, bore down upon the two people, and vanished with them. From this point on, the marquis possessed extraordinary valor and his appearance was utterly transformed. Later, through military merit, he was enfeoffed as the hereditary Marquis of Yangwu. During the Tianqi and Chongzhen reigns, a certain marquis of the line died without a son, leaving only a posthumous child in the womb. A collateral branch temporarily assumed the title. In all hereditary fiefs, when a woman becomes pregnant, the matter is reported to the court, and officials send an old woman to attend and guard her until the birth is completed. More than a year passed, and the lady gave birth to a girl. After the delivery, her belly still moved with quakes. This continued for fifteen years, through the service of several different old women, and then a son was born. He was entitled to receive the hereditary title as the proper heir. The collateral branch made an uproar, claiming the child was not of Xue blood. The authorities took all the old women into custody and subjected them to every manner of torture and restraint, but none of them changed her testimony. The title was then confirmed.

# The Tiger of Zhao City

An old woman of Zhao City, over seventy years of age, had only one son. One day he went into the mountains and was devoured by a tiger. The old woman was grief-stricken, nearly beyond the will to live. She wailed and wept as she laid her complaint before the magistrate. The magistrate smiled and said, "How can a tiger be brought to justice by the law?" She wailed all the more, unable to restrain herself. The magistrate scolded her, but she was not afraid. Taking pity on her age and unable to bear venting his wrath upon her, he promised to catch the tiger for her. The old woman crouched there and would not leave until the warrant was issued. The magistrate had no choice and asked his runners which among them could go. A runner named Li Neng, tipsy with wine, stepped forward and said, "I can." He took the warrant, and only then did the old woman leave. When the runner sobered up he regretted it, but still thought the magistrate had only been making a pretense to placate the old woman's disturbance. He therefore did not take the matter too seriously and presented the warrant for return. The magistrate was angry. "You said you could do it—how can you go back on your word now?" The runner was in an awkward predicament and asked permission to summon hunters to make the arrest. The magistrate agreed. The runner gathered the hunters, and they lay in ambush in the mountains and valleys day and night, hoping to catch one tiger to fulfill their duty. After more than a month, they had received several hundred beatings and had no way to vent their grievances and suffering. Li Neng then went to the Temple of the City God outside the east gate, knelt and prayed, and wept until he lost his voice. Before long, a tiger came in from outside. The runner was startled and terrified that it would bite and devour him. The tiger entered but paid no attention to anything else; it crouched and stood in the doorway. The runner prayed: "If it was you who killed my son, then lower your head and let me bind you." He then brought out ropes and fastened them around the tiger's neck. The tiger laid back its ears and submitted to the binding. Li Neng led it to the county office. The magistrate asked the tiger, "Did you devour this man's son?" The tiger nodded. The magistrate said: "He who kills a man must die—this is the ancient law. Moreover, the old woman had only one son, and you killed him. Her remaining years are few—how is she to live? If you can be a son to her, I will pardon you." The tiger nodded again. The magistrate released the bonds and let it go. The old woman was angry that the magistrate had not killed the tiger to avenge her son. But at dawn the next day, she opened her door and found a dead deer. The old woman sold its hide and flesh and used the money to support herself. This became a regular occurrence; the tiger would sometimes carry gold and silk and toss them into the courtyard. The old woman grew prosperous from this, and her livelihood surpassed what her son had provided. She secretly felt grateful to the tiger. When the tiger came, it would lie beneath the eaves and not leave all day. Humans and beast lived in peace, each harboring no suspicion of the other. After several years, the old woman died, and the tiger came roaring into the hall. The savings she had accumulated were more than enough for a funeral, and her kinsmen buried her. The mound had just been completed when the tiger suddenly charged up, and all the guests fled. The tiger went straight to the front of the tomb, roaring like thunder, and only after some time did it leave. The locals built a "Righteous Tiger Shrine" in the eastern suburbs, which stands to this day.

# The Mantis Catches the Snake

A man surnamed Zhang was once walking along a stream in a valley when he heard a very fierce sound coming from above the cliff. He found a path and climbed up to look. He saw a huge snake, coiled as large as a bowl, thrashing and striking among a thicket of trees, using its tail to lash at willows—the branches snapped and broke. Its twisting and turning suggested that something was seizing and controlling it, but he looked carefully and could see nothing at all. He was greatly puzzled. Drawing closer to observe, he saw a mantis perched on the snake's head, grasping it with its toothed forelegs, and the snake could not shake it off. After a long time, the snake finally died. Upon examining the ridge of flesh above its eyes, he found the hide already torn open.

# Martial Arts

# Li Cha

Li Chao, styled Kuaiwu, was a man from the western borders of Zichuan. He was generous and open-hearted, fond of helping others. One day a monk came begging for alms, and Li fed him a hearty meal. The monk was deeply grateful and said, "I am a disciple of Shaolin. I have some modest skills that I would like to teach you." Li was delighted. He lodged the monk in his guest quarters, provided him generously, and studied with him morning and evening. After three months, Li had become quite proficient and was thoroughly pleased with himself. The monk asked, "Have you improved?" Li said, "Indeed. Whatever my master can do, I can now do it all." The monk smiled and bade Li demonstrate his skills. Li stripped off his clothes, spat on his hands, and moved like a flying swooping, like a bird alighting. He leaped and bounded for some time, then stood there swaggering with pride. The monk smiled again and said, "Not bad. Since you have mastered all my skills, let us have a contest to see who is better." Li readily agreed, and they faced each other with arms folded in fighting stances. They grappled and parried, and whenever Li found an opening in the monk's defense, he pressed it—but suddenly the monk sent a flying kick, and Li was sent tumbling more than ten feet onto his back. The monk clapped his hands and said, "You have not yet mastered all my skills!" Li clambered to his feet from the ground, ashamed and crestfallen, and begged to be taught further. After several more days, the monk took his leave.

From then on Li became famous for his martial arts and roamed north and south, finding no equal. By chance he came to Licheng, where he saw a young nun demonstrating her skills in an open ground, the spectators packed around her. The nun said to the crowd, "Performing all by myself is rather a lonely affair. If any sporting gentlemen would like to come down and have a bout for fun, they are welcome." She said this three times. The crowd looked at each other, but no one responded. Li, standing at the side, felt an irresistible itch to compete and strode forward in high spirits. The nun smiled and joined her palms in greeting. But after just one exchange, the nun suddenly called a halt and said, "That is a Shaolin school." She at once asked, "Who is your master?" Li would not say at first. When she pressed him, he told her about the monk. The nun clasped her hands and said, "Is your master the Monk Han? If so, there is no need to match hands and feet—I would rather yield the victory." Li begged repeatedly, but the nun refused. The crowd urged her on, and at last she said, "Since you are a disciple of Master Han, we are both people of the same world. There is no harm in a friendly bout. But let us both exercise restraint." Li agreed. However, because the nun looked gentle and frail, he underestimated her; moreover, being young and eager to win, he wanted to defeat her to make a name for himself that very day. As they were evenly matched, the nun suddenly stopped. Li asked why, but she only smiled and said nothing. Li thought she was afraid and insisted on another bout. The nun then rose. After a moment, Li kicked out with one ankle. The nun brought down her five fingers in a chopping motion onto his thigh; Li felt as though a knife or axe had struck below his knee, and he collapsed, unable to rise. The nun smiled and apologized, "I was reckless and have offended my guest—I hope you will forgive me!" Li was carried home and did not recover for over a month.

More than a year later, the monk returned and Li recounted what had happened. The monk was alarmed and said, "You were terribly reckless! Why did you provoke her? Fortunately you told her my name first—otherwise your leg would have been broken!"

# The Little Man

During the Kangxi reign, a sorcerer carried a casket containing a little man about a foot tall. When money was offered, he would open the casket and let the little man come out; the man would sing a song and then retreat. He came to Ye, and the magistrate of Ye confiscated the casket into his office and carefully examined the little man's origins. At first the little man dared not speak; under persistent questioning, he finally told his village and clan. It turned out he had been a schoolboy who, returning from his tutor's, had been bewitched by the sorcerer, who then gave him a drug that caused his four limbs to shrink violently. The sorcerer had carried him about ever since as a plaything for entertainment. The magistrate was furious and executed the sorcerer. He kept the boy, intending to cure him, but had not yet found the right method.

# Qin Sheng

Qin Sheng of Laizhou was making medicated wine when he accidentally mixed in a poisonous ingredient. Unable to bear throwing it away, he sealed the jar and put it aside. More than a year later, one evening he happened to crave a drink but had no wine at hand. He suddenly remembered his stored brew, unsealed it, and sniffed—its fragrance gushed out, intoxicating and irresistible, his mouth watering uncontrollably. He was about to take a cup and taste it when his wife earnestly tried to dissuade him. Qin laughed and said, "To die drinking to my heart's content is far better than dying of thirst and craving!" He finished one cup, then tipped the bottle to pour another. His wife overturned the bottle, and wine overflowed across the room. Qin prostrated himself on the ground and drank like an ox. Before long his stomach seized up and his jaw locked, and he died in the middle of the night. His wife wailed and wept, prepared a coffin, and was proceeding with the burial. The following night, a beautiful woman entered, no more than three feet tall, and went straight to the coffin. She poured water from a small bowl into his mouth, and he revived at once. Qin questioned her and she said, "I am a fox spirit. My husband had gone to the Chen household to steal wine and drank himself into a stupor and died. I went to rescue him and bring him back, and happened to pass by your house. He took pity on you, seeing that you shared the same affliction as himself, and so he sent me to revive you with the remainder of the medicine." With that, she vanished.

My friend Qiu Xingsu, a tribute scholar, was fond of drinking. One night he craved wine but had none he could buy, and his craving grew unbearable, so he thought of substituting vinegar. He proposed this to his wife, who laughed at him. Qiu insisted, and she heated some vinegar and served it. When the pot was emptied, he undressed and went to sleep contentedly. The next day, his wife spent the money meant for a pot of wine and sent a servant to buy some instead. On the way he met his elder brother's younger brother Xiangchen, who asked what was going on, and suspected that his sister-in-law had been unwilling to procure wine for her husband. The servant said, "My mistress said, 'We don't have much vinegar at home—we used up half of it last night. If we use another pot, the vinegar supply will be finished!'" All who heard this laughed. They did not understand that when the craving for wine is at its height, even poison would taste sweet—how much more so vinegar! This too is worth passing on.

# Ya Tou

Wang Wen was a scholar of Dongchang. From his youth, he was sincere and honest. While travelling in Chu, he passed by Liuhe and stopped at an inn, where he took a leisurely walk outside. There he encountered a fellow villager, Zhao Donglou, a wealthy merchant who had been away from home for several years. When Zhao saw Wang, they embraced each other with great warmth, and Zhao invited Wang to visit him. When Wang arrived, he saw a beautiful woman seated in the room. Startled and bewildered, he drew back. Zhao pulled him forward, and calling through the window, told the girl to leave. Wang then entered. Zhao prepared wine and food and they talked of old times. Wang asked, "What place is this?" Zhao replied, "This is a small brothel. Because I have been away from home for so long, I have borrowed it as a temporary lodging." As they spoke, the girl kept coming in and out. Wang felt uneasy and rose from his seat to take his leave. Zhao forcibly took his hand and made him sit down again. Presently a young girl passed by the door outside. She glanced at Wang and her eyes returned to him again and again, her brows and eyes full of feeling, her bearing graceful and refined—truly a creature of divine beauty. Wang had always been upright and proper, but now he sat in a daze as though he had lost himself. He asked, "Who is that beautiful one?" Zhao said, "This is the old woman's second daughter, whose pet name is Yatou. She is fourteen. Many a man has offered the old woman a large sum on her account, but the girl steadfastly refuses. The mother has beaten her for it, but the girl pleaded that she was too young and was spared. She is still awaiting a match." When Wang heard this, he lowered his head and sat in a silent stupor, his responses all awry. Zhao joked, "If you are inclined, I will act as the go-between." Wang said dejectedly, "Such a thought dare not enter my mind." Yet as the sun declined toward evening, he made no mention of leaving. Zhao again made the offer in jest. Wang said, "I am deeply grateful for your kind intentions, but what can I do with empty pockets?" Zhao knew the girl was of a fierce disposition and would certainly refuse, so he offered ten taels of silver to help. Wang bowed in thanks and hurried out, then returned with all his money, which amounted to five taels. He pressed Zhao to approach the old woman. The old woman indeed thought it too little. Yatou said to her mother, "Mother, you daily reproach me for not being a money-making tree. Now I shall do as you wish. I am just learning how to live as a person, and I shall repay you in time. Do not let this small fortune slip away." Since the girl was stubborn, the mother was merely glad to have her consent. She agreed and sent a maid to invite Young Master Wang. Zhao, finding it difficult to go back on his word, added more silver and gave it to the old woman. Wang and the girl were most devoted to each other. Afterward, the girl said to Wang, "I am a creature of the pleasure quarters, unworthy to be your match. Since you have shown me such affection, the bond between us is most serious. You have emptied your purse for a single night's joy—what of tomorrow?" Wang's eyes brimmed with tears and he choked with grief. The girl said, "Do not grieve. It was not my wish to give myself to the dust of the pleasure quarters. But I had found no one as loyal and steadfast as you to entrust myself to. Let us flee by night." Wang was overjoyed and rose quickly; the girl also rose. They heard the night watchman's drum strike for the third time. The girl hastily changed into men's clothing and they left quickly together, knocking on the innkeeper's door. Wang had come with two guards, and claiming urgent business, he ordered the servants to set out at once. The girl tied a charm to the servants' legs and to the donkeys' ears. They loosened the reins and galloped at full speed. Wang could not open his eyes, and behind him he heard only the wind whistling past. By dawn they had reached the mouth of the Han River, where they stopped and rented a house. Wang marvelled at her powers. The girl said, "If I tell you, will you not be afraid? I am not human—I am a fox. My mother is greedy and licentious, and I suffered daily abuse; my heart was filled with bitterness. Now I have happily escaped the sea of suffering. A hundred li away, she knows nothing of us. We may be fortunate and safe." Wang harboured no doubts and said calmly, "Facing such beauty as a lotus flower, I am afraid my poverty—four bare walls—will be hard to bear, and I fear you will eventually cast me aside." The girl said, "Why entertain such a thought? Now everything can be bought for a livelihood. With three or four mouths to feed, even a frugal life can be sustained. You can sell the donkey as capital." Wang did as she said and set up a small shop in front of the house. Wang and his servants worked side by side, selling wine and provisions there. The girl made shoulder coverings and embroidered purses, and each day they earned a surplus. Their food and drink were excellent. After more than a year, they were gradually able to keep maids and servants. Wang no longer wore coarse work clothes but oversaw and directed their labours.

One day the girl suddenly grew melancholy and said, "Tonight trouble will surely come. What shall we do?" Wang asked her about it. She said, "My mother has learned of my whereabouts. She will certainly come to force me back. If she sends my elder sister, I have no fear. But I dread that she will come herself." When the night was half over, she said with relief, "It is all right—my elder sister has come." Before long, the maid forced the door open and entered. The girl smiled and went to meet her. The maid cursed, "Shameless slave! Running off with a man into hiding! Old Mother has sent me to tie you up." She immediately produced a rope and bound the girl's neck. The girl said angrily, "What crime is there in being faithful to one man?" The maid grew even more furious, seized the girl, and tore her collar. The household maids and servants all gathered. The maid, frightened, ran out. The girl said, "When my sister returns, Mother herself will surely come. The great disaster is not far off—we must quickly make plans." She hastily packed, intending to move again. Suddenly the old woman burst in, her face full of wrath. "I knew this slave was ill-mannered—I had come myself!" The girl knelt before her and wept piteously. The old woman said nothing, seized her by the hair, and dragged her away. Wang paced about in anguish, unable to sleep or eat. He hastened to Liuhe, hoping to ransom her with money. When he arrived, the courtyard was as before, but the people were gone. He asked the neighbours, but none knew where they had moved. He returned in mourning. Thereupon he distributed his remaining funds to his travelling companions and returned east with an empty purse.

Several years later, he happened to enter the capital and passed by the foundling hospital, where he saw a boy of seven or eight. The servant, thinking the boy strangely resembled his master, stared at him again and again. Wang asked, "What do you find remarkable about this child?" The servant replied with a smile, and Wang also smiled. Looking at the boy closely, he had an open and generous bearing. Reflecting that he had no heir, and finding the boy so like himself, he loved him and ransomed him. When asked his name, the boy called himself Zizi. Wang said, "You were abandoned as an infant—how could you know your surname?" He said, "My teacher once told me that when I was found, there were words written on my chest: 'Son of Wang Wen of Shandong.'" Wang was greatly astonished and said, "I am Wang Wen—how could I have a son?" He supposed it must be someone with the same name. In his heart he rejoiced and cherished the boy dearly. When they returned, all who saw the boy knew at once that he was Wang's son. As Zizi grew, he became powerful and strong, fond of hunting, disinclined to productive work, delighting in fighting and given to killing. Wang could not restrain him either. He further claimed that he could see ghosts and fox spirits, but no one believed him. It happened that someone in the village was plagued by a fox and asked Zizi to investigate. Upon arriving, Zizi pointed to the fox's hiding place and had several men strike where he indicated. They immediately heard the fox cry out, and fur and blood fell together; from then on the trouble ceased. Because of this, people regarded him with even greater wonder.

Wang was once strolling through the marketplace when he suddenly encountered Zhao Donglou, whose cap and gown were disheveled and his face haggard and wan. Startled, Wang asked where he had come from. Zhao, looking wretched, asked to speak privately. Wang brought him home and ordered wine. Zhao said, "The old woman has gotten Ya Tou and subjected her to cruel beatings. After moving north, she also tried to force her to change her ways. The girl vowed to remain faithful unto death, so she was imprisoned. She bore a boy and abandoned him in a back alley; I heard he is in the orphanage and must have grown by now. He is your flesh and blood." Wang shed tears and said, "Heaven has blessed me—my wayward son has returned." He then recounted the whole story. He asked, "How have you fallen into such straits?" Zhao sighed and said, "Now I understand that in the pleasure quarters, one must not take things too seriously. What more can I say!" Before this, when the old woman moved north, Zhao had followed her as a peddler. Goods that were too heavy to transport, he sold at rock-bottom prices. Along the way, the costs of porters and provisions were immense, and he suffered heavy losses. The girl's demands were especially extravagant. Within a few years, a fortune of ten thousand taels was squandered entirely. When the old woman saw the gold running out, she gave him cold looks morning and evening. The girl increasingly lodged at the homes of the wealthy and would not return for several nights at a time. Zhao was furious beyond endurance but could do nothing about it. Once, when the old woman was away, Ya Tou called to Zhao through the window: "In the pleasure houses, there is no true affection—all that is tangled is money. If you linger on, you will invite disaster." Zhao was terrified, as if waking from a dream. Before leaving, he secretly went to see the woman. She gave him a letter to deliver to Wang, and Zhao then returned. He related all this to Wang and produced Ya Tou's letter. It read: "I know that Zi Er is already in your care. My sufferings, Donglou can recount in full detail. The sins of a previous life—what can I say! In my dark room, there is no light of sun or sky. Whips tear my skin, hunger torments my heart; to endure one morning and evening is like living through a year. If you have not forgotten the snowy night in Hanyang, when we lay beneath a single quilt, warming each other in an embrace, then plan with our son—you will surely be able to deliver me from this misery. Though my mother and sister are cruel, they are still flesh and blood; only tell him not to maim them. That is my wish." Wang read it and could not restrain his tears. He gave Zhao gold and silk and sent him away. By then Zi was eighteen. Wang told him the whole story and showed him his mother's letter. Zi's eyes blazed with rage. He set out for the capital that very day and inquired where the old woman Wu lived—her house was filled with carriages and horses. Zi walked straight in. The girl was drinking with a guest from the lake region. She looked up, saw Zi, and stood aghast, her face changing color. Zi rushed forward and killed her. The guests were terrified, thinking him a bandit. When they looked at the girl's body, it had already transformed into a fox. Zi took his blade and went inside. He saw the old woman supervising the maidservants making soup. Zi rushed toward the room door, and the old woman suddenly vanished. Zi looked around, quickly drew an arrow, and shot at the roof beam. A fox, pierced through the heart, fell down, and Zi severed its head. He then found his mother's place, hurled stones to break the lock, and mother and son wept aloud. The mother asked about the old woman. "She has been killed," he said. His mother reproached him: "Why didn't you listen to me!" She ordered him to bury her in the countryside. Zi pretended to agree, but skinned her and hid the pelt. He searched the old woman's trunks, took all her gold and valuables, and returned with his mother. Husband and wife were reunited, grief and joy mingled. When asked about the old woman Wu, Zi said, "She is in my bag." Astonished, they asked him, and he produced two pelts. His mother flew into a rage and cursed: "Rebellious son! How could you do this?" She wailed and beat herself, thrashing about as if she would die. Wang tried his best to comfort her and ordered Zi to bury the pelts. Zi said angrily: "Now that we have a comfortable home, have you forgotten the beatings?" His mother grew even angrier and wept without stopping. Only when Zi had buried the pelts and returned to report did she calm somewhat. From the time the woman returned, Wang's household grew ever more prosperous. Grateful to Zhao, he repaid him with a great sum of gold. Zhao then learned that both the old woman and her daughter were foxes. Zi served his parents with great filial devotion, but if provoked, he would roar with fury. His wife said to Wang, "Our son has a stubborn sinew. If it is not cut out, he will eventually kill someone and ruin the family." One night, while Zi slept, she secretly bound his hands and feet. Zi woke and said, "I have done nothing wrong." His mother said: "We are going to cure your cruelty—do not struggle." Zi thrashed and cried out, but could not free himself. The woman took a large needle and pierced the side of his ankle bone, about three or four fen deep, then used a knife to cut through it with a snap; she did the same at the elbow and at the temple. Then she released him and patted him to lie down peacefully. At dawn, he hurried to his parents, weeping, and said: "I have been thinking day and night about my past conduct—it was not that of a human being!" His parents were overjoyed. From then on, he was gentle as a maiden, and the whole village praised him.

The Historian of the Strange writes: "Courtesans are all fox spirits—who would expect that there are foxes who are also courtesans? But a fox who is a madam is a beast acting as a bird of prey. Destroying principle and violating human bonds—is that worth marveling at? To endure a hundred setbacks and a thousand torments and remain faithful unto death—this is difficult for humans, yet it was found in a fox! Lord Tang said that Wei Zheng had an added charm and softness. I say the same of Ya Tou."

**The Wine Worm**

In Changshan, a certain Mr. Liu, corpulent and fond of drink, would consume an entire jar each time he drank alone. He owned three hundred mu of farmland near the city walls, half of which he planted with millet; his family was wealthy, and drinking was no burden to him. A foreign monk saw him and said he had an unusual ailment. Liu replied that he did not. The monk asked, "Do you ever drink without getting drunk?" "Yes," said Liu. "That is a wine worm," said the monk. Liu was alarmed and begged to be cured. "It is easy," said the monk. Liu asked what medicine was needed. The monk said none was required. He told Liu to lie face down in the sun with his hands and feet bound; about half a foot from his head, a vessel of fine wine was placed. After a while, parched and thirsty, Liu craved drink to the utmost. The fragrance of the wine entered his nose, his craving flared like fire, yet he could not drink. Suddenly he felt a violent itch in his throat, vomited something out, and it fell straight into the wine. When they unbound him and looked, it was a piece of red flesh about three inches long, wriggling like a swimming fish, with mouth and eyes fully formed. Liu was alarmed and thanked the monk. He offered gold as payment, but the monk refused, asking only for the worm. "What will you do with it?" Liu asked. "This is the essence of wine. Fill a jar with water, put the worm in, and stir—it will become fine wine." Liu had him try it, and it was indeed so. From then on, Liu hated wine as an enemy. His body gradually grew thin, his family daily poorer, until eventually he could not even provide for his food and drink.

The Historian of the Strange writes: "To consume a bushel a day did not diminish his wealth; to drink not a single peck only increased his poverty—is there indeed a fixed fate for eating and drinking? Some say: 'The worm was Liu's blessing, not his affliction; the monk deceived him to acquire his art.' But is this true or not?"

**The Wooden Carved Beauty**

**Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume 5**

A merchant named Bai Yougong said: "On the Luo River, I saw a man carrying a bamboo trunk on his shoulder, leading two huge dogs. From the trunk he took out a carved wooden beauty, over a chi tall, whose eyes and hands moved, her gorgeous makeup as lifelike as a living person. He then saddled the dogs with small brocade pads and had the beauty mount them. When all was ready, he shouted at the dogs to gallop forth. The beauty rose on her own and began to perform acrobatic feats—tucking herself into the saddle's belly, folding herself around the saddle's waist, kneeling, bowing, rising, and standing, with marvelous transformations and no errors. Then she performed 'Zhaojun's Departure to the Frontier': a separate wooden puppet was taken out, fitted with pheasant tails and draped in a sheepskin coat, mounted on a dog and following behind. Zhaojun kept looking back again and again, while the sheepskin-clad puppet raised his whip and chased after her—all as real as living beings."

**Feng Sanniang**

Fan Shiyiang was the daughter of the Director of Studies of the city. She was young and beautiful, with a particular grace and refinement. Her parents doted on her, and whenever suitors came, they let her choose for herself; but she rarely found any acceptable. On the Lantern Festival day, the nuns at the Temple of Water and Moon held a Yulanpen Assembly. That day, visiting women came like clouds, and Shiyiang also went there. As she was making her rounds, a young woman followed close behind her, glancing at her repeatedly as if wishing to speak. Shiyiang looked her over carefully—she was an incomparable beauty of sixteen. Delighted, Shiyiang felt drawn to her and kept stealing glances. The woman smiled and said, "Elder Sister, are you not Fan Shiyiang?" She replied, "Yes." The woman said, "I have long heard your name, and people's praise is indeed no exaggeration." Shiyiang also asked where she lived. The woman replied, "My surname is Feng, and I am the third daughter, living in a neighboring village." Linking arms and chatting happily, their conversation was warm and gracious, and they became deeply attached to each other, reluctant to part. Shiyiang asked, "Why did you come without a companion?" She said, "My parents died early. Only an old woman remains at home to guard the house, so I could not bring anyone." As Shiyiang was about to leave, Feng gazed at her with tearful eyes, and Shiyiang also felt desolate, so she invited Feng to visit. Feng said, "Your household is a wealthy one, while I have no kinship ties with you. I fear it would invite gossip and suspicion." Shiyiang pressed her firmly. Feng replied, "Let us wait for another day." Shiyiang then took off a gold hairpin and gave it to her; Feng also removed a green jade pin from her topknot in return. After Shiyiang returned home, her longing grew intense. She took out the pin she had received—it was neither gold nor jade, and none of the family could identify it, which greatly puzzled her. She waited day after day for Feng to come, and in her melancholy fell ill. Her parents learned the cause and sent people to inquire in the nearby villages, but no one knew of her. When the Double Ninth Festival arrived, Shiyiang was weak and listless. She asked her maid to help her to the garden, where she sat on a mat beneath the eastern hedge. Suddenly a woman climbed over the wall to peep in. Shiyiang looked—it was Feng! She called out, "Help me down!" The maid assisted her, and she leaped down in an instant. Shiyiang was overjoyed, rising at once, and drew Feng to sit beside her on the mat. She reproached her for breaking her promise and asked where she had come from. Feng replied, "My home is quite far from here. I often come to play at my uncle's house. When I said I lived in a neighboring village, I meant my uncle's village. After we parted, my longing was bitter. But when a poor person befriends a noble one, even before setting foot at the door, one already feels shame and embarrassment, fearing the servants and maids would look down on me. That is why I did not come. Just now I passed outside the wall and heard a woman's voice, so I climbed up to look, hoping it was you. Now my wish is fulfilled." Shiyiang then told her the cause of her illness. Feng wept profusely and said, "When I come, it must be in secret. Those who spread tales and create gossip—the slander and rumors they stir up are unbearable." Shiyiang agreed. They returned together to share a bed, pouring out their hearts to each other. Shiyiang's illness soon healed. They pledged themselves as sisters, exchanging shoes and clothes whenever they liked. When anyone came, they hid behind a curtain. After five or six months, Shiyiang's father and mother began to hear of it.

One day, the two were playing chess when the mother entered quietly. She looked carefully and exclaimed, "What a fine friend for my daughter!" She said to Shiyiang, "To have a good companion in your chamber is something both your father and I would rejoice in. Why did you not tell us sooner?" Shiyiang then explained Feng's concerns. The mother turned to Sanniang and said, "To keep my daughter company is most welcome. Why hide it?" Feng blushed deeply and silently fingered her sash. After the mother left, Feng said she must go. Shiyiang begged her to stay, and she relented. One evening, she rushed in hastily from outside, weeping, "I always said I should not stay—now indeed we have suffered this great disgrace!" Shiyiang asked in alarm what had happened. She said, "Just now I went out to relieve myself. A young man barged in and molested me. I barely managed to escape. How can I show my face again?" Shiyiang asked about his appearance in detail and apologized, saying, "Do not blame him. He is my foolish brother. I will tell our mother, and he will be beaten." Feng firmly insisted on leaving. Shiyiang asked her to wait until dawn. Feng said, "My uncle's house is nearby. You need only lend me a ladder to climb over the wall." Shiyiang knew she could not be kept and sent two maids to help her over the wall. After walking about half a li, Feng thanked them and left on her own. When the maids returned, Shiyiang lay on the bed in grief, as if she had lost her beloved.

Several months later, a maid went on an errand to the East Village. Returning at dusk, she met Feng coming with the old woman. The maid was delighted and bowed to greet her. Feng also looked sorrowful and asked after Shiyiang's well-being. The maid seized her sleeve and said, "Third Aunt, do visit us! Our mistress is pining to death for you!" Feng said, "I too have been thinking of her, but I do not wish my family to know. Go back and open the garden gate—I will come on my own." The maid returned and told Shiyiang, who was overjoyed. She followed this advice, and Feng was already in the garden. They met and spoke of the long separation, unable to sleep for talking through the night. When they saw the maid was fast asleep, Feng rose and moved to share Shiyiang's pillow, whispering, "I know you are not yet betrothed. With your talent, beauty, and family standing, why worry about finding a wealthy husband? But rich young masters are arrogant and not worth counting. If you wish to find a good match, please do not judge by wealth or poverty." Shiyiang agreed. Feng said, "At the place where we met last year, they are holding another assembly. Please go again tomorrow, and I will show you a suitable young man. I have read some physiognomy books, and my judgment is rarely wrong." Before dawn, Feng left, asking Shiyiang to wait at the temple. Shiyiang went as promised, and Feng was already there.

After they had toured the grounds for a while, Eleventh Maiden invited him to ride back with her. Hand in hand they walked out of the gate, and there they saw a young scholar of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, dressed plainly in a cotton robe but with a strikingly handsome bearing. Feng pointed at him secretly and said, "That young man has the talent of a Hanlin academician." Eleventh Maiden gave him a sidelong glance. Feng said in parting, "Sister, go home first. I shall follow shortly." At dusk he indeed arrived and said, "I have just made a thorough inquiry. That young man is Meng Anren, a fellow villager of ours." Eleventh Maiden knew he was poor and thought the match unsuitable. Feng said, "Why must you, too, Sister, be bound by worldly notions? If this man remains poor and lowly all his life, I will pluck out my eyes and no longer judge the scholars of the world." Eleventh Maiden said, "And what do you propose?" Feng said, "I wish to borrow something of yours to pledge the engagement." Eleventh Maiden said, "Sister, how careless! Our parents are alive. If they do not consent, what then?" Feng said, "I do this precisely because I fear they will not consent. If his resolve is firm, can even life or death take her from him?" Eleventh Maiden would not hear of it. Feng said, "Sister, your destiny of marriage has already been stirred, yet the demonic trial has not passed. The reason I came was to repay our former bond. Let us part now. I will take the golden phoenix hairpin you gave me and pretend it was your gift to him." Eleventh Maiden was still deliberating when Feng had already walked out the door.

Now Meng Anren, though poor, was gifted with talent. He intended to choose a wife, and so at eighteen he was still unmarried. That day, having suddenly glimpsed two beauties, he returned home and fell lost in thought. As the first night-watch was drawing to a close, Third Maiden Feng came and knocked at his door. He lit a candle and recognized her as the woman he had seen that day. Overjoyed, he pressed her with questions. She said, "My name is Feng; I am the companion of Eleventh Maiden of the Fan family." The young scholar was overjoyed. Without pausing to examine the matter closely, he rushed forward to embrace her. Feng rebuffed him, saying, "I am no Mao Sui; I am a Qiu Sheng. Eleventh Maiden wishes to form a lasting union with you. She asks you to send a go-between." The scholar was stunned and could not believe it. Feng then showed him the hairpin. The scholar was beside himself with joy and swore, "With such kindness bestowed upon me, if I cannot have Eleventh Maiden, I shall remain a widower all my life." Feng then left.

At dawn, Meng asked an old neighbor woman to go to Lady Fan and propose. Lady Fan, despising his poverty, did not even consult her daughter but flatly refused and sent the woman away. When Eleventh Maiden learned of this, her heart was filled with disappointment, and she deeply blamed Feng for having misled her. Yet the golden hairpin could not be returned, and she could only pledge herself to die rather than marry another. Several days later, a certain gentleman sought a match for his son with her. Fearing the proposal might not succeed, he asked the county magistrate to act on his behalf. At that time this gentleman held considerable power, and Lord Fan feared him. When he asked Eleventh Maiden, she was displeased. Her mother questioned her, but she said nothing, only shedding tears. She secretly sent word to her mother: "Unless it is Meng Sheng, I will die rather than marry!" When Lord Fan heard this, he was all the more enraged and accepted the gentleman's proposal outright. Suspecting that Eleventh Maiden had secret feelings for Meng, he chose an auspicious day and hastened the wedding preparations. Eleventh Maiden, in anger, refused to eat and spent her days lying in bed. On the eve of the wedding procession, she suddenly rose and took up the mirror to paint her face. Her mother was secretly pleased. Before long a maidservant came rushing in, crying, "The young lady has hanged herself!" The whole household wept in shock and grief, but there was no remedy. They buried her three days later.

When the old neighbor woman returned with her report, Meng was consumed with grief and rage. Yet from afar he continued to seek news, vainly hoping to salvage the situation. When he learned that the beautiful woman belonged to another, fury burned within him and every thought was shattered. Before long, he heard that she was buried and her fragrance laid to rest underground, and he was overcome with grief, regretting that he could not have died with the lovely woman. Toward evening he went out, intending to visit Eleventh Maiden's grave under cover of darkness and weep for her. Suddenly someone approached. When he drew near, it was Third Maiden Feng. She said to him, "Rejoice—the marriage can be accomplished!" Meng said tearfully, "Do you not know that Eleventh Maiden is dead?" Feng said, "What I mean by 'accomplished' is precisely because she has died. Quickly call your servants to open the grave. I have a miraculous medicine that can bring her back to life." Meng did as she said. They opened the tomb and broke the coffin, then sealed the mound again. Meng carried the corpse on his back and, together with Third Maiden, returned home. He laid her on the bed, gave her the medicine, and after some time she revived. She looked around, saw Third Maiden, and asked, "Where am I?" Feng pointed to Meng and said, "This is Meng Anren." She then told him the whole story, and only then did Eleventh Maiden feel as though waking from a dream. Fearing discovery, Feng took her fifty *li* away and hid her in a mountain village.

Feng wished to take her leave, but Eleventh Maiden wept and begged her to stay as a companion, giving her a separate courtyard to live in. They sold the burial ornaments to cover their expenses, and so they managed in modest comfort. Whenever Feng saw Meng coming, she would leave and avoid him. Eleventh Maiden said gently one day, "We are sisters, no less than flesh and bone, yet we cannot be together for a hundred years. I think it would not be wrong to emulate Ehuang and Nüying." Feng said, "Since youth I have possessed a secret art—breathing exercises that can grant long life. That is why I did not wish to marry." Eleventh Maiden smiled and said, "The world is filled with books on the nurturing of life, enough to make oxen sweat. But who has practiced them and seen results?" Feng said, "What I have attained is not known to ordinary people. The methods handed down in the world are not the true teachings. Only Hua Tuo's Five Animal Frolics comes close to the truth. All who practice cultivation seek nothing more than the free flow of blood and *qi*. If one suffers from a condition of rebellious upward flow, assuming the form of the tiger will immediately stop it—is that not proof?"

Eleventh Maiden secretly plotted with Meng, making it appear he had gone far away. At night, she pressed wine on Feng. When Feng was drunk, Meng slipped in and had his way with her. When Feng awoke, she said, "Sister, you have ruined me! Had I not broken the precept of desire, I would have attained the Way and ascended to the First Heaven. Now that I have fallen into your scheme, it is fate!" She rose and announced she was leaving. Eleventh Maiden confessed the truth and tearfully begged her forgiveness. Feng said, "Let me tell you plainly: I am a fox. I gazed upon your lovely face and suddenly felt desire. Like a silkworm spinning its own cocoon, I became entangled, and so it has come to this. This is a trial of the demon of passion, not something caused by human effort. If I stay, the demon will arise again, and there will be no end to it. Sister, your blessings are far-reaching. Treasure yourself and take care." With that, she vanished. The husband and wife marveled for a long time.

The following year, Meng passed both the provincial and metropolitan examinations and was appointed to the Hanlin Academy. He sent his calling card to pay respects to Lord Fan. Lord Fan, ashamed and remorseful, refused to see him. Only when Meng firmly insisted did he receive him. Meng entered, performed the ceremony of a son-in-law, and prostrated himself with the utmost respect. Lord Fan, ashamed and angry, suspected Meng of being frivolous and insincere. Meng asked to speak privately and told him the whole story. Lord Fan was not inclined to believe it. He sent someone to investigate at Meng's home, and only then was he overjoyed. He secretly warned the man not to spread the word, fearing some calamity might follow. Two years later, the gentleman who had sought the match was found guilty of bribery, and father and son were exiled as soldiers to Liaohai. Only then was Eleventh Maiden able to return and visit her parents.

My friend Bi Yian was a man of uncommon bearing, proud and unrestrained in his self-confidence. He was stout of frame, thickly bearded, and well known among the literati. On one occasion he had business at the country estate of his uncle, the Prefect, and went to rest in an upper chamber. It was said that the house had long been haunted by fox-spirits. Bi had often read the tale of Qingfeng and his heart yearned for such an encounter, regretting that he had never met one. And so, sitting in that room, he fixed his thoughts and concentrated his mind. Afterward he returned to his study, the day already fading toward dusk. It was the sweltering heat of summer, and he lay down to sleep just inside the door. In his sleep someone shook him awake. He started up and looked—there stood a woman, past forty yet still retaining an air of elegance. Bi rose in alarm and asked who she was. She smiled and said, "I am a fox. That you have thought of me so earnestly moves me deeply." Bi was overjoyed and began to jest with her. The woman laughed and said, "My years have advanced. Even if others do not find me repulsive, I myself feel a sense of shame. I have a daughter who has reached marriageable age and could attend upon you. Tomorrow night, leave no one else in your room, and she shall come." With that she departed.

That night Bi burned incense and sat waiting. Sure enough, the woman arrived with her daughter. The girl's bearing was refined and graceful, such as the world had seldom seen. The mother said to her, "Young Master Bi and you share a bond from a former life. You must stay here. Return early tomorrow morning—do not oversleep." Bi took her hand and drew her behind the curtains, and their intimacy was complete. When it was over, she laughed and said, "This fat gentleman is so heavy—quite unbearable!" She left before dawn.

She came again that evening and said, "My sisters wish to congratulate the bridegroom. Tomorrow I invite you to join us." He asked where. She replied, "My eldest sister is hosting the banquet—it is not far from here." Bi waited for her. After a long while she had not come, and he grew drowsy. He had barely laid his head upon the desk when the girl suddenly entered and said, "How long you have waited, sir!" She took his hand and they set out. In what seemed an instant they arrived at a place with a large courtyard. They walked straight into the central hall, where candlelight glimmered bright as scattered stars. Soon the hostess appeared—a woman nearing twenty, her makeup understated yet her beauty beyond compare. She curtsied in congratulation and was about to take her place at the table when a maid announced, "The Second Mistress has arrived." A young woman entered, perhaps eighteen or eighteen, and smiling said to the bride, "So little sister has been initiated! Is the bridegroom to your liking?" The bride struck her on the back with her fan and glared at her. The Second Sister said, "I remember when we were children and wrestled for sport—you were always afraid I would tickle your ribs, and the mere gesture of my fingers from afar would set you laughing helplessly. Then you would fly into a rage and declare I should marry the dwarf prince of the pygmy kingdom. I said that one day this maid would marry a bearded gentleman and puncture her little lips—and so it has come to pass!" The Eldest Sister laughed, "No wonder Third Sister cursed you so! With the bridegroom right here, how can you be so boisterous!"

Before long they drew close together, cups in hand, feasting and laughing merrily. Then a young girl arrived carrying a cat, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, her hair still in childish tufts, yet her beauty was ravishing to the bone. The Eldest Sister said, "Does Fourth Sister wish to see her brother-in-law too? There is no seat for her." She took the girl and seated her upon her own knee, feeding her choice morsels. After a time she transferred her to the Second Sister's lap, saying, "You're crushing my legs—aching and sore!" The Second Sister said, "You little creature—no bigger than this, yet heavy as a hundredweight! I am frail and cannot bear it. Since she wishes to see her brother-in-law, he is so stout and sturdy—his fat knees can endure the weight." And so she placed the girl in Bi's lap. In his arms she was soft and fragrant, light as if she weighed nothing. Bi held her and drank from the same cup. The Eldest Sister said, "Little maid, drink no more. If you become drunk and lose your composure, you will make your brother-in-law laugh." The young girl smiled ceaselessly, playing with the cat, which gave a sharp cry. The Eldest Sister said, "If you won't put it down, it will carry away all your lice and fleas!" The Second Sister said, "Let us make the kitten the rule of the game—pass the chopsticks around, and whoever holds them when the cat cries must drink." They followed her instruction. Whenever the chopsticks reached Bi, the cat would cry. Bi was by nature a prodigious drinker and drained several cups in succession. Then he realized the little girl had been deliberately making the cat cry, and there was a great uproar of laughter. The Second Sister said, "Little sister, go and rest! You'll crush our lord and husband—I fear Third Sister will blame us." The young lady then took the cat and departed.

Seeing that Bi was a good drinker, the Eldest Sister took off her hairpin and used it to pour wine, urging him to drink. The pin could hold no more than a small measure, yet when he drank from it he felt as though he had swallowed several pecks. When he looked at it after finishing, it turned out to be a lotus-petal cap. The Second Sister also wished to toast him. Bi protested that he could hold no more wine. She produced a rouge box, no larger than a pellet, poured from it, and said, "Since you cannot manage wine, let this convey my feelings." Bi looked at it—one sip should have sufficed—but he drew from it a hundred times and it never ran dry. The bride, standing nearby, replaced the box with a tiny lotus cup, saying, "Don't let these rogues make a fool of you." She set the box on the table, and it turned into a great bowl. The Second Sister said, "What business is it of yours? He's been your husband for only three days and you're already so devoted!" Bi raised the cup and drained it in a single gulp. He felt it—soft and smooth to the touch. Examining it closely, he saw it was not a cup at all but a single embroidered slipper, exquisitely made. The Second Sister snatched it back, scolding, "You sly little wench! When did you steal someone's shoe? No wonder your feet are ice cold!" She rose and went inside to change her footwear.

The bride asked Bi to take his leave of the table. She escorted him to the village gate and let him find his own way back. He awoke with a start—it had all been a dream. Yet his nose and mouth reeked of wine, the liquor's fumes still strong, and he marveled at it. At dusk the girl came and said, "Did you not drink yourself to death last night?" Bi replied, "I was beginning to suspect it was a dream." The girl said, "My sisters were afraid you would raise a racket, so they made it seem a dream—but it was no dream."

The girl often played chess with Bi, and he invariably lost. She laughed and said, "You play every day—I thought you must be quite a master. But looking at you now, you are merely mediocre." Bi begged her to instruct him. The girl said, "The art of chess lies in one's own enlightenment—how could I improve you? Perhaps through daily exposure something may change." After several months Bi felt he had improved somewhat. The girl tested him and laughed, "Not yet, not yet." Bi went out to play with his usual opponents, and they all noticed the difference and were astonished.

Bi was a frank man, holding nothing in his heart, and he let slip a word of it. The girl already knew and reproached him, "No wonder those of their kind refuse to associate with reckless men! How often have I urged you to be discreet—and still you behave so!" She was furious and wished to leave. Bi apologized without delay, and her anger abated somewhat—but from then on she came less frequently.

More than a year passed. One evening she came and sat facing him in silence. He offered to play chess—she would not play. He offered to sleep together—she would not stay. After a long, melancholy pause she said, "Do you think I compare to Qingfeng?" He said, "You surpass her." She said, "I myself feel I fall short. Yet Liaozhai and you are friends through the written word—I beg you to compose a brief account of me. Perhaps a thousand years hence there will be someone who cherishes the memory of me as you do." Bi said,

"I have long held this wish; I kept it secret only because I was following your old instructions." The woman said, "That was the instruction then. Now that we are about to part, what need for secrecy?" He asked, "Where are you going?" She said, "My fourth sister and I have been summoned by the Queen Mother of the West to serve as messengers of flowers and birds, and we shall not return. Our elder sister, who once traveled with your uncle's elder brother, gave birth to two daughters before they parted; they are still unmarried. Fortunately, neither you nor I have any burdens to worry about." When she had finished, he asked for a parting word of advice. She said, "Subdue your pride, and your faults will be few." Then she rose, took his hand, and said, "See me off." They walked about a li before parting in tears, and she said, "We both share the same ambition; there may yet be a day when we meet again." Then she departed. On the nineteenth day of the twelfth month of the twenty-first year of Kangxi, Bi Ziyu and I shared a bed in the Chuorantang, and he recounted the strange affair in detail. I said, "If there is such a fox, then the brush of Liaozhai has reason to be proud." And so I recorded it.

The Cloth Merchant

A man from Changqing made his living selling cloth and was lodging in Tai'an. He heard of a diviner skilled in astrology and went to inquire about his fortune. The diviner cast his chart and said, "Your fate is most dire; you should return home at once." The man, terrified, packed his money and headed north. On the road he met a man in short clothing, who appeared to be a runner or clerk. They gradually fell into conversation and became quite friendly. The cloth merchant repeatedly bought food and drink and invited the man to share it. The man in short clothing was most grateful. The merchant asked what business he was about, and he replied, "I am going to Changqing to summon someone." He asked who it was. The man produced a register and showed him so he could see for himself; the first name was his own. He was horrified and asked, "Why am I being summoned?" The man said, "I am not a living man; I am a constable of the Eastern Four Offices of Hao-li. I'm afraid your lifespan is exhausted." The man wept and begged for help. The ghost said, "I cannot help. But there are many names on the register, and it will take time to round them all up. Hurry home and settle your affairs; I will be the last to summon you. This is my way of repaying our friendship." Before long, they reached the river, where the bridge had been broken and travelers had to cross with great difficulty. The ghost said, "You are a dead man; not a single coin will you take with you. Please build a bridge to help travelers. Though it will be costly and troublesome, it may not be without some small benefit to you." The man agreed. He returned home and told his wife to prepare a complete burial outfit. On a chosen day, he gathered workers and built the bridge. After a long time, the ghost still did not come. He began to have doubts. One day, the ghost suddenly appeared and said, "I have reported your bridge-building to the City God, who has forwarded it to the authorities of the underworld. They say this act can extend your lifespan. Your name has already been struck from the register. I come to report this in good faith." The man was overjoyed and grateful. Later, when he returned to Mount Tai, he did not forget the ghost's kindness; he respectfully brought paper money and poured a libation, calling the ghost's name. As he emerged, he saw the man in short clothing rush up in haste and say, "You nearly brought disaster on me! The official was just attending to business; fortunately he did not hear. Otherwise, what could I have done?" He walked him several paces and said, "Do not come again. If you have business going north, make a detour to visit me." Then they parted.

The Farmer

A farmer was weeding in the foothills of a mountain. His wife brought him food in earthenware vessels. After eating, he left the vessel on the edge of the field. When he looked at it at dusk, the remaining porridge inside was gone. This happened several times. He became suspicious and watched closely to spy on it. A fox came and put its head into the vessel. The farmer took his hoe and crept up, striking it with all his might. The fox fled in alarm. The vessel was stuck on its head, and it struggled in vain to remove it. The fox stumbled and fell, the vessel shattered, and its head emerged. Seeing the farmer, it fled even more frantically, crossing the mountain and disappearing. Several years later, a young lady of a wealthy family to the south of the mountain was tormented by a fox spirit, and no exorcism proved effective. The fox said to the woman, "What can paper talismans do to me?" She deceived it, saying, "Your magical powers are truly profound, and I am glad to be your companion forever. But I wonder—do you fear anything in this world?" The fox said, "I fear nothing. But ten years ago, when I was on the north mountain, I once stole food by the field and was attacked by a man wearing a broad hat and carrying a curved weapon. I was nearly killed, and I still tremble at the memory." The woman told her father. Her father thought to exploit the fox's fear, but not knowing the man's name or where he lived, he had no way to inquire. It happened that a servant had business in a mountain village and mentioned the matter casually to someone nearby. A man beside him was startled and said, "This matches something that happened to me years ago. Could it be the fox I once chased that is now causing trouble?" The servant thought this strange and returned to tell his master. The master was delighted and immediately ordered horses and servants to invite the farmer, respectfully explaining his request. The farmer laughed and said, "What happened to me years ago is indeed true, but it is not necessarily the same creature. And if it can already transform and cause mischief, why would it still fear a mere farmer?" The wealthy family insisted strongly, dressing him exactly as he had been that day. He entered the room, planted his hoe on the ground, and shouted, "I have searched for you every day without success, and you have been hiding here! Now that we have met, I will kill you without mercy!" As soon as he spoke, they heard the fox crying out in the room. The farmer acted even more fierce and angry. The fox then pleaded piteously for its life. The farmer commanded, "Leave quickly, and I will let you go." The woman saw the fox flee with its head tucked in like a rat, and from then on there was peace.

Zhang Aduan

Wei Hui. Young Master Qi was a restrained and amiable youth, yet possessed courage and resolution. At that time, a wealthy family owned a large mansion in which ghosts were seen in broad daylight. Deaths followed one after another, and the family was willing to sell it at a very low price. The young man found the asking price reasonable and bought it. The mansion was vast and sparsely populated. The pavilion and towers in the eastern courtyard had become overgrown with wormwood and mugwort, forming a veritable forest, and these too he simply let fall into disuse. His servants were terrified at night and raised an uproar about the ghosts. In a little over two months, one of the maidservants died. Before long, the young man's wife went to the pavilion at dusk, and upon returning fell ill, dying after several days. The servants grew even more frightened and urged the young man to move elsewhere. He would not hear of it. But being utterly alone, he felt a melancholy chill that pained him. The maidservants and servants also constantly plagued him with tales of strange occurrences. Enraged, the young man wrapped himself in bedding, mustered his courage, and went to sleep alone in the desolate pavilion, leaving a candle burning so he could observe whatever strangeness might appear. After a long while, nothing happened, and he fell asleep. Suddenly someone reached a hand under the bedding and repeatedly groped and fumbled. The young man woke and looked, and it was an old maidservant, with crumpled ears and disheled hair, grotesquely fat and shapeless. Knowing she was a ghost, he seized her arm and pushed her away, laughing, "Your charms are hardly worth the effort!" The maidservant was ashamed, withdrew her hands, and shuffled away. Shortly thereafter, a young lady emerged from the northwest corner, her expression graceful and lovely. She burst in under the lamp and angrily cursed, "What insolent fool dares to sleep so soundly?" The young man rose and laughed, "I am the master of this house. I have come to collect the rent from you." He then rose, seized her, and pulled her close. The woman tried to flee. He rushed ahead to the northwest corner to block her retreat. She was cornered and sat down on the bed. He drew near to her; by the candlelight she was like an immortal being. Gradually he embraced her in his arms. The woman laughed, "Does the insolent fool not fear ghosts? You will bring death upon yourself!" He forcefully undid her skirt and jacket, yet she did not resist much. Afterward she introduced herself: "I am of the Zhang family, my pet name is A-duan. I was mistakenly matched with a dissolute man, obstinate and cruel, who subjected me to endless humiliation and abuse. In anguish and indignation I died young, and have been buried here for more than twenty years. Beneath this mansion all is graves." He asked, "Who is the old maidservant?" She replied, "Also a ghost of former times, who serves me. When living people dwell above, the ghosts cannot rest peacefully in the night chambers. She was sent to drive you away." He asked, "What was the groping and fumbling for?" She laughed, "This maidservant has not known a man for thirty years; her longing is pitiable. Yet she also lacks all sense of propriety. In any case: the timid and cowardly are bullied and toyed with by ghosts all the more; the resolute, they dare not offend." Hearing the neighboring bells cease their tolling, she dressed and got down from the bed, saying, "If you do not suspect me, I will return tonight." When evening came, she indeed returned, and their intimacy grew ever more joyful. The young man said, "My wife has unfortunately passed away, and I cannot release my grief and longing from my heart. Can you bring her to me?" The woman was deeply moved and said, "I have been dead for twenty years—who has ever remembered me! You are truly a man of deep feeling, and I will do my utmost. But I have heard that she has been assigned a place for rebirth; I do not know whether she is still in the underworld." The next evening she told the young man, "Your wife is about to be born into a noble family. Because in a former life she struck a maidservant over a lost earring, and the maidservant hanged herself, this case has not yet been resolved, and so she has been detained. For now she is lodged beneath the Medicine King's corridor, with a guard watching over her. I will send my maidservant to bribe them; perhaps she will come." He asked, "How is it that you are so free and at leisure?" She said, "All ghosts who die unjustly and do not present themselves are unknown to the King of Hell." As the second watch was nearly over, the old maidservant indeed led the young man's wife to him. The young man took her hand and wept bitterly. His wife shed tears and could not speak. The woman departed, saying, "The two of you can speak of all that has passed; another night I will arrange for you to meet again." The young man asked about the matter of the maidservant's death. His wife said, "It is of no consequence; the case will soon be resolved." They lay together on the bed, embracing and tender, as in the joys of former days. From then on this became a regular occurrence.

Five days later, the wife suddenly wept, "Tomorrow I am to go to Shandong. The pain of our long separation—what can be done?" Hearing this, the young man's tears streamed down in torrents, and his grief overwhelmed him. The woman consoled him, "I have a plan by which you may be together for a time." Together they wiped away their tears and asked her about it. She asked for ten bundles of spirit money to be burned beneath the apricot tree in the southern hall, to bribe the one who was to escort the wife, so as to delay the appointed time. The young man did as she said. That evening the wife came and said, "Thanks to A-duan, I have been granted ten more days together." The young man was overjoyed and urged the woman not to leave, keeping her to share the bed with him. From dusk until dawn he feared their joy would end. After seven or eight days, the young man, seeing that the deadline was nearly upon them, wept with his wife through the entire night. They asked the woman for a plan. She said, "It will be difficult to manage again. But let me try—it cannot be done without a million coins from the underworld." The young man burned the exact amount. The woman came and said joyfully, "I sent someone to negotiate with the one who was to escort your wife. At first it was very difficult; but when he saw so much gold, his heart began to waver. Now he has substituted another ghost in your wife's place." From then on she no longer left even in daylight, and she had the young man seal the doors and windows, keeping the candles burning without interruption. Thus more than a year passed.

Then the woman suddenly fell ill with a dull oppression in her chest, agitated and distraught, as though she were seeing ghosts. Her sister-in-law stroked her and said, "This is a ghost sickness." The young man said, "A-duan is already a ghost—what ghost could make her ill?" His wife said, "Not so. When a person dies, they become a ghost. When a ghost dies, they become a jian. Ghosts fear the jian just as people fear ghosts." The young man wished to hire a shaman or a physician. She said, "How can a ghost be treated by human means? Old Mother Wang, the neighbor, now practices her arts in the underworld. You may summon her. But it is more than ten li from here, and my legs are weak and cannot bear the journey. I would trouble you to burn a straw horse for me." The young man complied. As soon as the horse was set alight, they saw the woman's maidservant leading a red steed by the bridle in the courtyard, and in an instant they had vanished. Shortly afterward, she returned riding pillion with an old woman, and tethered the horse to a pillar in the corridor. The old woman entered and felt the woman's ten fingers. Then she sat upright, her head twitching and her manner theatrical. After lying on the ground for some time, she leaped up and said, "I am the Great King of Black Mountain! The lady's illness is most severe. Fortunately she has met this humble spirit—her blessings are not shallow! This is a ghost causing mischief; it is nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about! But when the illness is cured, you must richly reward me with offerings: a hundred ingots of gold, a hundred strings of coins, and a grand feast—none of it may be lacking." The wife agreed to everything with a cry of assent. The old woman again fell and revived, shouted and cursed at the afflicted one, and then it was done. She then wished to leave. The wife escorted her outside the courtyard and presented her with the horse, and she departed in high spirits. When they entered to look at the young woman, she seemed somewhat clearer in her senses. The husband and wife were overjoyed and comforted her. The woman suddenly said, "I fear I shall not walk the human world again. Whenever I close my eyes, I see vengeful ghosts. It is my fate!" And she wept. After a night, her illness grew more severe and critical; her body trembled all over, and she saw things that were not there. She pulled the young man to lie beside her, burying her head in his embrace as though she feared being seized. Whenever he rose, she cried out in distress and could not be calmed. Thus for six or seven days, the husband and

**What He Did**

When the scholar went out one day and returned half a day later, he heard his wife crying. Startled, he asked what had wrong, and learned that Duanniang had already died on the bed, her cast-off body still remaining. He opened it and found white bones within, fully formed. The scholar was overcome with grief and buried her according to the rites for the living, beside the ancestral graves.

One night, his wife sobbed in her sleep. He shook her and asked why. She replied, "I just dreamed that Duanniang came and said her husband had become a Jiangui, who was furious with her for changing her fidelity even in the underworld, and in bitter resentment had come to claim her life. She begged me to hold a Buddhist service for her."

The scholar rose early and was about to do as she asked, but his wife stopped him, saying, "Delivering ghosts is not something you have the power to accomplish." She then got up and left. She returned a moment later and said, "I have already sent for monks. We should first burn spirit money to provide for the service." The scholar followed her instructions. As the sun was setting, the monks had all assembled, their golden cymbals and Dharma drums just as in the human world.

His wife always found the noise deafening, but the scholar heard nothing at all. When the service was completed, his wife again dreamed that Duanniang came to thank her, saying, "The grievance has been resolved. I will be reborn as the daughter of a City God. Please convey this message for me."

After three years, the family members were at first frightened when they heard of it, but gradually grew accustomed to it over time. When the scholar was away, they would report to her through the window. One night, she wept before the scholar and said, "The one who escorted me to life before—now his favoritism has been exposed, and he is being investigated and punished severely. I fear we cannot remain together much longer."

A few days later, she indeed fell ill and said, "Where the heart's affection lies, my original wish was to die forever and not delight in life. Now that we are about to part forever, is this not fate?" The scholar, in great alarm, sought some remedy. She said, "There is nothing to be done." He asked, "Are you being punished?" She said, "I have received a slight penalty. But the crime of stealing life is great, while the crime of stealing death is small." With these words, she moved no more. He examined her closely—her face and form gradually dissolved and vanished.

Whenever the scholar slept alone in the pavilion, he hoped for some other encounter, but in the end all remained silent, and the people's hearts were at last set at ease.

---

**The Old Woman Who Made Baitang**

A Han scholar had lived in a country villa for half a year and only returned at the end of the twelfth month. One night, his wife was lying in bed when she heard the sound of someone walking. She looked and saw the coal fire in the stove burning with a very bright glow. She saw an old woman, perhaps eighty or ninety years old, with chicken-like skin and a hunched back, her sparse white hair countable strand by strand.

The old woman said to her, "Would you like some baitang?" The woman was too frightened to answer. The old woman then used iron chopsticks to stir the fire and placed a pot on top of it, then poured water into it. Soon the sound of boiling water was heard. The old woman lifted her robe, opened a pouch at her waist, and took out several dozen pieces of baitang, which she dropped into the boiling water, each one making a distinct sound.

She said to herself, "Wait while I look for chopsticks," and went out the door. The woman took advantage of the old woman's absence, quickly got up, seized the pot, and emptied it behind the bamboo bed-curtain. She covered herself with the quilt and lay down. A short while later, the old woman returned and pressed her for the whereabouts of the pot and its contents. The woman cried out in terror. The whole household woke, and only then did the old woman leave.

They lifted the bed-curtain and shone a light on it, and found several dozen wood-lice heaped up inside.

---

**Jin Yongnian**

Jin Yongnian of Lijin was eighty-two years old and had no son. His wife was also seventy-eight and had given up hope. Suddenly he dreamed that a god told him, "You were destined to have no heir, but in consideration of your fair and honest trading, I grant you a son."

He woke and told his wife. She said, "This is truly a foolish fantasy. Both of us are near death—how could we have a child?" Before long, his wife's belly began to stir. After ten months, she indeed gave birth to a boy.

---

**Huaguzi**

An Youyu was a provincial graduate from Shaanxi. He was generous and loved to do good deeds, taking particular delight in releasing captive animals. Whenever he saw hunters with their catch, he would spare no expense to buy the creatures and set them free. On one occasion, when attending a funeral at his uncle's home, he went to help with the funeral procession. Returning at dusk, he passed by Mount Hua and lost his way in a mountain valley. His heart filled with terror. Beyond the range of an arrow, he suddenly saw lamplight and hastened toward it. After several paces, he glimpsed an old man, hunched over and dragging a staff, walking swiftly along a narrow path. An paused, about to ask a question, but the old man spoke first, demanding to know who he was. An explained that he was lost, and added that where there was lamplight there must be a mountain village where he could seek lodging. The old man said, "This is no land of peace and joy. Fortunately this old man has come—you can follow me, and you may rest in my thatched cottage." An was overjoyed and followed him for about a li until they came in sight of a small village. The old man knocked on a wicker gate, and an old woman came out, opening the door and saying, "Has the young gentleman arrived?" The old man said, "Yes." Once inside, An saw that the dwelling was cramped and low. The old man lit a lamp and urged him to sit, then ordered that food be prepared at once. He said to the old woman, "This is no ordinary guest—he is my benefactor. You, old mother, cannot walk about, so call Huaguizi to pour the wine." Presently a young woman entered carrying the food and stood beside the old man, her bright eyes glancing sideways. An looked at her: her beauty and youthful grace were almost celestial. The old man turned and told her to heat the wine. In the western corner of the room there was a coal stove, and the girl went into the room to stir the fire. An asked, "Who is this gentleman?" She replied, "This old man's surname is Zhang. In seventy years he has had only this one daughter. We are farmers with few servants, but since you are no stranger, he ventured to have his wife and daughter appear. I hope you will not laugh at us." An asked, "Where is her husband's family?" The old man replied, "She is not yet betrothed." An praised her kindness and beauty, his admiration knowing no bounds. As the old man was modestly deflecting the compliments, they suddenly heard the young woman cry out in alarm. The old man rushed in—the wine was boiling over and the flames had flared up. He stopped the mishap and scolded her: "Such a clumsy wretch! Don't you know how to handle a fire!" Turning back, he saw by the stove a sweet-potato heart with half-finished decorations for the Goddess Zigu and scolded again: "With hair as wild as this—you're no better than an infant!" He held it up to An and said, "She was so absorbed in this trinket that she let the wine boil over. You, sir, have praised her—aren't you ashamed to death!" An examined it closely: the eyebrows, eyes, and robe were crafted with exquisite workmanship. He remarked, "Though it borders on child's play, it shows a clever mind." They drank for some time, and the girl frequently came to serve the wine, smiling sweetly, quite without shyness. An gazed at her, his passions stirred. Then they heard the old woman calling, and the old man left. An, seeing no one about, said to the girl, "Seeing your immortal beauty has made me lose my soul. I wish to send a matchmaker, but I fear it would not succeed—what can be done?" The girl held the wine pot to the fire as if she had not heard; though he asked repeatedly, she did not answer. An gradually moved closer to her. The girl rose and said sternly, "What would you do, wild fellow, forcing your way in?" An knelt and pleaded earnestly. The girl tried to push past the door and leave. An sprang up to block her way and seized her amorously. The girl cried out trembling, and the old man hurried in to ask what had happened. An released her and went out, consumed with shame and fear. The girl calmly said to her father, "The wine was boiling over again—if not for the young gentleman, the pot would have melted away." When An heard her words, his mind was set at ease, and he felt all the more grateful to her. His soul was in turmoil, and all his former thoughts were cast aside. Thereupon he pretended to be drunk and left the table, and the girl also withdrew. The old man spread bedding for him, closed the door, and went out. An could not sleep; before dawn he called for leave-taking and departed. Once home, he immediately asked an acquaintance to go and seek her hand in marriage. The man returned at the end of the day but could not find the village at all. An then ordered his servants and horses and went to seek the way himself. When he arrived, there were only sheer cliffs and jagged rocks—no village at all. He inquired in nearby hamlets, but the surname Zhang was extremely rare there. He returned in disappointment and forgot both food and sleep. From this he fell into a confused and muddled illness: if he forced himself to swallow soup or porridge, he would retch and feel like vomiting; in his delirium he would call out Huaguizi. His family did not understand, but they kept watch around the clock, for his condition was perilous.

One night, the attendants were exhausted and fell asleep. In his drowsy state, An felt someone fumbling and shaking him. He opened his eyes slightly and saw Huaguizi standing beside the bed. Without realizing it, his spirits cleared. He gazed intently at the girl, and tears streamed down his face. She tilted her head and smiled, saying, "What has brought you to this, foolish boy?" She then climbed onto the bed and sat upon his thighs, using both hands to press his temples. An sensed an extraordinary musk-like fragrance from her that pierced his nose and penetrated his bones. After pressing for several quarter-hours, he suddenly felt sweat covering his forehead and gradually spreading through his limbs. She whispered, "There are too many people in the room—I cannot stay. In three days I shall come again." From her embroidered sleeve she took out several steamed buns and placed them by the bed, then slipped away quietly. By midnight, An's sweat had stopped and he felt hungry; he felt for the buns and ate them. He did not know what filling they contained, but they were extraordinarily delicious, and he ate all three. He covered the remaining buns with his robe and fell into a deep, dreamlike sleep, not waking until the morning hour, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from him.

Three days later, when the cakes were all gone, his spirits were twice as vigorous as before. He then dismissed all his household servants. He also worried that the woman would come but find no way into the house, so he slipped out to the study courtyard and secretly unfastened all the locks and bolts. Before long, the woman indeed arrived, laughing and saying, "Silly fellow! Aren't you going to thank the sorceress?" An was overjoyed beyond measure, and they embraced and became intimate, their love and affection reaching the utmost. After a while she said, "I have risked danger and endured defilement for this reason alone—to repay your great kindness. Truly, I cannot be your wife forever. I hope you will make other plans soon." An was silent for a long time, then asked, "We have never met before—where did my family and yours have a prior connection? Truly, I cannot recall." The woman said nothing, only replying, "Think about it yourself." The young man pressed her to make their union permanent. The woman said, "Coming again and again in the night is certainly impossible; being constant husband and wife is also beyond me." Upon hearing this, An was filled with sorrow and grief. The woman said, "If you insist on being together, then tomorrow night, please come to my home." An then put away his sorrow and rejoiced, asking, "The road is far—with your delicate, tiny feet, how were you able to come here?" She said, "I never actually went home. The deaf old woman at the east end is my aunt; because of you, I have lingered with her until now. My family must be wondering and suspicious." An shared her bed, and he noticed that her breath and skin were fragrant everywhere. He asked, "What perfumed ointment do you use, that it penetrates even to the flesh and bones?" The woman said, "I have been like this since birth—it is not from any perfume or adornment." An found her all the more wondrous. The woman rose early to take her leave. An worried about losing his way, so the woman arranged to wait for him along the road. An galloped out at dusk, and the woman was indeed waiting; together they went to the old place. The old man and old woman greeted them joyfully. The wine and dishes were of no fine quality—they had only coarse vegetables served in a hodgepodge. Afterward, they invited the guest to sleep. The woman showed no concern or attention at all, which made An rather suspicious. When the night had grown deep, the woman finally came, saying, "My parents chattered endlessly and would not sleep, causing you to wait so long." They were intimate through the night, and she said to An, "This night's meeting is a parting of a hundred years." An asked in alarm what she meant. She replied, "Because the small village is lonely and desolate, my father is about to move far away. Our union ends tonight." An could not bear to let her go, and he looked up and down in grief and sorrow. Even as he clung to her, the night sky gradually grew light. The old man suddenly burst in, cursing, "This worthless girl has disgraced our pure family—it makes me so ashamed I could wish to die!" The woman turned pale and hastily fled. The old man also left, cursing as he went. An, terrified and weak, could not bear his own shame, and slipped away to return home. For several days he wandered about, his spirits almost unable to endure it. So he thought of going at night, climbing the wall to find an opportunity. The old man had spoken of a kindness done—even if the matter were discovered, there should be no great punishment. He therefore sneaked out at night, pacing through the mountains, confused and lost, not knowing where he was going. He was greatly frightened. Just as he was seeking the way back, he saw hidden in a valley what appeared to be a house; delighted, he went to it—it had tall and imposing gates, seemingly the home of a distinguished family, and the many gates had not yet been bolted. An asked the gatekeeper about the residence of the Zhang family. A servant in blue clothing came out and asked, "Who in this dark night is asking about the Zhangs?" An said, "They are my relatives and friends—I have by chance lost my way." The servant said, "A man has no business asking about the Zhangs. This is their aunt's home; Hua Gu is here now—I will go and announce you." He had not been inside long before he came out and invited An up. Just as he mounted the corridor, Hua Gu hurried out to greet him, saying to the servant in blue, "Master An has traveled through the middle of the night—I imagine he is exhausted—prepare a bed for him to sleep." A moment later, hand in hand they entered the bed curtains. An asked, "Why is there no one else at the aunt's house?" The woman said, "The aunt is away; she left me to keep watch in her place. That I have met you—is this not a predestined bond?" Yet as they lay close together, he felt a very rank, fishy smell and suspected something was amiss. The woman embraced his neck and suddenly licked his nostrils with her tongue—it pierced through to his brain like a needle. An was terrified beyond measure and struggled to escape; but his body was bound as if by a huge rope. After a while, he fell unconscious and knew no more.

An did not return, and the people searching in his household exhausted themselves tracing his footsteps. Someone said they had encountered him at dusk on a mountain path. The family entered the mountains and found him dead, naked, beneath a precipitous cliff. Shocked and bewildered, they could not fathom the cause, so they carried him home. The family had just gathered to wail when a young woman came to mourn, wailing loudly as she entered through the gate. She stroked the corpse and pressed his nose, and her tears and mucus fell into it, crying, "Heaven! Heaven! How could he be so foolish and blind!" She wept until her voice was hoarse, and only after a long time did she stop. She told the family, "Keep the body for seven days—do not encoffin it." The family did not know who she was and were about to question her, but the woman, haughty and without ceremony, left with tears in her eyes. They tried to detain her, but she paid no heed; they followed her, but in the turning of an eye she had vanished. All suspected she was a spirit and carefully followed her instructions. She came again at night, weeping as before. On the seventh night, An suddenly revived, turning and groaning. The family was utterly terrified. The woman entered, and they faced each other weeping. An raised his hand and waved everyone away. The woman brought out a bundle of green grass, heated about a sheng of broth, and brought it to his bedside. In a moment, he was able to speak. He sighed, "The one who killed me is you; the one who gave me life again is also you!" Then he recounted what had happened. The woman said, "This was the snake spirit impersonating me. The light you saw when you lost your way before—that was the creature." An asked, "How are you able to raise the dead and flesh the bones? Are you not perhaps an immortal?" She said, "I have long wished to tell you, but feared it would cause alarm and wonder. Five years ago, on the road through Mount Hua, did you buy a hunted wild deer and set it free?" He said, "Yes, that happened." She said, "That was my father. When I spoke before of a great kindness, it was because of this. You had already been reborn in the family of Magistrate Wang in the Western Village. I and my father brought a case before King Yama, but King Yama did not look upon it favorably. My father begged to destroy his own cultivation to die in your place; after seven days of pleading, it was finally granted. This meeting by chance is fortunate indeed. But though you have been restored to life, you will certainly be paralyzed and numb; if you mix snake blood with wine and drink it, the ailment can be cured." The young man gnashed his teeth in bitter hatred but worried he had no means to capture the creature. The woman said, "It is not difficult. But it would take many lives, and that would burden me so I could not ascend to immortality for a hundred years. Its lair is in the old cliff—in the late afternoon you can gather kindling and set it ablaze, with strong crossbows stationed on the outside as a precaution, and the demon creature can be obtained." Having said this, she took her leave, saying, "That I cannot serve you to the end is truly cause for grief. But because of you, I have already lost seven-tenths of my merit—I hope you will have mercy and forgive me. This past month I have felt a slight movement in my womb—I fear it is the seed of a child. Whether a boy or a girl, I will send to you in a year." She left in tears. After a night, An felt that everything below his waist was dead—he could scratch and claw without feeling pain or itch. He then told the family what the woman had said. The family went and did as she had instructed, setting fire in the cave. A huge white snake burst through the flames. Several crossbows fired at once and shot it dead. When the fire died down, they entered the cave.

...Snakes, hundreds of them large and small, all burned and reeking. When his family returned, they offered him the snake blood. An took it for three days, and gradually his legs could turn; after half a year he was finally able to get up. Later, walking alone in a valley, he met an old woman who, carrying an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes, presented the child to him, saying: "My daughter sends her regards to you, young gentleman." He was about to inquire further when she vanished in a flash. He opened the swaddling clothes to look—it was a boy. He carried the child home and never took a wife again.

The Commentator says: "That by which humans differ from beasts is but little—yet this is not a fixed truth. One who, having received favor, repays it with gratitude unto the end—here, then, are humans who put beasts to shame. As for Hua Gu, she lodged her wisdom in seeming dullness at first, and lodged her deepest feeling in seeming indifference at last. Thus we know that dullness is the highest form of wisdom, and indifference is the deepest form of feeling. Immortal! Immortal!"

Wu Xiaolian

Wu Xiaolian, a man surnamed Shi, took his funds to the capital seeking an official appointment. Arriving at Dezhou, he fell gravely ill, coughing blood and unable to rise, lying for a long time in his boat. His servant stole his gold and fled. Shi was furious, and his illness worsened; his provisions ran out. The boatmen planned to abandon him. It happened that a woman was traveling by boat and moored nearby for the night. Hearing of his plight, she volunteered to take Shi aboard her vessel. The boatmen were pleased and helped Shi aboard the woman's boat. Shi looked at her: she was a woman of over forty, gorgeously dressed, with the refined air of a city dweller. He groaned out his thanks. The woman leaned over and examined him, saying: "You have long had the root of consumption; now your soul already wanders among the tombs." Hearing this, Shi wailed piteously. The woman said: "I have a pill that can raise the dead. If you recover, do not forget me." Shi wept and swore an oath. The woman then fed him the medicine. After half a day, he felt slightly better. The woman served him delicious food right there on the couch, with devotion surpassing that of a wife. Shi was ever more grateful to her. After a month, he was fully recovered. Shi crawled forward on his knees, revering her as he would a mother. The woman said: "I am alone and have no one to rely on. If you will not despise me for my faded beauty, I would attend upon you as a wife." Shi was then in his thirties, having lost his wife for over a year. Hearing this, he was overjoyed beyond all expectation, and they became husband and wife. The woman then produced hidden funds and sent him to the capital to pursue his appointment, agreeing that he would return and they would go home together. Shi went to the capital, pulled strings, and was appointed garrison commander of his home province. With the remaining funds he bought a saddle and horse, and his retinue was splendid. But thinking the woman's age was already advanced and she was ultimately not a suitable match, he took a hundred pieces of gold to betroth a Miss Wang as his second wife. In his heart he was terrified and fearful the woman would learn of it, so he avoided the road through Dezhou and took a circuitous route to his post. For over a year, no word passed between them. A cousin of Shi's happened to go to Dezhou and became the woman's neighbor. The woman learned of this and went to ask about Shi's situation. The cousin told her the truth. The woman raged at him and told him the whole story. The cousin also sympathized with her and consoled her, saying: "Perhaps his official duties keep him too busy to attend to personal matters. Please write a letter, and I will deliver it for you, sister-in-law." The woman did as he said. The cousin respectfully delivered it to Shi, but Shi paid it no mind at all. Another year passed, and the woman went to find Shi herself. She lodged at an inn and asked the official receptionist of his yamen to announce her name. Shi ordered that she be turned away. One day, he was feasting when he heard shouting and cursing. He set down his cup and listened intently—the woman had already lifted the curtain and entered. Shi was terrified, his face the color of earth. The woman pointed at him and cursed: "Heartless wretch! Are you enjoying yourself? Think—from whence did your wealth and rank come? My affection for you was no small thing. Even if you wished to take a concubine, what harm would there have been in discussing it with me?" Shi stood frozen on tiptoe, holding his breath, unable to make a sound. After a long while, he knelt and prostrated himself, making excuses and begging forgiveness. The woman's anger subsided somewhat. Shi plotted with Miss Wang, asking her to visit the woman with the courtesy due a younger sister. Miss Wang was most unwilling, but Shi begged insistently, and she went. Wang bowed, and the woman returned the bow. She said: "Sister, do not fear. I am no shrew or jealous wife. What happened was truly unbearable by human standards—even you, sister, would not wish to have such a husband." She then gave Wang a full account of the whole affair. Wang was also indignant, and together they cursed Shi. Shi could find no ground to stand on, and only sought to make amends, and so they lived in peace. Earlier, before the woman's arrival, Shi had ordered the gatekeepers to admit no one. Now, furious at the gatekeepers, he secretly interrogated and reproached them. The gatekeepers insisted that the locks and keys had not been opened and that no one had entered, and would not accept blame. Shi suspected this but did not dare question the woman. Though the two spoke and laughed together, she was never truly cherished. Fortunately, the woman was gentle and yielding and did not insist on sleeping together at night. After each meal, she closed the door and retired early, never asking where her husband spent the night. Wang had at first been apprehensive on her own account; seeing this, she respected her even more. Each morning she went to pay her respects, as one serves a mother-in-law. The woman governed the servants with generosity and propriety, yet her insight was keen as a spirit. One day, Shi lost his official seal, and the whole yamen was in an uproar. Officials rushed back and forth, unable to devise a plan. The woman said with a smile: "Do not worry—you will find it by exhausting the well." Shi followed her advice and indeed found it there. When he asked the reason, she only smiled and would not say. It seemed she vaguely knew the name of the thief, but she would never reveal it. After living there a full year, Shi observed many strange things about her. He suspected she was not human and often sent someone to spy on her after she retired, but all they heard was the sound of clothes being shaken all night long on the bed, and they could not tell what she was doing. The woman and Wang were deeply fond of each other. One evening, Shi had not yet returned from a visit to the provincial judge, and the woman drank with Wang. Before they knew it, they had drunk too much. The woman lay down on the mat and transformed into a fox. Wang pitied her and covered her with a brocade quilt. Before long, Shi entered, and Wang told him of the strangeness. Shi wanted to kill her. Wang said: "Even if she is a fox, how has she wronged you?" Shi would not listen and hastily sought his sword. But the woman had already awoken and cursed: "The conduct of a viper, the heart of a wolf—one cannot long abide with you! The medicine I once gave you—I ask that it be returned!" She spat in Shi's face. Shi felt a chill as though ice water had been poured over him, and his throat itched. He vomited, and the pill came out just as before. The woman picked it up and strode out in fury; when he pursued her, she had already vanished. In the middle of the night Shi's old illness returned; he coughed blood without stopping, and died within half a year.

The Commentator says: "Shi Xiaolian was as elegant as a scholar. Some say he was yielding and humble toward gentlemen, and spoke to people as though afraid to hurt them. He died in his prime, and the scholarly world mourned him. But when one hears of his betrayal of the fox-woman, how is he any different from Li Shilang?"

Chen Sheng, courtesy name Mingjun, was a native of Yan. Being poor, he served as a secretary under Vice-General Jia Wan. They moored their boat on Dongting Lake. A pig-nosed dragon happened to float on the water's surface, and Jia shot it in the back. A fish was clinging to the dragon's tail and would not leave, so both were captured together. They were chained and placed between the masts, barely alive; the dragon's mouth opened and closed as if begging for rescue. Chen was moved with pity and begged Jia to release it. He happened to have a wound-healing ointment and playfully applied it to the wound, then released the creature into the water. It floated and sank for the better part of an hour before disappearing.

More than a year later, Chen was returning north and again passed through Dongting Lake when a great wind capsized his boat. He managed to grab a bamboo trunk and drifted all the night, finally catching on a tree and stopping. Just as he was climbing up to the shore, a floating corpse drifted in—it was his servant boy. He pulled him out with effort, but the boy was already dead. Grief-stricken and despondent, he sat down to rest. All around him were emerald hills and swaying green willows; travelers were scarce, and there was no one to ask the way. From dawn until mid-morning, he wandered about in a daze. Suddenly the servant's limbs stirred slightly. Delighted, Chen felt him. Before long, the boy vomited several pecks of water and came back to his senses. They spread their clothes on the rocks to dry, and only near midday were they dry enough to put on. But their stomachs growled with hunger, unbearable. So they hurried over the mountains, hoping to find a village. They had only reached halfway up when they heard the twang of an arrow. Just as they were wondering what they had heard, two young ladies came riding swift horses, galloping as freely as scattered beans. Each had a red silk band across her forehead and a pheasant feather in her hair; they wore small-sleeved purple jackets and green silk sashes around their waists. One carried a pellet-bow, the other had a goshawk on her arm. When they passed the ridge, several dozen riders were hunting among the thickets, all beautiful women dressed identically. Chen did not dare approach. A man came running on foot, apparently a groom, so Chen went up to ask him. The man replied: "This is the Princess of West Lake hunting on Shoushan Mountain." Chen told him where he had come from and mentioned that they were starving. The groom unwrapped some provisions and gave them to him, instructing: "You should quickly go far away—offending the royal procession means death!" Chen was frightened and hurried down the mountain.

In a dense forest, palace buildings were half hidden—he thought it must be a Buddhist temple. Approaching, he found pink walls surrounding the compound, a stream flowing across the front; the red gate was half open, and a stone bridge led across. Peering through the gate, he saw terraces and pavilions rising among the clouds, rivaling an imperial garden; he suspected it might be the garden pavilion of some noble family. He wandered in hesitantly. Wild vines blocked the path, and fragrant flowers brushed against him. After passing several winding railings, there was another courtyard: several dozen weeping willows, their branches brushing high against the red eaves. When a mountain bird cried, flower petals flew together; when a gentle breeze passed through the deep garden, elm seeds fell of their own accord. It delighted the eyes and gladdened the heart—scarcely seemed of the human world. Passing through a small pavilion, he found a swing, its top reaching the clouds; but the ropes hung still, with no trace of anyone. Thinking he had come near the women's quarters, he was too timid to go further.

Suddenly he heard horses stamping at the gate, and what seemed to be the laughter and chatter of young women. Chen and his servant hid among the clustered flowers. Before long, the laughter drew nearer. One woman said: "Our luck hunting today was poor—we caught almost nothing." Another said: "If it weren't for the Princess shooting down a goose, we would have wasted the horses and servants for nothing." Soon, several women in red escorted a young lady to sit in the pavilion. She wore a short-sleeved military jacket and looked about fourteen or fifteen. Her hair gathered mist like clouds, her waist was slender as one startled by the wind—jade buds and jade blossoms were insufficient to describe her beauty. The women offered tea and burned incense, brilliant as piled brocade. After a while, the young lady rose and descended the steps. One woman said: "The Princess must be tired from riding—can she still swing?" The Princess smiled and agreed. Thereupon some supported her shoulders, some held her arms, some lifted her skirt, some carried her shoes, helping her up. The Princess stretched her white wrists, stepped into light shoes, light as a flying swallow, and kicked up into the clouds. Soon she was helped down. All cried: "The Princess is truly an immortal!" Laughing and chattering, they departed.

Chen gazed for a long time, his spirit soaring. When the voices had died away, he went to the swing and lingered there in thought. Seeing a red handkerchief under the hedge, he knew it had been left behind by the beauties and happily tucked it into his sleeve. Climbing the pavilion, he found writing materials on the desk and composed a poem on the handkerchief:

"Who plays this graceful game, half like an immortal?

Clearly a jade maiden scattering golden lotus.

The company in the Moon Palace must be jealous—

Do not believe she walks upon the waves to the Ninth Heaven."

Having finished, he recited it aloud and left. Returning by his original path, he found the gates locked and barred. He hesitated, at a loss, and went back through the pavilions and terraces, having explored nearly all of them. A young woman slipped in and asked in alarm: "How did you get here?" Chen bowed and said: "A lost traveler—I hope you might help me." The woman asked: "Did you pick up a red handkerchief?" Chen said: "I did. But it has been stained—what can be done?" He produced it. The woman was greatly alarmed: "You are dead beyond any hope! This is one the Princess always uses—defaced like this, how can you escape?" Chen lost all color and begged to be spared. The woman said: "Peeking at the palace is a crime beyond pardon. I thought you, a scholar, were refined and wished to save you out of private feeling; but now you have brought ruin upon yourself—what can be done?" She hurried away with the handkerchief in alarm. Chen's heart pounded and his flesh crept; he wished he had wings, and could only stretch his neck and wait for death.

After a long while, the maid returned and whispered with delight, "You have hope of life now! The princess examined your handkerchief three or four times, smiling without any trace of anger. She may yet release you. You should endure a little longer—do not try to climb trees or burrow through walls, for if discovered, there will be no pardon."

As dusk fell, he could not tell whether fortune or disaster awaited him. Hunger burned within him like a flame, and his anguish was such that he wished for death. Before long, the young woman came with a lamp. A maid followed carrying a flask and a hamper, setting out food and wine for the scholar. He asked eagerly for news. The woman said, "Just now I seized the moment to say: 'The scholar in the garden—if you can spare him, release him; if not, he will starve to death.' The princess pondered and said, 'In the dead of night, where could we send him?' So she ordered that you be given food. This is no ill omen."

The scholar paced anxiously all night, unable to calm himself. As morning wore on, the maid brought him food again. He begged her to intercede on his behalf. The woman said, "The princess neither speaks of killing nor of releasing you. We are mere servants—how dare we pester her with such trifles?"

Then, as the sun slanted toward the west and he gazed out with mounting desperation, the maid rushed in breathless and said, "We are ruined! Someone who talked too much revealed the matter to the Queen. The Queen flung the handkerchief to the ground and raged at the mad fool. Disaster is near at hand!" The scholar was greatly alarmed, his face turned the color of ash, and he knelt at length to beg for counsel. Suddenly he heard the clamor of voices. The maid raised her hand and slipped away. Several men carrying ropes burst furiously into the chamber. One of the maids looked at him closely and said, "Who would have thought it—Master Chen!" She stopped the men with the ropes and said, "Stop, stop! Wait until we report to the Queen." She hurried back, and shortly returned, saying, "The Queen requests Master Chen to come." The scholar followed her, trembling with fear. They passed through dozens of doorways and arrived at a palace hall adorned with green silk hangings and silver hooks. A beautiful lady drew back the curtain and announced, "Master Chen has arrived." Seated above was a gorgeous woman in resplendent robes. The scholar prostrated himself and kowtowed, saying, "A lonely subject from a thousand leagues away, I beg you to spare my life." The Queen rose quickly and helped him up herself, saying, "Were it not for you, I would not be here today. My maids acted in ignorance and offended a distinguished guest—how can such a fault be atoned for!" At once a splendid banquet was laid out, and she poured wine into a carved cup. The scholar was bewildered and could not understand the reason. The Queen said, "The kindness of saving my life—I regret having nothing to repay it. My daughter received the favor of your poem on her handkerchief; this must be Heaven's doing. Tonight I shall send her to attend you."

The scholar's joy was beyond all expectation, yet his spirit wandered, unable to find its footing. As evening fell, a maid came forward and said, "The princess has completed her toilet." She led the scholar to the bedchamber. Suddenly pipes and organs thundered; the steps were strewn with floral carpets; from the gate to the hall to every corner, candles blazed everywhere. Dozens of ravishing maidens escorted the princess for the exchange of bows. The fragrance of musk and orchids filled the entire hall. Then they entered the curtains together, and the two gave themselves to mutual love. The scholar said, "A wanderer and stranger, I have never in my life known the rites of matrimony. That I stained your fragrant handkerchief and escaped the axe is fortune enough—to be granted marriage as well is truly beyond my hopes." The princess said, "My mother is the consort of the Dragon Lord of the Lake and a daughter of the King of the Yangtze. Last year she returned to visit her family and happened to sail upon the lake, where she was struck by a stray arrow. You saved her life and gave her the medicine that healed her. My whole family has borne this gratitude in their hearts and never forgotten it. Do not doubt me because I am not of your kind. Through the Dragon Lord I have obtained the secret of immortality—I wish to share it with you."

The scholar then understood that she was a divine being. He asked, "How did the maid come to know me?" She said, "That day on the boat on Dongting Lake, there was a small fish that followed in our wake—that was this maid." He asked again, "If you never meant to kill me, why did you delay so long in releasing me?" She laughed and said, "I truly admire your talent, but I had no power of my own. I tossed and turned all night—no one else knew." The scholar sighed and said, "You are my Bao Shu. Who was it that brought me food?" She said, "Anian—she is also my trusted confidante." The scholar asked, "How can I repay her kindness?" She laughed and said, "You will have many days to serve me—there is no rush to settle that debt." He asked, "Where is the Dragon Lord?" She said, "He has followed Lord Guan to campaign against Chiyou and has not yet returned."

After several days, the scholar worried that there had been no word from his family and was consumed with longing. He sent a letter by his servant to announce his safe return. At home, they had heard that the boat on Dongting Lake had capsized, and his wife and children had been in mourning clothes for over a year. When the servant returned, they learned he was not dead—but with all communication cut off, they still feared he might never return home. Half a year later, the scholar suddenly arrived, splendidly dressed with fine horses, his bags full of precious jade. From that time he possessed enormous wealth, indulging in music and beauty to such a degree that even established families could not match him. In seven or eight years, he had five sons. Every day he feasted with guests, and the splendor of his palaces and the lavishness of his banquets knew no limit. When asked about his adventure, he told it without the slightest concealment.

He had a childhood friend named Liang Zijun, who had been serving in official posts in the south for over ten years. Returning home, he passed by Dongting Lake and saw a painted pleasure boat with carved railings and vermilion windows, from which faint strains of music and song drifted slowly across the waves. At the time, a beautiful woman was leaning against the window, gazing out. Liang fixed his eyes on the boat and saw a young man reclining with his legs crossed, while beside him a lovely girl of sixteen caressed and fondled him. He thought this must be some noble of Chu, yet there were remarkably few attendants. He stared intently—and it was Chen Mingyun. Unconsciously he leaned on the railing and called out loudly. The scholar heard the shout, ordered the boat to stop, came to the prow, and invited Liang aboard. Liang saw that the table was still covered with half-finished dishes and the fumes of wine hung thick in the air. The scholar at once ordered everything cleared away. Shortly, three or five beautiful maids came forward with wine and brewed tea, and rare delicacies from mountain and sea such as Liang had never seen. Liang exclaimed, "Ten years since we met—how has your wealth reached such heights?" The scholar laughed and said, "Do you think a poor scholar can never make his fortune?" Liang asked, "Who was drinking with you just now?" He said, "My wife." Liang was even more astonished. He asked, "Where are you taking your family?" The scholar replied, "We are about to cross to the west." Liang wished to press further, but the scholar quickly ordered songs to accompany the wine. The words had scarcely left his lips when a dry thunder roared in their ears—strings and percussion clashed so noisily that speech and laughter could no longer be heard. Liang, seeing beauties all around him, said drunkenly, "Master Chen, can you truly make me lose my soul?" The scholar laughed and said, "You are drunk! But I have the means to buy a beautiful concubine—I can give one to an old friend." He ordered his maid to present a single luminous pearl and said, "Even a Green Pearl is not hard to obtain—this shows I am not stingy." Then he urged Liang to depart, saying, "I have some trifling business and cannot linger long with an old friend." He saw Liang back to his own boat and unfurled the sail, sailing straight away.

Liang returned and inquired at the Chen household, only to find that the scholar was drinking with guests at that very moment—which deepened his bewilderment. He asked, "Yesterday at Dongting Lake—how did you return so quickly?" The scholar said, "There was no such thing." Liang then recounted everything he had seen, and everyone present was astounded. The scholar

He laughed and said, "You are mistaken. Do I possess the art of dividing my body?" All marvelled at this, yet none could fathom the reason. He died at the age of eighty-one. When it came to the funeral, they were astonished to find the coffin light; on opening it, they discovered it was an empty coffin.

The Historian of the Strange said: "The bamboo basket that would not sink, the red kerchief inscribed with verses—within these there were spirits and ghosts at work; yet all was made possible by a single thought of compassion. As for his enjoying palaces, wives, and concubines, one man receiving the service of two households—this, again, is beyond understanding. There was once a man who prayed for beautiful wives and lovely concubines, noble sons and worthy grandsons, together with immortality, and he obtained only half of his wish. Can there be among immortals men of the likes of Fenyang and Jilun?"

The Filial Son

East of the Eastern Mountain in Qingzhou lived a man named Zhou Shuntong, who served his mother with the utmost filial devotion. A huge abscess grew on his mother's thigh, causing unbearable pain; she groaned and moaned day and night. Zhou tended her flesh and administered medicine, forgetting even to sleep and eat. Months passed without improvement, and Zhou, consumed by worry, could find no solution. He dreamed that his father told him, "Your mother's illness depends on your filial piety. But this wound cannot be healed unless it is dressed with human fat—your anxious efforts alone are futile." He awoke and thought this strange. Rising, he took a sharp blade and cut flesh from his own side; the flesh came away, and he felt little pain. He quickly bound his waist with cloth, and the blood did not flow. Then he cooked the flesh, took the fat, and applied it to his mother's afflicted area. The pain stopped abruptly. His mother was delighted and asked, "What medicine is this, so wonderfully effective?" Zhou gave her a false answer. Her wound soon healed. Zhou always concealed the place where he had cut himself; even his wife and children knew nothing of it. After her recovery, a large scar the size of a palm remained. His wife questioned him, and only then did she learn the truth.

The Historian of the Strange said: "Cutting one's own flesh violates the principle of preserving one's body, and the gentleman does not prize it. But what do simple husbands and wives know of violating the body being unfilial? They merely follow what their hearts cannot help but do. That such a man exists shows that true filial piety still walks between heaven and earth. Those in charge of moral instruction have many weighty duties and no leisure to make known and praise such acts; thus, bringing to light the hidden and the minute depends upon the humble offerings of common folk."

The Lion

Siam presented a lion as tribute. Whenever it stopped, spectators gathered around it like a wall. Its appearance differed vastly from the embroidered paintings handed down in the world. Its fur was blackish-yellow and several inches long. Someone threw it a chicken; the lion first batted it with its paw and then blew upon it—at one breath, all the fell off as if swept clean. This too was a strange thing in nature.

The King of the Underworld

Li Jiuchang was a person of Linqu. One day, he was drinking from a flask in the open fields when he saw a whirling whirlwind approaching. He respectfully poured a libation. Later, as he was going elsewhere on business, he noticed a grand mansion by the roadside, with magnificent halls and pavilions. A servant dressed in dark blue emerged from within and invited Li in. Li firmly declined. The servant pressed him most earnestly. Li said, "I have never known you—could there be some mistake?" The servant said, "No mistake," and at once spoke Li's name and surname asked, "Whose house is this?" The reply was, "Enter and you will know." He entered and passed through one gate, where he saw a woman with her hands and nails nailed to the door. On closer look, she was his sister-in-law. He was greatly alarmed. Li had a sister-in-law who had a malignant abscess on her arm and had been bedridden for over a year. He wondered how she could have come to be here. Then he suspected that the invitation bode ill and hesitated, wanting to retreat. The servant urged him on, and he entered. Before the hall sat a man wearing the cap and belt of a king, with a fierce and awesome bearing. Li prostrated himself and dared not look up. The king ordered him to be helped to his feet. He comforted him, saying, "Do not be afraid. Because you once disturbed my cup of wine, I wished to meet you to express my thanks—there is no other reason." Li's heart was at ease, though he still did not understand. The king also said, "Do not you remember the time you poured a libation in the fields?" Li suddenly understood and knew he was a god. He knocked his head on the ground and said, "Just now I saw my sister-in-law subjected to such severe punishment; the bond of flesh and blood truly fills me with grief. I beg Your Majesty to show mercy and pardon her!" The king said, "This woman is most violent and jealous and deserves such punishment. Three years ago, your elder brother's concubine gave birth with a prolapsed intestine, and she secretly pierced the intestine with a needle, so that to this day her organs are in constant pain. Is this the act of a human being!" Li pleaded earnestly. The king then said, "I will pardon her on your account. When you return, you must urge this violent woman to reform her ways." Li thanked him and departed; when he looked back, there was no one on the door. He returned home to see his sister-in-law, who lay on her couch, blood from her wound soaking the mat. At that moment, because something had displeased the concubine, she was hurling abuse at her. Li at once urged her, "Sister-in-law, do not do this again! The suffering you endured today is all caused by your usual jealousy and envy." His sister-in-law said angrily, "My young brother is such a fine man; and his wife in the chamber is as virtuous as Meng Gugu—she lets her husband sleep in the east house and the west house, and does not dare to make a single sound. Naturally my young brother wields such great authority that he cannot be expected to subdue an old woman on behalf of his elder brother!" Li smiled faintly and said, "Sister-in-law, do not be angry. If I told you the truth, you would have no time left for anything but weeping." She said, "I have never stolen thread from the Mother Empress's basket, nor have I winked at a clerk of the Jade Emperor's incense table—my heart is open and at ease. Where would there be cause for tears?" Li said in a low voice, "What is the punishment for piercing a person's intestine?" His sister-in-law's face changed abruptly and she asked where this remark came from. Li told her the reason. His sister-in-law trembled uncontrollably, tears and mucus streaming down as she cried out in grief, "I dare not do it again!" Before her tears had dried, she felt the pain stop abruptly, and in ten days she was cured. From that time she completely reformed her former ways and came to be known as virtuous and kind. Later, when the concubine gave birth again, her intestine prolapsed once more, and the needle was still there. When it was removed, the intestinal pain was healed.

The Historian of the Strange said: "Some say that in the world there are many as violent and jealous as this woman, and they regret that the net of the underworld has so many holes. I say: Not so. The punishments of the underworld may well be even worse than being nailed to a door, but there is no word that comes back."

The Clay Image

**Ma of Yishui**

A man surnamed Ma of Yishui married a woman surnamed Wang, and the two lived in the most harmonious affection. Ma died young. Wang's parents wished to make her change her resolve, but Wang swore she would be true to no other. Her mother-in-law, pitying her youth, also urged her, but Wang would not listen. Her mother said, "Your resolve is indeed admirable; yet you are too young, and you have no son. I have often see those who force themselves to remain faithful at first, only to bring shame upon themselves later. It would be better to remarry early—this is only natural." Wang, with a solemn countenance, swore by her death, and her mother then let her be. The woman ordered a sculptor to make an image of her late husband, and at every meal she poured a libation and offered food as though he were still alive.

One evening, as she was about to retire, she suddenly saw the clay figure stretch and yawn and descend from its place. Her heart pounded in alarm, and as she turned in astonishment, it had already grown rapidly to the size of a man—truly her husband. The woman was terrified and called out to her mother. The ghost stopped her, saying, "Do not. I am moved by your devotion, and the bitterness of the grave. A household that harbors a chaste and loyal wife brings honor to many generations of ancestors. My father in life committed acts of moral failing and should have had no heir, which is why my prime was cut short. The authorities of the underworld, moved by your bitter fidelity, have therefore sent me back to beget a son with you to carry on the family line." The woman's garments were wet with tears. They then lay together as in former times. When the rooster crowed, he rose from the bed and departed.

This continued for over a month, when she felt a slight stirring in her belly. The ghost then wept and said, "My time is fulfilled—from this moment, we part forever!" And he vanished. At first the woman told no one; but as her belly gradually swelled, she could no longer hide it and secretly informed her mother. Her mother suspected it was a delusion; yet observing that the woman had no other impropriety, she was greatly perplexed. After ten months, she indeed gave birth to a boy. When she spoke of it to others, all who heard it could not suppress a smile; the woman herself had no way to vindicate herself. A village headman who had long borne a grudge against the Ma family reported the matter to the county magistrate. The magistrate summoned and questioned the neighbors, but none reported anything unusual. The magistrate said, "I have heard that ghosts cast no shadow—one who casts a shadow must be a fraud." He held the child in the sunlight at noon, and the shadow was faint and indistinct, like light mist. He then pricked the child's finger and smeared the blood upon the clay figure—it entered at once without leaving a mark; when he applied it to another figure, it was wiped away with a single stroke. By this he was convinced.

After several years, the child's mouth, nose, speech, and movements were all exactly like those of Ma. Only then did the suspicions of all begin to dissolve.

**The Woman of Changzhi**

Chen Huanle was a native of Changzhi in Luzhou. He had a daughter, beautiful and clever. A Taoist priest came begging for alms, glanced at her, and left. From then on, he came daily with his bowl to linger near the market. One day a blind man came out of the Chen household, and the priest followed him, asking where he had been. The blind man said, "I have just been to the Chen family to calculate their fortunes." The priest said, "I hear they have a young daughter—she is a cousin on my mother's side. I wish to seek a marriage, but I do not know her birth details." The blind man told him, and the priest departed.

Several days later, the woman was embroidering in her room when she suddenly felt her foot grow numb, the numbness spreading to her thigh, then to her waist and belly; soon she fainted and collapsed. After a while, she regained her senses and could stand, and went to find her mother. When she stepped outside, she saw boundless black waves, with a single thread-like path stretching before her. She started back in alarm—her house and home had already been submerged by black water. Looking at the road, she saw very few passersby, only the Taoist priest walking slowly ahead. She followed him from a distance, hoping to encounter a fellow villager to whom she could tell her troubles. After walking several miles, she suddenly saw a village, and looking closely, she recognized it as her own gate. She was greatly astonished and said, "I have run so far, yet I am still in the village. How could I have been so bewildered!" She entered joyfully, but her parents had not yet returned. She went again to her own room; the embroidered shoes she had been working on were still on the bed. She felt utterly exhausted from her wandering and sat down to rest on the bed.

The Taoist priest suddenly entered. The woman was terrified and tried to flee. He seized her and forced her down. She tried to scream, but her voice was silenced. The priest swiftly cut open her chest with a sharp blade. The woman felt her soul float free and stand apart from her body. She looked around—her home was entirely gone, replaced only by a crumbling cliff overhead. She saw the priest dab the wooden figure with her heart's blood, then fold his fingers and chant incantations; she felt the wooden figure then merge with her. The priest instructed her, "From now on you must obey my commands without error!" and took her with him.

The Chens lost their daughter and the whole family was distraught. They searched as far as Niutou Ridge, where they first heard villagers saying that a woman at the foot of the ridge had been killed by having her heart cut out. Chen rushed to verify it, and it was indeed his daughter. He wept and laid his complaint before the magistrate. The magistrate arrested the residents at the foot of the ridge and tortured them repeatedly, but found no leads. He provisionally detained the suspects pending further investigation.

The priest went several miles away and sat beneath a willow tree by the roadside. He suddenly said to the woman, "Now I send you on your first errand: go to investigate the proceedings of the county trial. When you arrive, conceal yourself in the warm chamber above. If you see the magistrate affix his seal, you must quickly avoid it—remember this well! You are to leave at the hour of the Dragon and return at the hour of the Snake. If you are one quarter-hour late, I will pierce your heart with one needle, causing sharp pain; two quarters, two needles; by the third needle, your soul and spirit will be annihilated."

The woman heard this and her whole body trembled with terror. She floated swiftly away and in an instant reached the yamen. She concealed herself in the upper chamber as instructed. At that time, the people from the ridge were kneeling in rows below the hall and had not yet been interrogated. Just as the magistrate was about to affix his seal to an official document, the woman had not yet had time to avoid it when the seal was already out of its case. She felt her body grow heavy and soft, as though the paper could not bear her weight, and a loud crackling sound echoed through the hall. All present turned in alarm. The magistrate ordered her to be lifted again—the sound was the same; on the third attempt, she crashed to the floor. Everyone heard it clearly. The magistrate rose and said a prayer: "If you are a wronged spirit, speak plainly and I will clear your name." The woman came forward weeping and recounted in detail how the priest had killed her and sent her on this errand.

The magistrate dispatched runners on horseback, who reached the willow tree and found the priest there. They seized him and brought him back; after a single interrogation, he confessed. The detained suspects were then released. The magistrate asked the woman, "Now that your grievance is avenged, where shall you go?" The woman said, "I shall follow Your Honor." The magistrate said, "There is no place in my office to house you—you had better return to your home for now." The woman was silent for a long time, then said, "Your office is my home—I shall enter it." The magistrate asked again, but her voice had already fallen silent. He retreated into his residence, and there his wife had given birth to a daughter.

**A Righteous Dog**

Liaoning: A Certain Man of Liaoning

A certain man of Liaoning named Jia had his father imprisoned and facing death. Jia ransacked his savings and obtained a hundred taels of gold, which he intended to take to the prefecture to plead his case. He rode out on a mule, and his black dog followed him. He scolded and chased it away, but after it left, it followed again; he whipped it and chased it, but it still would not return. It followed him for several tens of li. Jia dismounted and went to the side of the road to relieve himself. Then he threw a stone at the dog, and the dog finally ran off. But as soon as Jia set out again, the dog suddenly reappeared, biting at the mule's tail and legs. Jia angrily whipped it. The dog yowled and barked without ceasing. Then it suddenly leaped ahead, furiously biting the mule's head, as if trying to block the road. Jia thought it an ill omen and grew even angrier. He turned his mount and galloped after the dog to drive it away. Seeing that the dog was far off, he turned back and spurred his mule on at full speed. By the time he reached the prefecture, it was already dusk. When he felt for the money pouch at his waist, half the gold was gone. Sweat poured down him in streams, and his very soul seemed lost. He tossed and turned all night, suddenly recalling that the dog's barking had had a reason. He waited for the gate to open and leave the city, carefully examining the road he had traveled. Then again he reasoned with himself: the road was a major thoroughfare running north and south, with travelers as numerous as ants—how could any lost gold possibly have survived? Hesitantly he returned to the place where he had dismounted and found the dog lying dead among the grass, its fur soaked with sweat as if it had been washed. He picked it up by the ear, and there, intact, were the sealed packets of gold. Moved by its loyalty, Jia bought a coffin and buried it. People called it the Grave of the Loyal Dog.

The God of Poyang

Zhai Zhanchi, serving as a judicial administrator in Raozhou, passed by Lake Poyang on his journey. On the lake there was a temple, where he halted his carriage to stroll and look around. Inside were carved images of the loyal minister Ding Puluang, who had died for his principles, and among them, a god surnamed Zhai, seated last of all. Zhai said, "He is of my clan—how can he be placed so low?" and so he switched his seat to a higher one. Afterward, as he boarded his boat, a great wind tore the sails, and the mast and rigging tilted dangerously; his whole family wailed in despair. Suddenly a small boat came cutting through the waves; drawing near the official's boat, they hastily pulled Zhai aboard the small craft, and his entire family boarded as well. On close examination, the man looked not the least bit different from the god surnamed Zhai. Before long, the waves subsided, but when they looked for him, he had vanished without a trace.

Wu Qiuyue

Wang Qin you Wang Ding, courtesy name Xianhu. He was generous and strong, with a wide circle of friends. At eighteen, he had not yet married when his betrothed died. Whenever he traveled far, he would often be gone for a year without returning. His elder brother Wang Nai was a renowned scholar north of the River, and the fraternal bond between them was deep. His brother urged him not to wander and promised to select a wife for him. Wang Ding would not listen. He ordered a boat and went to Zhenjiang to visit a friend. The friend was away, so Wang Ding took lodging in an inn, renting a room upstairs. The river water lay clear and rippling; Golden Mountain was in view. He found it most pleasing.

The next day, his friend came and invited him to move elsewhere, but Wang Ding declined. After staying more than half a month, one night he dreamed of a young lady, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, of exquisite beauty and grace. She came to his bed and they joined together; when he woke, he found he had emitted. He was rather puzzled but thought it a chance occurrence. That night he dreamed of her again. This happened three or four nights in a row. He grew greatly alarmed and dared not extinguish the candle. Though he lay down, he remained keenly on guard. The moment his eyelids met, the dream woman came again. Just as they were dallying, he suddenly started awake. He opened his eyes quickly and saw that the young maiden, like an immortal, was still right there in his arms. Seeing him awake, she was at once abashed and timid. Though he knew she was not human, he was greatly delighted. He had no leisure to ask questions; he gave himself fully to passion. The woman seemed unable to endure it and said, "Such violence—no wonder no one dared tell you plainly!" Only then did he question her. She replied, "I am Qiu Yue of the Wu family. My late father was a Confucian scholar, deeply versed in the numbers of the Changes. He cherished me dearly but said I would not live long, so he never betrothed me to anyone. Later, at fifteen, I indeed died prematurely. They buried me beneath the floor to the east of this pavilion, level with the ground. There is no grave mound or marker. They only set up a single stone by the side of the coffin, inscribed: 'The maiden Qiu Yue, buried with no mound—after thirty years, she marries Wang Ding.' Thirty years have now passed, and you have arrived. My heart rejoiced, and I urgently wished to offer myself, but my heart was too shy, so I borrowed the realm of dreams." Wang was also overjoyed and sought to finish their union. She said, "I still need some yang qi; I wish to seek to come back to life, but truly cannot endure such storms of passion. There will be endless good days ahead—why must it be tonight?" Then she rose and left.

The next day she returned. They sat facing each other, laughing and jesting, as joyful as old friends. When the candle was put out and they mounted the bed, she was no different from a living person. But once the woman rose, emission flowed freely, staining the bedding. One night, the moon shone brilliantly clear. They walked a little in the garden. He asked the woman, "Are there also cities and walls in the underworld?" She replied, "Just the same. The cities and offices of the underworld are not here—they are about three or four li from this place. But they take night as day." He asked, "Can the living see them?" She answered, "They can." Wang asked to go and see, and the woman agreed. They went by moonlight. The woman drifted swiftly like the wind; Wang Ding exerted himself to follow. In an instant they arrived at a place. The woman said, "Not far now." Wang looked around but saw nothing at all. The woman smeared his two eyes with her spittle and opened them. His vision was twice as keen as usual; he saw the night no differently from broad daylight. He suddenly saw battlements and walls in the hazy distance. People on the road were hurrying as if to a market. Soon two yamen runners in black led three or four bound people past. The last one looked strangely like his elder brother. He hurried closer—it was indeed his brother. In alarm he asked, "How did you come here?" His brother saw him and tears streamed down, saying, "I do not know what I have done; I was forcibly seized and imprisoned." Wang Ding said angrily, "My brother is a gentleman who upholds propriety—how could he be fettered like this!" He at once begged the two runners to kindly release him. The runners refused and were exceedingly arrogant and contemptuous. Wang Ding grew furious and wanted to quarrel with them. His brother stopped him, saying, "This is an official order; one ought to abide by the law. But I lack funds, and they press me hard for bribes. When you return, you should make arrangements." Wang Ding grasped his brother's arm and wept aloud. The runners grew angry and yanked roughly at the neck-chain. His brother fell at once. Wang Ding saw this and fury filled his breast; he could not restrain himself. He drew his sword and straightaway cut off the head of one runner. The other runner cried out, and he cut him off too. The woman cried out in alarm, "Killing an official envoy—this crime cannot be pardoned! If we delay, disaster will fall upon us! Please at once find a boat and head north. When you return home, do not remove the mourning banner, bolt the door, and cut off all coming and going. For seven days you will be safe."

Wang Ding then supported his brother and bought a small boat by night, crossing north in great haste. When he returned, he found mourners at the gate and knew his brother had indeed died. He bolted the door and locked it before entering. He looked at his brother—he had vanished. Entering the inner room, he found the dead man had revived, and he called out, "I am starving to death! Quickly prepare soup and cakes!" By then he had been dead for two days. The whole household was terrified. Wang Ding then related everything that had happened. On the seventh day he opened the gate and removed the mourning banner; only then did people know he had come back to life. Relatives and friends gathered to ask about it, but he only gave them false answers. Then he thought of Qiu Yue and longed for her greatly. He went south again to the old pavilion and sat holding a candle waiting for a long time, but the woman did not come. Drowsy and about to sleep, he saw a woman come and say, "The young mistress Qiu Yue sends her regards to you, sir. Because the official envoy was killed earlier and the perpetrator fled, they seized the young mistress and she is now in custody. The guards treat her cruelly. She thinks of you daily and hopes you will find some means to help." Wang Ding was grief-stricken and indignant, and he followed the woman. They arrived at a city; entering the western outer wall, she pointed to a gate and said, "The young mistress is temporarily held here." Wang Ding entered and saw many rooms, with numerous prisoners lodged there, but no Qiu Yue. He went through a small side door; in a tiny room there was lamplight. Wang Ding approached the window and peered in. Qiu Yue sat on a couch, covering her face and sobbing. Two guards were at her side, stroking her chin and holding her shoes, using them to mock and tease her. She wept all the more urgently. One guard took her by the neck and said, "Since you are a criminal, do you still guard your chastity?" Wang Ding, in his fury, had no leisure for words. He charged straight in with his sword, one guard one blow, cutting them down like hemp, and seized the woman to escape. Fortunately no one noticed. Just as they reached the inn, he suddenly woke. He was puzzled by the ferocity of the dream, when he saw Qiu Yue standing there with a sidelong glance. He started up in alarm, pulled her down to sit, and told her of the dream. The woman said, "It was real, not a dream." Wang Ding said in alarm, "What shall we do?" The woman sighed and said, "This is destined fate. I was to wait until the end of the month before the time of my rebirth; now it is already like this—what is the use of waiting? We must quickly go to my burial place, carry me home with you, and call my name frequently each day. In three days I can live again. But as the time is not yet complete, my bones will be soft and my feet weak; I will not be able to do the household work for you." Having said this, she was about to leave in haste. She turned back and said, "I nearly forgot—how shall we escape pursuit from the underworld? In life, my father passed on talismanic writings to me, saying that after thirty years, husband and wife could wear them." She then asked for a brush and quickly wrote two talismans, saying, "One for you to wear yourself, and one to paste on my back." She sent him out, marking the place where she had vanished. He dug about a foot deep and immediately saw the coffin, which was already decayed and rotten. Beside it was a small stone tablet, exactly as the woman had said. He opened the coffin and looked inside. The woman's face...

Her color was as if alive. He carried her into the room, but her clothes dissolved with the wind. He affixed a talisman, wrapped her tightly in quilts, and carried her to the riverbank. He hailed a moored boat, falsely claiming that his sister was gravely ill and that he needed to send her home. Fortunately, the south wind blew strong, and by dawn they had already reached his village gate. He carried the girl inside and settled her, then informed his elder brother and sister-in-law. The whole family stared in alarm, yet none dared speak directly of their bewilderment. The young man opened the quilt and called out to Qiuyue. At night he would embrace her corpse and sleep beside her. Gradually she grew warm. On the third day she revived, and on the seventh she could walk. She changed her clothes and paid respects to her sister-in-law, graceful and elegant, no different from an immortal. But beyond ten paces, she needed someone to support her; otherwise she would sway in the wind as if about to topple over. Those who saw her believed she suffered from an ailment of the body, yet it only added to her charm. She often urged the young man, "Your sins are too deep. You should accumulate virtue and recite sutras to atone for them. Otherwise, I fear your lifespan may not be long." The young man had never been devout in Buddhism, but from this point on he converted with great sincerity. Afterwards, too, he suffered no further harm.

The Historian of the Strange says: "I wish to submit a proposal for the law: 'Anyone who kills a government official's runner shall receive punishment three degrees lighter than that for killing an ordinary person.' For there is not one of these men who does not deserve to be killed. Therefore, one who can purge and eliminate corrupt runners is a virtuous official; even if he is somewhat harsh, he cannot be called cruel. Moreover, in the underworld there are no fixed laws. If there is a wicked man, to subject him to knives, saws, tripods, and cauldrons would not be considered cruel. For what satisfies the hearts of men is what the King of the Underworld deems good. How can one who is guilty enough to be pursued by the underworld simply escape by good fortune?"

Lotus Princess

Jiaozhou Dou Xu, styled Xiao Hui, was taking a nap in broad daylight when he saw a man in brown robes standing before his bed, pacing hesitantly with anxious glances, as though he had something to say. Dou asked him who he was. The man replied, "My lord requests the honor of your company." "Who is your lord?" "He is near, in the neighboring region." Dou followed him out. They turned past walls and buildings, arriving at a place where tiered pavilions and layered mansions stretched in endless rows. As they wound their way through, Dou felt that the myriad gates and thousand homes were nothing like the world of men. He also saw palace ladies and female officials passing to and fro in great numbers, all asking the man in brown, "Is the young master Dou here?" The man in brown answered in the affirmative. Soon, a high official came out, greeting him with great respect. Once they had ascended the hall, Dou opened with, "Since we have never been acquainted, I have neglected to pay my respects. That you have received me with such kindness fills me with wonder." The high official said, "Our king, admiring your family's pure lineage and hereditary virtue, has long yearned with the deepest admiration and ardently wishes to meet you." Dou was even more startled. "Who is your king?" "In a moment you will know." Presently, two female officials arrived, guiding Dou forward with twin banners. He entered through heavy gates and saw a king upon the throne. The king descended the steps to greet him upon his entrance, observing the rites of host and guest. When the rites were complete, they took their seats, and a lavish feast was laid out. Looking up, Dou saw a plaque on the hall reading "Cassia Palace." Dou was too overwhelmed to speak. The king said, "I am honored to be your fragrant neighbor, and our karmic bond runs deep. You should set your heart at ease and harbor no doubt or fear." Dou assented meekly. After several rounds of wine, music and song rose from below—no clanging of gongs or drums, but sounds soft and subtle. After a time, the king suddenly glanced left and right and said, "I have a line—let you all compose the matching couplet: 'A man of talent ascends the Cassia Palace.'" The company was still pondering when Dou immediately responded, "The gentleman loves the lotus flower." The king was delighted. "Marvelous! Lotus is the princess's childhood name—how could it fit so perfectly? Could this not be destiny?" He sent word to the princess: "You must not fail to come out and meet this gentleman." Before long, the sound of jade pendants drew near, and the fragrance of orchids and musk grew heavy. The princess had arrived. She was sixteen or seventeen, of matchless beauty. The king bade her pay her respects to Dou, saying, "This is my little daughter Lotus." After she had bowed, she departed. Dou gazed after her, his spirit shaken, sitting motionless in deep thought. The king raised his cup to urge him to drink, but Dou's eyes saw nothing. The king seemed to perceive his thoughts and said, "My daughter would be a fitting match for you, but I am ashamed that she is not your equal—what can be done?" Dou sat in a daze as if bereft of his senses, hearing nothing. A person nearby nudged him and said, "The king bowed to you and you did not acknowledge it; the king spoke to you and you did not hear?" Dou was lost in confusion, mortified with shame. He rose from his seat and said, "Your subject has received your generous favor and did not realize I had drunk too much. I have failed in the proper rites and beg your forgiveness. But the sun is late and your lordship must be weary—I beg leave to depart." The king rose and said, "Since meeting you, my heart is truly delighted. Why do you speak so hastily of leaving? If you will not stay, I would not dare to force you. But if your thoughts linger, I shall invite you again." He then ordered an eunuch to guide Dou out. Along the way, the eunuch said to Dou, "Just now the king said you would be a suitable match—he seemed to wish to arrange a marriage. Why did you say nothing?" Dou stamped his foot in regret, cursing himself with every step, and soon found himself back home. He suddenly woke—the last rays of sunlight were fading. He sat in the dark, recalling everything, and it was all vivid before his eyes. That evening, after extinguishing the candle at his vegetarian meal, he hoped the old dream might be found again, but the road to Handan was far away, and he could only sigh in regret. One evening, he was sharing a bed with a friend when the eunuch from before suddenly appeared, conveying the king's command to summon him. Dou was overjoyed and followed him. He saw the king and prostrated himself. The king raised him up, invited him to sit in a corner, and said, "I know you have been pining since we parted. I have presumptuously offered my little daughter to attend upon you—I trust you do not find her objectionable." Dou bowed and thanked him. The king ordered learned ministers to accompany him at the feast. When the wine was nearly finished, a palace lady came forward to announce, "The princess has completed her toilet." Soon dozens of palace ladies escorted the princess out. Her head was covered in red brocade; she walked with steps as light as treading on waves, and was led up onto the woolen carpet to exchange bows with Dou, completing the wedding rites. Afterward, they were conducted to the bridal chamber. The nuptial room was warm and fragrant, filled with the most exquisite perfumes. Dou said, "With you before my eyes, I could truly forget death in joy. But I fear that today's encounter is nothing but a dream." The princess covered her mouth and said, "It is clearly I and you together—how could it be a dream?" The next morning, as they rose, Dou playfully applied powder and yellow pigment to her face. Then he tied a sash around her waist and measured her feet with his fingers. The princess laughed and asked, "Are you mad?" He said, "I have been deceived by dreams many times, so I am noting every detail. If this should be a dream, it would still be enough to stir longing." Before their banter was finished, a palace lady rushed in, crying, "A demon has entered the palace gates! The king has fled to a side hall! Disaster is near!" Dou was greatly alarmed and hastened to see the king. The king took his hand and wept, "I had not expected you to abandon us—I had planned for an enduring bond. Who could have foreseen that calamity would descend from heaven, that the state is about to fall? What can be done?" Dou asked in alarm what had happened. The king handed him a memorial from the table and bade him read it. It read: "Grand Secretary of the Hall of Containing Fragrance, Your subject He Yi, memorials regarding an extraordinary demonic anomaly, praying for an early relocation of the capital to preserve the state's lifeline: According to reports from the Palace Gate, since the sixth day of the fifth month, a giant python one thousand feet long has coiled itself outside the palace, devouring over thirteen thousand eight hundred officials and subjects both inside and outside. All palaces it passes are reduced to mounds of rubble, etc. Your subject advanced bravely to observe it and clearly saw the demonic python: its head is like mountains and hills, its eyes like rivers and seas. When it raises its head, it swallows palaces whole; when it stretches its body, it overturns every wall and building. Truly a calamity unseen in a thousand ages, a disaster unencountered in ten thousand generations! The altars of soil and grain and the ancestral temples are in imminent peril! May Your Majesty early lead the palace household to swiftly migrate to a land of happiness." And so forth. When Dou had finished reading, his face was ashen. Immediately, palace attendants rushed in to report: "The demon creature has arrived!" The whole hall wailed in grief, as dark as a sunless day. The king, in desperate confusion, could do nothing but weep and look at Dou, saying, "My little daughter has already burdened you." Dou gasped and turned back. The princess was embracing her attendants, wailing. Seeing Dou enter, she seized his lapel and said, "What will you do with me?" Dou was overcome with grief. Taking her wrist, he thought and said, "This poor scholar is ashamed to have no golden chamber to offer. But I have a thatched cottage of three or four rooms—might we flee and hide there together?" The princess said through tears, "In such urgency, how can one be choosy? I beg you to take me quickly!" Dou supported her and they set out. Before long, they reached his home. The princess said, "This is a truly grand dwelling, far surpassing my old country. But I have come with you—what of my parents? Please build another house, and I shall bring the whole nation to follow." Dou found this difficult. The princess wept aloud, "If you cannot help others in their hour of need—"

What's the hurry? What use is a husband?" The young man tried to soothe her, but she had already gone inside the chamber. The princess lay prostrate on the bed, weeping piteously, and nothing could stop her. He racked his brains but could find no solution, when suddenly he awoke and realized it had been a dream. Yet the sound of weeping still lingered in his ears, a soft, continuous whimpering. Listening carefully, he realized it was not a human voice—it was two or three flies buzzing around his pillow. He cried out in astonishment. When his friend questioned him, he told him of the dream. The friend too marveled at the strangeness of it. They both rose to look at the flies, which clung to his robes and sleeves and could not be brushed away. The friend advised him to build a hive. The young man did as suggested and oversaw the construction. He had barely erected two walls when a swarm of flies came from outside the wall, pouring in like gnats. Before the roof was even closed, they had gathered to fill a full peck. Tracing where they came from, they found it was the old garden of their neighbor, the elderly Wang. In the garden was a hive of flies that had been there for over thirty years and had multiplied greatly. Someone told old Wang about the matter. Wang went to look, but the hive was silent. He broke open the wall and found a serpent coiled inside, over three meters long. He caught it and killed it. Only then did they know the great serpent had been this creature. The flies moved into the young man's household and multiplied even more abundantly, but nothing else strange occurred.

The Maiden in Green

A scholar named Yu Jing, styled Xiaosong, was from Yidu. He was studying at Liquan Temple. One night, as he was reading, a woman suddenly appeared outside the window and said, "How diligently you read, Scholar Yu!" He wondered how a woman could be in such a remote mountain. While he was still pondering, the woman had already pushed open the door and entered with a smile, saying, "How diligently!" Yu rose in alarm and looked at her—dressed in green robes with a long skirt, she was graceful beyond compare. Knowing she was no ordinary mortal, he pressed her for her place of origin. She said, "You must see that I am not the sort who would devour you—why press me so?" Yu was captivated and took her as his lover. When her silk blouse was undone, her waist was so slender it could barely fit in two hands. Before the night watch had ended, she departed as lightly as a swallow. From then on, she came every night without fail. One evening, as they drank together, he found her conversation revealed a marvelous understanding of music. Yu said, "Your voice is so delicate—if you were to sing a song, it would surely be soul-stirring." She smiled and said, "I dare not sing, for fear of stealing your soul." Yu insisted. She said, "It is not that I am unwilling, but I fear others might hear. If you truly wish it, I will humbly perform—but only in a whisper, merely to convey the melody." She then lightly tapped the foot of the bed with her lotus-shaped slippers and sang:

"The white-fruit tree's birds at midnight scatter me—

Not that my embroidered shoes grow wet,

But lest my love should walk alone."

Her voice was as faint as a fly's, barely distinguishable, yet listened to in quiet, it was fluid and vibrant, stirring both ear and heart. When she finished, she opened the door and peered out, saying, "Make sure no one is outside the window." She circled the entire house, inspecting it, before coming back in. Yu said, "Why are you so fearful?" She laughed and said, "As the proverb goes: 'One who lives by stealth is ever afraid of others.' That speaks me exactly." They then lay down together, but she grew uneasy and unhappy, saying, "Perhaps the measure of our bond ends here." Yu asked her anxiously what she meant. She said, "My heart trembles—my fortune is spent." Yu consoled her, saying, "A trembling heart and a twitching eyelid—these are common enough. Why speak so?" She was somewhat reassured and they grew close again. When the night watch ended, she rose, dressed, and stepped from the bed. Just as she was about to open the door, she hesitated and returned, saying, "I know not why, but my heart is weak with fear. Please escort me out." Yu rose and escorted her to the door. She said, "Wait for me to leave; when I have climbed over the wall, then you may return." Yu said, "Very well." He watched her turn the corner of the corridor and vanish without a trace. Just as he was about to go back to bed, he heard her crying out in urgent distress. He rushed out but could see no trace of her in any direction. The sound came from beneath the eaves. He looked up carefully and saw a spider the size of a pellet, struggling with something it had caught, which cried out piteously in a hoarse voice. Yu tore the web, freed the creature from its bindings, and found it to be a green fly, nearly dead. He carried it back to his chamber and placed it on the desk. After some time, it revived and was able to walk. It slowly climbed onto the inkstone, dipped itself in the ink, then crawled onto the desk and traced the character "Xie" (Thanks). It spread its wings several times, then flew out through the window and was never seen again.

Li Shi

**He of Xiezhongtiao, Longmen**

A man named Xie Zhongtiao of Longmen was a dissolute and unscrupulous fellow. After losing his wife past the age of thirty, he was left with two sons and one daughter. They wailed and cried from morning till night, and the burden of caring for them was exceedingly bitter. He sought to arrange a second marriage, but the negotiations dragged on without resolution. For the time being, he hired an old woman to nurse and tend the children.

One day, while strolling leisurely along a mountain path, he suddenly saw a woman emerge behind him. He waited and observed her furtively—she was a fine-looking girl, about twenty years of age. His heart was pleased, and he joked, "Madam, you walk alone—are you not afraid?" The woman hurried on without answering. He added again, "Madam takes such delicate steps—this mountain path is rather difficult." The woman still paid him no heed. Xie looked around and saw no one nearby. He stepped close to her and suddenly seized her wrist, dragging her into a secluded valley, intending to force himself upon her. The woman cried out in anger, "What manner of ruffian are you, to assail me so wantonly?" Xie pulled and dragged her along without stopping. The woman stumbled and fell, distressed and helpless. At last she said, "Is this how you seek a loving union? Loosen your hold, and I will come to you willingly." Xie complied. Together they entered a quiet ravine, and after their tryst in the wild, they grew fond of each other.

The woman asked his home and surname, and Xie told her the truth. He then asked the woman in return. She said, "I am of the Li family. Unfortunate to have been widowed early, and my mother-in-law has also passed away. I am utterly alone, with no one to rely upon, so I often visit my mother's home." Xie said, "I too am a widower. Would you be willing to be with me?" The woman asked, "Do you have children?" Xie replied, "I will not deceive you: as for matters of the bedchamber, I have no shortage of women I have been intimate with. It is only the crying of sons and daughters that I cannot bear." The woman hesitated and said, "This is a great difficulty! Judging by the style of your clothes, stockings and shoes, you are merely ordinary. I believe I could manage, but being a stepmother is a hard role—I fear I could not withstand the reproaches." Xie said, "Please harbor no doubts. I myself will say nothing—what business is it of others?" The woman gave a slight assent. But then she worried and said, "My body is already joined to yours—how could I refuse? But I have a fierce elder brother who always treats me as a piece of rare merchandise. If he does not consent to the match, what then?" Xie was also anxious and asked her to flee with him. The woman said, "I have thought this through thoroughly. My only fear is that someone in my family might reveal it, and neither of us would benefit." Xie said, "That is a trivial matter. There is only an old widow in my house—I will send her away at once." The woman was delighted and went home with him.

He first hid her in an outer room. Then he went in, dismissed the old widow, swept the bed, and welcomed the woman, and their joy was beyond measure. The woman set to work, mending clothes for the children as well, and was exceedingly diligent. Xie, having obtained this woman, doted on her in an extraordinary way. He shut his door every day to be with her alone and received no other visitors.

A little over a month later, he happened to go out on official business and locked the door before leaving. When he returned, the inner gate was tightly shut; he knocked but received no answer. He pushed the gate open and entered—there was no trace of anyone. Just as he reached his bedchamber, a huge wolf leaped out through the gate, nearly startling him to death! He went in to look—the children were all gone. Fresh blood stained the ground, and only three heads remained. He turned to pursue the wolf, but it had already vanished without a trace.

The historian of strange affairs says: "When a gentleman is without virtue, his retribution is grievous indeed. Those who take a second wife are all letting a wolf into their house—how much more so when they seek a virtuous woman from a tryst in the wild and an elopement!"

**The Third Lotus Maiden**

# From *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, Volume 5

Zong Xiangru of Huzhou was a scholar. One autumn day, while inspecting his fields, he saw a spot where the grain grew thick and lush, shaking and swaying violently. Suspicious, he crossed the path to look, and found a man and woman coupling in the open. He was about to turn away with a smile, when he saw the man hastily fasten his belt and hurry off. The woman also rose. He examined her more closely—she was of a most elegant and lovely beauty. His heart was captivated; he desired to make love to her, but felt ashamed of such vulgar conduct. He drew near and brushed against her, saying, "Was your pleasure in the mulberry grove enjoyable?" The woman smiled without a word. Zong moved closer and opened her garments; her skin was smooth and creamy as fat. He fondled her all over several times. The woman laughed and said, "Pedant of a scholar! If you want something, just do it—why must you fumble about so wildly?" When he asked her name, she said, "One gust of spring wind, then we part east and west—why trouble yourself to inquire so closely? Surely you don't intend to leave my name on a chastity arch?" Zong said, "To couple in the dew-drenched wilds is the way of a swineherd in the hills—I am not accustomed to such things. With your beauty, even a secret tryst should be conducted with dignity. Why do this so frivolously?" Upon hearing these words, the woman received them with the highest approval. Zong said, "My humble study is not far away. Please come and linger a while." The woman said, "I have been out for some time and fear that people may become suspicious. Come at the dead of night." She asked him in great detail about the layout of his household and its distinguishing marks, then hastened along a diagonal path and swiftly departed. At the first watch, she indeed arrived at Zong's study. They indulged in the rains and clouds of passion, showing each other the utmost affection. Months passed, and no one knew of their secret.

It happened that a foreign monk took up residence at the village temple. Seeing Zong, he exclaimed, "You have an evil aura about you—what have you encountered?" Zong replied, "Nothing." A few days later, he suddenly fell ill. The woman came each night with fine fruits to feed him, tending him with devoted care, like a loving wife. Yet whenever he lay down, she would insist on coupling with him. Zong, being ill, found it quite unbearable. He began to suspect she was not human, but had no means to make her leave even temporarily. So he said, "That monk told me I was bewitched by a demon. Now I have indeed fallen ill—his words have proven true. Tomorrow I shall invite him here and ask him for a spell."

The woman's face changed with a look of distress. Zong's suspicions deepened. The next day, he sent someone to inform the monk of the situation. The monk said, "This is a fox spirit. Its powers are still shallow—it will be easy to bind." He wrote two talismans and gave instructions: "Go home and place a clean jar by the bed. Attach one talisman to the mouth of the jar. When the fox darts inside, quickly cover it with an inverted basin. Paste the other talisman on the basin, then throw the whole thing into a cauldron of boiling water over fierce fire. In a short while, it will be dead."

The servant returned and carried out the monk's instructions. Late at night, the woman arrived, reaching into her sleeve for golden oranges, about to approach the bed to inquire after him. Suddenly there was a whistling sound from the mouth of the jar, and she was sucked inside. The household sprang up, sealed the mouth and affixed the talisman, and was about to set it to boil. But Zong saw the golden oranges scattered all over the floor; recalling their past affection, he was overcome with grief and ordered her release at once. He removed the talisman and lifted the cover. The woman emerged from the jar in a wretched state. She bowed her head to the ground and said, "I was on the verge of achieving the Great Way, and in an instant nearly turned to ash! You are a benevolent man—I swear I will repay you." Then she departed.

Several days later, Zong grew ever more gravely ill, as if about to perish. His family went to the market to purchase coffin wood. On the way, they met a woman who asked, "Are you the steward of Zong Xiangru?" They replied, "Yes." The woman said, "Master Zong is my cousin. I hear he is gravely ill and wish to visit him, but I happen to have a matter that prevents me from going. Here is a packet of spiritual medicine—please deliver it to him." The family received it and returned. Zong thought to himself that he had no female cousins on his mother's side, and knew this was the fox's repayment. He took the medicine and recovered greatly; in ten days he was fully restored. Grateful in his heart, he prayed to the void, hoping to see her once more.

One night, he closed his door and was drinking alone when he heard a tapping at the window. He opened the bolt and went out to look—it was the fox-woman. Overjoyed, he took her by the hand in thanks and invited her to stay for a drink. The woman said, "Since our parting, I have been restless, unable to think how to repay your great kindness. Now I have found a worthy mate for you—will that suffice as recompense?" Zong asked, "Who is it?" She said, "Not someone you would know. Tomorrow at the chen hour, go early to the South Lake. If you see a girl picking lotus, wearing a shawl of ice-white silk, pursue her with your boat at once. If you lose track of where she goes, look for a short-stemmed lotus flower hidden among the leaves along the bank, pick it, and bring it home. Burn its stem with a candle flame, and you will obtain a beautiful wife, along with long life."

Zong carefully received her instructions. When she was about to leave, he tried to detain her. The woman said, "Since my calamitous ordeal, I have suddenly awakened to the Great Way. How then could I seek the love of bed and bedding, and thereby incur another's enmity?" She departed with a stern expression.

Zong followed her words and went to South Lake, where he saw many beauties among the lotus ponds. Among them was a young girl wearing ice-white silk—a beauty without peer. He urged his boat close, but suddenly lost sight of her. He parted the lotus clumps and indeed found a single red lotus, its stem less than a foot long, which he picked and carried home. Entering the house, he placed it on the table and cut a candle nearby, preparing to burn the stem. When he turned his head, she had transformed into a beautiful maiden. Zong was overjoyed and prostrated himself in homage. The woman said, "Foolish fellow! I am a fox-spirit and will bring you harm!" Zong paid no heed. The woman said, "Who taught you this?" He replied, "I myself could recognize you—who needed to teach me?" He seized her arm and drew her to him; as his hand closed, she turned into a strange stone about a foot high, exquisite on every surface. He placed it on the altar table, burned incense, and bowed twice in prayer.

At night, he sealed the doors and stopped up every crack, fearing she might escape. At dawn, he looked and found it was no longer a stone—a silk shawl lay there, fragrant from afar; when he examined the collar and lapels, traces of her creamy skin still remained. He covered her with the quilt and lay down beside her. At dusk he rose to light the lamp; when he returned, the young girl was on his pillow. Overjoyed, fearing she might transform again, he pleaded with her before approaching. The woman laughed and said, "What a torment! Who was the busybody who taught this infatuated fool to go to such lengths?" And she no longer resisted. Yet in their intimacy, she seemed unable to endure it and repeatedly begged him to stop. Zong would not listen. The woman said, "If you continue thus, I shall transform and leave!" Zong was frightened and desisted. From then on, the two were deeply harmonious. Gold and silk constantly filled his coffers, though no one knew where they came from. The woman spoke to others in a shy, obsequious manner, as if unable to find words. Zong also kept her strangeness a secret. After more than ten months of pregnancy, the day of birth approached. She entered the inner chamber and instructed Zong to bar the door and admit no one. She then took a knife and cut below her navel, drew out the child, and told Zong to tear a strip of silk to bind the wound. By the next day, she had healed.

Six or seven years later, she said to Zong, "My karmic debt is fully repaid. I ask to take my leave." Zong wept and said, "When you came to me, I was so poor I could not stand on my own. Thanks to you, I have gained a little prosperity. How can I bear to speak of parting so abruptly—"

...Moreover, you have no family or kin. Someday, our son will not know his mother—this too is a source of regret." The woman also said with a melancholy air: "Where there is gathering, there must be parting; this is simply the way of things. Our son has the blessings of good fortune, and you too may look to a long life. What more could you wish for? My surname was He. If you think kindly of me and hold my old belongings, calling out: 'Lotus Third Maiden!' you will see me again." Having spoken, she unbound herself and said: "I am gone now." As he started and turned to look, she had already flown higher than the rooftop. Zong leaped up and frantically tried to pull her back, catching one of her slippers. As it fell from her foot to the ground, it turned into a stone swallow, redder than cinnabar, translucent within and without, as though carved from crystal. He picked it up and stored it away. Searching through her trunk, he found that the ice-silk cape she had worn on her first arrival was still there. Whenever he thought of her, holding the slipper and calling out "Third Maiden," she would appear before him as the maiden, her joyful countenance and smiling brows exactly as she had been in life—but she did not speak.

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**The Scolding of a Duck**

A certain resident of Baizhuang Village, west of the town, stole a duck from his neighbor and cooked it. That night, his skin began to itch. When dawn broke and he examined himself, he found downy duck feathers growing from his skin, and they pained him when touched. He was greatly terrified, but there was no cure he could think of. That night he dreamed of a person who told him: "Your illness is a punishment from Heaven. You must have the owner scold you, and only then will the feathers fall out." Now, his neighbor, old Mr. Wang, was by nature a man of great forbearance; all his life, when he lost something, he never showed it in his expression or voice. The man craftily told the old man: "The duck was stolen by a certain Jia. He is deeply afraid of being scolded—if you scold him, it will also serve as a warning against future theft." The old man smiled and said: "Who has the spare breath to scoundrels?" In the end, he did not scold. The man grew more desperate and therefore told the neighbor the truth. The old man then scolded him, and his illness was at once cured.

The Commentator says: "How fearful is the act of stealing! One act of theft, and duck feathers grow! How one should be wary of scolding! One scolding, and a thief's guilt is lessened! Yet there is an art in doing good—that neighbor, old Wang, used his scolding to carry out his compassion."

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**The Son of the Liu Family**

Liu Xichuan of Jiaozhou was a steward managing the accounts for a certain Grand Secretary. He was over forty when a son was born to him, and he doted on him to the utmost. He indulged him in every way, fearing only to thwart him. As the young man grew, he became dissolute and extravagant, exceeding all bounds, and the old man's savings were emptied. Before long, the son fell ill. The old man had always kept a fine mule. The son said: "The mule is fat and can be eaten. Kill it and feed it to me, and my illness will be cured." Liu intended to kill an inferior, lame one instead. When the son learned of this, he flew into a furious rage, and his illness grew worse. Frightened, Liu killed the fine mule and served it. The son was then pleased. But he tasted only a single piece and then threw it away. His illness did not abate, and he soon died. Liu grieved and sighed as though he wished to die.

Three or four years later, the villagers ascended Mount Tai in a pilgrimage society. Halfway up the mountain, they saw a person riding a mule at great speed toward them, who looked remarkably like Liu's son. When he drew near, it was indeed him. He dismounted and bowed to each of them in turn, exchanging greetings. The villagers were all astounded but dared not question him about his death. They merely asked: "What are you doing here?" He replied: "Nothing in particular—just rushing about, east to west." He then asked the name of the innkeeper, and they told him all. The Liu son bowed and said: "I have some small business just now and have no leisure to speak at length of our separation. Tomorrow I shall pay you a visit." He mounted his mule and departed. The villagers returned to their inn and did not expect him to come after all. But at dawn they waited for him, and he indeed arrived, tethering his mule to a stable post and coming forward with a smile to talk. They said: "Your honored father thinks of you daily with the deepest longing. Why not return home and wait upon him?" The son asked in surprise: "Who told you this?" They told him it was Liu. The son's expression completely changed, and after a long while he said: "Since he thinks of me, please go back and tell him: I will wait for him here on the seventh day of the fourth month." Having spoken, he took his leave.

The villagers returned and related the matter to the old man. Liu wept bitterly and went on the appointed day, telling the innkeeper his story. The innkeeper stopped him, saying: "When I saw your son before, his manner was cold and indifferent—it seemed unlikely he bore any good intentions. If I were to divine it, I fear you will not be able to see him." Liu wept and would not believe him. The innkeeper said: "I do not mean to obstruct you, but ghosts and spirits are unpredictable, and I fear you may meet with misfortune. If you must see him, please hide yourself in a crate, and when he comes, observe his words and expression. If it seems safe, then come out." Liu followed his instructions. Before long, the son indeed arrived and asked: "Has Liu come?" The innkeeper replied: "No." The son said furiously: "That old beast—then he simply won't come!" The innkeeper, startled, said: "Why do you curse your father?" He replied: "What father is he to me? At first we were merely companions as guests and friends. I never expected him to conceal a treacherous heart, to hide my blood money, and stubbornly refuse to return it. Now I would gladly have my revenge—what father is there to speak of!" Having spoken, he went out the door, saying: "Let him off lightly!" Liu, in the crate, heard every word clearly. Sweat poured down to his heels, and he dared not breathe. The innkeeper called to him, and he emerged, returning home in a state of wretched confusion.

The Commentator says: "What joy there is in amassing great wealth by violence! What is hard to endure is having to repay it. Even after squandering it all, he does not forget it even in the netherworld—how bitter indeed is the hatred one bears toward others!"

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**The Immortal Above**

In the third month of the year Guihai, I went to Jixia with Gao Jiwen and we lodged together at an inn. Jiwen suddenly fell ill. It happened that Gao Zhenmei had also arrived in the prefecture with Mr. Nian Dong, and so we sought medical help. We heard from Yuan Lingong that in the southern suburb, a certain Madam Liang kept a fox spirit who was skilled in the arts of "Chang Sang" [the legendary physician]. We therefore went together to visit her. Madam Liang was a woman of over forty, with a languid, seductive air that suggested the fox. Entering her house, we found a red curtain hanging in the inner chamber. Peeking behind the curtain, we saw a statue of the Bodhisattva Guanyin hanging on the wall; also two or three scroll paintings depicting a rider on horseback brandishing a spear, with a bustling retinue of attendants. Against the northern wall stood a table; on the table was a small pedestal, less than a foot high, covered with a brocade cushion. They said that when the Immortal arrived, he would occupy this seat. We all burned incense and made our obeisance in order. The woman struck the chime three times, murmuring words that were barely audible. When the invocation was finished, she solemnly invited us to sit on couches in the outer room. The woman stood beneath the curtain, arranging her hair and resting her chin on her hand, speaking with us and recounting at length the miracles performed by the Immortal. After some time, the sun began to dim. We feared that nightfall would make it difficult to return, and so we asked her to pray again. The woman thereupon struck the chime and prayed afresh. Turning around, she stood once more and said: "The Supreme Immortal delights in nighttime conversation; at other times one often fails to encounter him. Last night there was a scholar awaiting examination, who brought food and wine to drink with the Supreme Immortal; the Supreme Immortal also produced fine ale to toast his guests, and they composed poems and laughed together. When they dispersed, the night watch was nearly at an end." Before she had finished speaking, a faint, rapid rustling was heard from the inner chamber, like the fluttering of bats. Just as we were straining to listen, suddenly something fell upon the table with a tremendous crash, as of a great stone. The woman turned around and said: "You nearly frightened the people to death!" Then a sigh and an exclamation were heard from the table, sounding like a vigorous old man. The woman held a banana-leaf fan before the pedestal. From the pedestal a loud voice cried: "What fortune! What fortune!" He spoke in a raised voice, inviting us to sit, as though bowing in salute. Then he asked his guests: "What instruction do you seek?" Gao Zhenmei, following Mr. Nian Dong's intention, asked: "Have you seen the Bodhisattva?" He replied: "The Southern Sea is a familiar path to me; how could I not have seen her?" Again: "Does the King of Hell also have successors?" He said: "It is the same as in the world of the living." "What is the surname of the King of Hell?" "His surname is Cao." Then they requested medicine for Jiwen. He said: "When you return, set out tea and water as an offering tonight. I will beg medicine from the Great Bodhisattva and present it to you; what ailment would not be cured?" Each of us had questions, and he resolved them all. Then we took our leave and returned. After a night's rest, Jiwen had somewhat improved. Zhenmei and I packed and departed first, and so did not have time to visit again.

Hou Jingshan

Mr. Gao Shaozai, Nian Dong, said: "In the Chongzhen era, there was a monkey spirit named Jingshan. He took possession of an old man in Hejian and discussed poetry and prose with people, determining their fortunes, discoursing tirelessly. He would place food and fruit upon the table and eat and drink in a great mess, though he himself could not be seen." At that time, Mr. Nian Dong's grandfather was bedridden with illness. Someone sent a letter saying: "Hou Jingshan is a man of a hundred years; you must not fail to meet him." So servants and horses were sent to summon the old man. The old man had been there a full day, but the Immortal had still not arrived. They burned incense and made offerings. Suddenly a loud voice was heard praising from above the house: "What a fine household!" Everyone looked up in astonishment. Presently the voice spoke again from beneath the eaves. The old man rose and said: "The Great Immortal has arrived." All followed the old man, adjusting their headscarves, to go out and greet him. They heard the sound of bowing and salutation. Once inside the house, he laughed heartily and spoke freely. At that time, Mr. Nian Dong and his brother were still students, having just returned from the examination hall. The Immortal said: "The examination papers of you two gentlemen are also good; but your mastery of the Classics is not yet thorough. You must apply yourselves with diligence, and the path to the clouds [success] is not far off." The two gentlemen respectfully asked about their grandfather's illness. He said: "The matter of life and death is of the greatest importance, and its principles are difficult to fathom." From this they understood that the news would be ill. Before long, the elder Mr. Nian passed away. In former times, there had been a monkey man who kept a monkey in the village. The monkey broke its chain and escaped; it could not be pursued and fled into the mountains. Decades later, people still saw it. Its movements were swift and darting; when it saw a person, it would dart away. Later it gradually came into the village, stealing fruit and food, but no one could see it. One day it was spotted by a villager, who chased it into the wilds and shot it dead. Yet the monkey's ghost did not know it had died; it only felt its body light as a leaf, able to travel a hundred li in a single breath. It therefore went to take refuge with the old man of Hejian, saying: "If you will serve me, I will make you rich." And he took for himself the name Jingshan.

In Changsha there was a monkey with a golden chain around its neck, who used to come and go among the households of gentlemen and officials. Those who saw it were certain to have fortunate happenings. If fruit was offered to it, it would eat. No one knew where it came from, nor where it went. A man of over ninety said: "When I was young, I still saw a tag on its chain, bearing the seal of a Ming dynasty princely household." One imagines it was an Immortal.

Flowing Coins

Liu Zongyi of Yishui said: His servant Du He was once in the garden when he saw coins flowing like water, two or three feet deep and broad. Delighted and startled, he scooped up double handfuls with both hands and then lay down upon the flow. When he rose and looked again, the coins had all departed; only what he had clutched in his hands remained.

Guo Sheng

Guo Sheng was a native of the eastern hills of the county. From youth he had been devoted to study, but in the mountain villages there was no one to correct his errors. By the time he was in his twenties, his calligraphy was riddled with mistakes. Before this, his household had been plagued by a fox: food, clothing, and household implements would constantly go missing, and the family suffered grievously from it. One night, as he was reading, he placed a scroll on his desk, only to find the fox had scrawled all over it; in the worst places, the ink was smeared so thickly that the lines of text were no longer distinguishable. He therefore selected the pages that were somewhat cleaner and gathered them together to read, obtaining only sixty or seventy pieces in all. He was filled with resentment and frustration, but there was nothing he could do. He also accumulated more than twenty compositions from his window studies, awaiting the critique of a noted scholar. When he rose in the morning, he found them spread open on his desk, the ink pooled and nearly exhausted. He was furious. It happened that a certain Mr. Wang, coming on some business to the mountains, who had long been on friendly terms with Guo, called at his house. Seeing the defaced texts, he asked about it. Guo told him the whole story of his troubles and showed him the surviving compositions. Wang examined them carefully: what the fox had marked and what it had left seemed to possess discernment, like the judgments of the Spring and Autumn Annals. He then looked over the soiled scrolls again and found them to be the kind 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Jinshengse was a man from Jinning. He married a woman of the Mu clan from the same village. They had a son who was just one year old when Jin suddenly fell ill and believed he would die. He said to his wife, "When I die, you will certainly remarry. Do not remain faithful to my memory!" Upon hearing this, his wife spoke sweetly and swore solemnly, vowing that she would rather die. Jin shook his hand and called out to his mother, "When I die, I will trouble you to look after the child. Do not let her remain faithful!" His mother wept and promised. Soon after, Jin did indeed die.

Old Dame Mu came to mourn. After weeping, she said to Jin's mother, "Heaven has sent this calamity—your son-in-law has met his fate so suddenly. Your daughter is so young and frail—what plan can she have?" Jin's mother, in the midst of her grief, heard these words and was overcome with indignation. She replied with great force, "She must remain faithful!" Dame Mu, ashamed, withdrew.

That night, Dame Mu slept beside the young woman and said to her privately, "Any man can be a husband. With your fine qualities, why worry about not finding a good match? If a young woman does not early make a home for herself, but instead keeps her eyes fixed on this swaddled infant, is she not a fool? If she must remain faithful, you should not show her a pleasant face." Jin's mother passed by and overheard some of these words, which made her even angrier. The next day, she said to Dame Mu, "The deceased left instructions—he never told his wife to remain faithful. Now that we cannot wait, she must remain faithful!" Dame Mu left in anger.

That night, Jin's mother dreamed that her son came to her, weeping and trying to persuade her. She found this strange. She sent word to the Mu family, agreeing that after the funeral, they would let the young woman go where she wished. But when she consulted a diviner, she learned that the burial direction was unlucky for that year. The young woman thought to display herself to attract a suitor. Even in her mourning garments, she did not neglect to apply powder and rouge. At home she still wore her usual makeup; when she returned to her parents' home, she appeared strikingly fresh and beautiful. Her mother-in-law knew of this and was displeased, but since the woman would soon belong to another man, she bore it in silence. And so the young woman grew even more brazen.

In the village there was a scoundrel named Dong Gui. He saw the woman and desired her. He bribed Jin's neighbor, an old woman, to act as a go-between and convey his attentions to the young woman. At night, he climbed over the wall from the old woman's house to reach the young woman's chamber, and there they met. Their liaison continued for some ten days, and the scandalous talk spread everywhere—the only one who did not know was Jin's mother.

In the young woman's chamber there was only a small maidservant, who was her confidante. One night, when the two lovers were in the midst of their passion, they heard the coffin lid rattle with a sound like firecrackers. The maidservant, sleeping on the outer pallet, saw the deceased emerge from behind the screen and enter the bedchamber with a sword. Soon they heard two voices crying out in alarm. After a short while, Dong Gui ran out naked. Before long, Jin seized his wife by the hair and dragged her out as well. The woman wailed loudly. Jin's mother, startled awake, saw the woman running out naked, just as she was about to unbolt the door. She asked her what had happened, but received no answer. She went out to pursue her, but heard no sound and could not find which direction she had gone.

She entered the young woman's chamber, where the lamp was still burning. Seeing a man's shoes, she called the maidservant. The maidservant came out trembling and told her of the strange event, and they marveled together in horror.

Dong Gui fled to the neighbor's house and crouched in a corner by the wall. After a while, when he heard the voices gradually die down, he got up. He had not a stitch of clothing on his body and was shivering terribly from the cold. He planned to borrow clothes from the old woman. He saw a room in the courtyard with double doors slightly ajar and slipped inside. Groping in the dark on the bed, he touched a woman's foot and realized it was the neighbor's wife. Lust arose in him. While she was sleeping, he secretly had his way with her. The woman woke and asked, "Is that you?" He answered, "Yes." The woman did not suspect him and allowed him the most intimate familiarity.

Earlier, the neighbor's son had gone to the northern village on an errand and had told his wife to bar the door and wait for his return. When he came back, he heard sounds from inside the bedroom and listened carefully—the sounds were utterly obscene. Enraged, he seized a spear and entered the room. Dong Gui, terrified, fled under the bed. The man killed him there. He then wanted to kill his wife. His wife wept and explained it had been a mistake, so he let her go. But he did not understand who the man under the bed had been. He called his mother to rise, and together they held a lamp over the body, barely able to make it out. Upon examination, the man still had a faint breath. When questioned about where he had come from, he still confessed. But he had been cut in several places, and the blood flowed without stopping. In a short while, he was dead.

The old woman, in a panic, said to her son, "You caught an adulterer and killed only him—what will you do now?" The son had no choice and so killed his wife as well.

That night, Old Man Mu was sleeping when he heard a commotion outside his door. He went out to look and saw flames blazing under the eaves, with the arsonist still lingering nearby, uncertain where to go. The old man shouted loudly, and the whole household gathered. Fortunately, the fire had just started and was still easy to put out. He ordered his men to take bows and crossbows and search for the arsonist. They saw a man as nimble as an apes, who vaulted over the wall and escaped. Outside the wall was the old man's peach orchard, surrounded on all four sides by high, solid walls. Several men climbed up on ladders to look, but his tracks were nowhere to be found. Only below the wall did something stir slightly. They called out but received no answer. They shot at it and it yielded. They opened the gate to examine and found a woman lying naked, an arrow piercing her chest and head. On closer inspection by lamplight, she was the old man's daughter and Jin's wife. They reported this in horror to the master. Old Man Mu and his wife were shocked to the point of collapse and could not understand what had happened. The woman's eyes were closed, her face the color of ash, her breath thin as a thread. They had someone pull the arrow from her head, but it would not come out. Only by stepping on her head and neck was it finally extracted. The woman let out a faint moan, blood gushed forth, and her breath ceased.

The old man was terrified and could think of nothing to do. At daybreak, he went to Jin's mother and told her the truth, kneeling at length and begging piteously. But Jin's mother bore no anger or resentment. She simply told him what had happened and told him to arrange the burial himself.

Jin had an elder cousin, Jinshengguang, who in fury went to the Mu family's door and berated them for their past wrongs. The old man, ashamed and dejected, offered him money to go home. But in the end, no one knew the name of the man with whom the woman had had her affair.

Soon the neighbor's son turned himself in to the authorities for killing the adulterer. After receiving a light punishment, he was released. But the woman's brother, Ma Biao, was by nature litigious and filed a complaint about his sister's wrongful death. The magistrate summoned the old woman. Terrified, she confessed everything from beginning to end. The magistrate also summoned Jin's mother, but she feigned illness and sent Jinshengguang to appear in her place, who laid out the full story. Thus all the previous charges were brought forward, and Old Man Mu and his wife were brought out for questioning. Everything was thoroughly investigated and the truth established.

Mu, for having encouraged his daughter to remarry and for allowing licentiousness, was sentenced to beating. He was ordered to redeem himself, and his family fortune was exhausted. The neighbor old woman, for leading others into adultery, was beaten to death with a rod. The case was then closed.

The Historian of the Strange says: "The son of the Jin family—was he not divine? He earnestly instructed his widow to remarry—how perceptive he was! Without killing a single person, all grievances were avenged. Can he not be called divine? The neighbor old woman seduced another man's wife, and in turn her own daughter-in-law was violated. Old Dame Mu loved her daughter, and in the end it was this love that killed her. Alas! 'If you want to know the causes of the future, look at the actions of the present'—retribution comes swifter than the next life!"

Hao Gu, a scholar of Laizhou, was studying at a country retreat some distance from home. He had not returned for the Mid-Autumn Festival, and found himself in a lonely solitude with no companion. He reckoned there was no one in the village worth talking to, except one Qiu Sheng, a celebrated scholar of the county—but Qiu had long harbored some hidden shameful deed, and Hao Gu had always despised him for it. As the moon rose high, his listlessness only grew. At last, having no choice, he sent a note inviting Qiu to drink. As they were drinking, there came a knocking at the door. The study servant went out to answer and returned with a scholar who wished to pay his respects to the host. Hao Gu rose from his seat and received the guest with ceremony. After they had bowed and sat down in a circle, Hao Gu asked the visitor's surname and place of origin.

"I am a man of Guangling," the guest said, "and I share your surname, sir. My courtesy name is Haiqiu. On such a fine night, lodging at an inn is doubly dreary. Having heard of your refinement, I have presumed to call upon you without an introduction."

The man was plainly but neatly dressed, and talked with an easy charm. Hao Gu was delighted. "You are a kinsman of mine! What a night this is, to meet such a splendid guest!" He at once ordered wine, and they conversed as if they had been old friends. Observing the guest's manner, Hao Gu perceived he seemed to hold Qiu in great contempt. When Qiu tried to engage him in conversation, the guest answered with arrogance and no show of courtesy. Hao Gu, embarrassed on Qiu's account, diverted the discussion by proposing they enliven the drinking with a rustic song. He cleared his throat twice, looked up at the sky, and sang "The Ballad of the Fufeng Swordsman." They both laughed merrily.

"I am not skilled in verse," the guest said, "and cannot repay your阳春snow. May I ask someone to take my place?"

"Just as you wish," Hao Gu said.

"Are there any famous courtesans in Laicheng?" the guest asked.

"None," Hao Gu replied.

The guest was silent for a long while, then said to the study servant, "I summoned a woman a moment ago; she should be outside the door. Bring her in."

The servant went out and indeed found a woman lingering just beyond the threshold. He led her inside. She was about eighteen, and seemed quite ethereal. Hao Gu was spellbound and helped her to a seat. She wore a willow-yellow cape, and her fragrance filled the room. The guest at once addressed her kindly: "You must have found the journey of a thousand li rather exhausting!" The woman smiled and murmured assent. Hao Gu was astonished and began to question her more closely.

"There are no worthy beauties in your hometown," the guest explained. "I summoned this one from a boat on West Lake." To the woman he said, "The 'Song of the Fickle Lover' you sang on the boat was excellent. Sing it again, if you please."

She sang:

"Fickle lover, you led your horse to wash in the spring pond.

The voices of men grew distant, the horse's sounds faded away.

The river sky was high, the mountain moon small.

You turned your head and went—never to return;

By dawn, white dew had grown in the courtyard.

I do not resent that partings are many,

But grieve that joyful meetings are few.

Where do you sleep? Do not be like catkins borne on the wind.

Even if you are never made a marquis,

Do not go to Linqiong for your fortune!"

The guest produced a jade flute from his stocking and accompanied her as she sang; when the song ended, the flute fell silent. Hao Gu was lost in admiration. "From West Lake to here is more than a thousand li—and to summon her in the blink of an eye! Are you not immortal?"

"I would not presume to call myself immortal," the guest replied. "But I regard ten thousand li as no more than my own courtyard. The moon and breeze at West Lake are especially glorious tonight, more so than in times past. You really must not miss seeing them. Will you come with me?"

Hao Gu, eager to see what marvels lay in store, agreed at once. "With the greatest pleasure."

"By boat or on horseback?" the guest asked.

Hao Gu thought that sitting in a boat would be more leisurely. "I should like to go by boat."

"It would be rather far to summon a boat from here," the guest said. "But there should be a ferry on the Milky Way." He raised his hand and beckoned toward the sky, calling out, "Boat, come! Boat, come! We wish to go to West Lake—we will pay you handsomely!"

Before long, a painted boat drifted down from the empty sky, wreathed in mist and clouds. They all boarded. A man stood at the stern holding a short oar; the end of the oar was thickly set with long feathers, shaped like a fan, and each sweep of the fan sent a gentle, refreshing breeze. The boat gradually rose into the clouds, heading south, swift as an arrow. In the space of a quarter-hour, the boat descended upon the water. The sound of strings and pipes rose in a clamorous din. They looked out from the boat: the moon was imprinted upon the misty waves, and pleasure boats thronged like a market. The boatman shipped his oar and let the craft drift where it would. Looking more closely, they saw that it was truly West Lake. The guest brought out from the stern cabin rare delicacies and fine wine, and they drank together in high spirits.

Presently a tower boat drew near and sailed alongside. Peeping through the window, he saw two or three people inside, playing chess and laughing loudly. A guest tossed a cup to the girl, saying, "Take this to speed you on your way." While the girl was drinking, Peng lingered with clinging reluctance, fearful she might leave, and nudged her with his foot. The girl cast a sidelong glance at him. Peng was even more stirred and begged her to promise a future meeting. She said, "If you truly wish to see me again, only ask for the name of Juanniang—there is no one who would not know it." The guest then gave the girl Peng's silk kerchief, saying, "I will arrange a three-year appointment on your behalf." He then rose, lifted the girl in the palm of his hand, and cried, "Immortal! Immortal!" He pried open the neighboring window, took hold of the girl, and thrust her through. The window was as large as a plate; the girl crouched and slithered in like a snake, finding it by no means cramped. Soon they heard from the neighboring boat, "Juanniang has woken up!" The boat then drifted away. In the distance, he saw the boat had already moored; the people on board departed one by one, and his spirits sank at once. He then told his companion that he wished to go ashore for a moment to take a look around. They had barely begun to discuss it when the boat docked of its own accord. So he left the boat and strode off, covering what seemed more than a li. The guest arrived later, leading a horse, and told Peng to take hold of it. Then the guest left again, saying, "Wait—I will borrow two more horses." But after a long while he did not return. Passersby had grown scarce; looking up, the slanting moon had turned westward, and the sky was brightening toward dawn. Qiu too had vanished. Peng clutched the horse in bewilderment, not knowing whether to advance or retreat. He urged the horse to where the boat had moored, but both the people and the boat were gone. Thinking of his empty purse, his anxiety doubled. When the sky was fully bright, he noticed a small embroidered bag on the horse; searching it, he found three or four taels of silver. He bought food and waited, and before he knew it, it was nearly noon. He reckoned he might as well seek out Juanniang for now, so he could gradually find out news of Qiu. But when he inquired after the name Juanniang, no one had heard of her, and his spirits drooped. The next day he set out. The horse was well trained and fortunately showed no defect; after half a month he arrived home.

When the three men had first embarked on the boat, the study servant returned and reported to the family: "Our master has become an immortal and departed." The whole household wept in sorrow, believing he would never return. When Peng came back, he tethered the horse and entered. His family gathered in surprise and joy to question him, and Peng then told them all that had happened. Considering that he alone had returned to his hometown, he feared Qiu's family might hear of it and come to press him for answers; he warned his family not to spread the word. In the course of conversation, he mentioned how the horse had come into his possession. The family, thinking it a gift left by an immortal, all went to the stable to examine it. When they arrived, the horse had vanished—only Qiu Sheng stood there, tethered to the manger by a halter of straw. Struck with horror, they called Peng out to look. He saw Qiu Sheng hanging his head beneath the hayrack, his face the grey of death; when questioned, he said nothing, only opening and closing his eyes. Peng could not bear it. He untied him and helped him to a couch, as though he had lost his soul and spirit. He fed him broth, and gradually he was able to swallow. At midnight he revived slightly and urgently wished to relieve himself; Peng supported him and took him out, and he dropped several pieces of horse dung. After a little more drinking and eating, he was finally able to speak. Peng sat by the couch and questioned him closely. Qiu said, "After we left the boat, she drew me aside to chat. When we reached an empty place, she playfully patted the back of my neck, and I was at once stunned and fell in a swoon. After lying there a moment, I looked down and saw that I had become a horse. My mind was clear too, but I could not speak. This is a great disgrace and shame—truly something I cannot tell my wife and children. I beg you not to reveal it!" Peng promised, and ordered a servant to escort him home on horseback.

From that time on, Peng could not forget Juanniang.

Three years later, because his brother-in-law had been appointed to a post in Yangzhou, Peng went to visit him. In the prefecture there was a young Master Liang, an old family friend of Peng's, who invited him to a banquet. At the gathering there were several singing-girls who came to pay their respects. The young master asked about Juanniang, and his servants replied that she was ill. The young master flew into a rage: "This girl presumes upon her own fame—bring her here in shackles if you must!" Hearing the name Juanniang, Peng was startled and asked who she was. The young master said, "She is a courtesan, the finest in Guangling. Because she has a little reputation, she puts on airs and is discourteous." Peng suspected it was merely a coincidence of names; yet his heart beat wildly, and he was desperate to see her. Before long, Juanniang arrived. The young master upbraided her harshly. Peng gazed at her closely—she was indeed the one he had seen on the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival. He said to the young master, "She and I have an old acquaintance. I hope you will kindly forgive her." Juanniang stared at Peng, seeming equally astonished. The young master, not pausing to inquire further, ordered the wine to be poured. Peng asked, "Do you still remember the song 'The Faithless Lover'?" Juanniang was even more startled. She fixed her gaze on him for a while, then sang the old song. Listening to her voice, it was just as it had been on that Mid-Autumn night three years before. When the banquet ended, the young master ordered her to attend Peng in his chamber. Peng took her hand and said, "Is the three-year appointment to be honored at last?" Juanniang said, "That day, while drifting on the West Lake with my companions, after only a few cups I suddenly seemed to fall into a stupor. In my drowsiness, someone carried me off and set me down in a village. A servant girl led me inside; there were three guests at the table, and you were one of them. Later we took a boat to the West Lake, and you sent me back through the window, holding my hand with deep affection. Whenever I thought of it, I believed it was only a dream—but the silk kerchief is still here, and I have kept it carefully wrapped to this day." Peng told her what had happened, and they marveled together with sighs. Juanniang threw herself into his arms, sobbing as she said: "The immortal has acted as our go-between. Do not think that because I am a woman of the dust you can cast me aside—do not abandon this poor creature drowning in the sea of suffering!" Peng said: "The promise made on the boat has never left my heart for a single day. If you are willing, I will empty my purse and sell my horse—I will grudge nothing." The next morning he told the young master, and also borrowed money from his brother-in-law. With a thousand pieces of gold he bought her freedom from the register and took her home. When they happened to visit his country villa, she was still able to recognize the very spot where they had drunk together that year.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "A horse that was once a man must have been a man who deserved to become a horse. To be made a horse is precisely to be denied the chance to be a man. Lions, elephants, cranes, and roc-birds alike are subjected to the whip and the bridle—how can this be called anything but the benevolence of the divine immortal? Even the arranging of a three-year appointment is a means of ferrying someone across the sea of suffering."

# From *Liaozhai Zhiyi*, Volume V

**Kanyu**

Song Junchu, a vice minister of the Board of Works in Yizhou, was a devoted believer in the geomantic art of kanyu—the siting of graves and dwellings—and even the women of his household could read the texts and understand the principles. When Minister Song died, his two sons established separate households and each sought an auspicious burial site for their father. Hearing of any practitioner skilled in the art of *qingwu*—the ancient term for geomancy—they would travel a thousand *li* to engage him, sparing no effort. Soon both branches of the family had gathered a hundred diviners. Every day they rode out in cavalcades across the countryside, the two parties heading east and west in separate columns like two rival armies. After more than a month, each side had found a "cattle-sleeping" plot—a burial site of supreme quality. One party claimed it would produce a marquis; the other, a prime minister. Neither brother would yield to the other. Each, out of stubborn pride, refused to cooperate. Both proceeded to build their father's tomb, complete with brocade canopies and painted banners, each preparing his own site.

When the funeral bier reached the fork in the road, the brothers each led their followers to press their claim. From morning until the sun slanted in the afternoon, they could not decide. Guests drifted away. The bearers changed shoulders ten times, but exhausted, they could not lift the bier again and set it down by the roadside. They stopped and buried no one. Laborers were hired to build a shelter to protect the coffin from wind and rain. The elder brother built a hut beside it and left workers to keep watch; the younger brother did the same. The elder built another, and the younger another still—until in three years' time a village had grown up.

Years passed, and the brothers died in turn. The elder brother's widow and the younger brother's wife at last joined forces, determined to break the old deadlock that had been like fire and water between them. Together they drove to the countryside and examined the two sites that had been chosen. Both, they agreed, were unsatisfactory. They pooled their resources to hire new diviners and asked them to select a fresh site. Each time a site was found, a map was presented to the women for judgment. Several maps a day were submitted, and each was found wanting. After more than ten days, at last one site was chosen. The elder widow examined the map and said with delight, "This will do." She showed it to the other. The younger widow said, "This site will first produce a military *juren*." Three years after the burial, the minister's eldest grandson indeed passed the provincial examinations in the military track.

The Historian of Strange Happenings says: "The art of qingwu may indeed possess some principle; but to be obsessed with it and believe in it utterly is folly. When brothers, out of stubborn pride, quarrel and leave their father's coffin by the roadside—when they do not even observe the duties of filial piety and brotherly love—how can they expect the siting of a grave to bring fortune to their descendants? As for the women of the household, truly they are refined and worthy of remembrance."

---

**Madam Dou**

Nan Sanfu was a scion of an old family of Jinyang. He had a country estate some ten *li* from his home, which he visited daily on horseback. One day he encountered rain on the road and came upon a small village. Seeing a farmhouse with a spacious courtyard, he asked to take shelter. The villagers all held Nan in great awe. Before long, the master of the house came out to invite him in, bowing with the utmost deference. Inside, his room was tiny, no more than a few square feet. Once the guest was seated, the host began to sweep with a broom, bustling about with eager hospitality. Then he brewed a sweet tea with honey. He bade Nan sit, and only then dared to sit himself. Nan asked his name. The man said, "My name is Tingzhang. My surname is Dou."

Before long, wine was served and a chick roasted, and every attention was lavished upon the guest. A young girl with her hair pinned up brought in the dishes. She lingered now and then outside the door, half her body visible—she was fifteen or sixteen, of matchless beauty and grace. Nan's heart was stirred. When the rain stopped and he returned home, he could not put her out of his mind.

The next day, he brought grain and silk to repay the hospitality, using this as a pretext to draw closer. From then on he visited the Dou household often, bringing food and wine, and they passed many hours together. The girl grew familiar with him and no longer avoided him; she would come running to him at once. When he glanced at her, she would lower her head and smile behind her hand. Nan was more enchanted than ever, and not three days passed without a visit. One day he came when Dou Tingzhang was away. He sat for a long while, and the girl came out to receive him. Nan seized her arm and tried to embrace her. Blushing furiously, she rebuffed him sharply: "Though I am poor, I am to be married. Why must a man of rank insult a person so?" Nan happened to have lost his wife. He bowed to her and said, "If you would grant me your love, I swear I will take no other wife." The girl demanded an oath. Nan pointed to the heavens and the sun to seal his pledge, and she consented.

From that time on, whenever he learned that Tingzhang was away, he would visit and they pressed their intimacy. The girl urged him: "Meetings like these by the mulberry grove cannot last forever. If you would grant me the bond of marriage, my parents would count it an honor and would raise no objection. You must act quickly!" Nan agreed. But then he thought to himself: how could a farmer's daughter be a suitable match for me? He put her off with empty words.

It happened that a matchmaker came to arrange a marriage with a great family. At first Nan hesitated, but when he heard that the girl was beautiful and her family wealthy, his resolve was fixed. The girl, now with child, pressed him with ever greater urgency, but Nan stopped visiting her altogether. Before long, she went into labor and bore a son. Her father beat her in fury. She told him the truth and added: "Nan has promised to marry me." Dou Tingzhang released her and sent a messenger to question Nan, but Nan flatly denied it. Tingzhang then abandoned the child and beat his girl still more. The girl secretly pleaded with a neighboring woman and told Nan of her suffering. Nan ignored her too.

One night the girl ran away. Seeing that the abandoned child was still alive, she took him in her arms and fled to Nan's house. She knocked at the gate and told the gatekeeper: "If I could but have one word from your master, I would not die. Even if he no longer cares for me, does he not care for his child?" The gatekeeper reported this to Nan, who strictly forbade her to enter. The girl leaned against the gate and wept bitterly; it was not until the fifth watch of the night that her voice fell silent. When daylight came, they found her seated against the gate, holding the child—both stiff and dead.

Dou Tingzhang, in fury, brought the matter before the magistrate, laying out all of Nan's unrighteous conduct and demanding that he be punished. Nan, terrified, bribed the official with a thousand taels of silver and escaped punishment.

The great family dreamed of a woman with disheveled hair, holding a child, who said: "On no account marry this faithless man! If you do, I will kill him!" But the family, coveting Nan's wealth, gave their consent in the end. When the wedding took place, the dowry was lavish and the bride was lovely. But she was prone to sorrow and never showed a happy face. In the bedchamber, tears would often fall. When asked, she would not speak. After a few days, her father came. The moment he entered the gate he began to weep. Nan had no time to ask why—they went together into the chamber. Seeing the bride, the father cried out in horror: "Just now, in the back garden, I saw my daughter hanging dead from a peach tree! Who is this in the chamber?" At these words, the bride's face changed violently and she fell to the ground dead. When they looked, it was the Dou girl. In great terror they rushed to the back garden—the new bride was indeed hanging there, dead by her own hand. Struck with horror, they went to report to Dou Tingzhang. Tingzhang opened his daughter's tomb: the coffin was empty, the corpse gone. His old anger was unabated, and his grief and fury redoubled. He brought another suit before the magistrate. The official, finding the affair too strange, could not decide on a sentence. Nan again offered Tingzhang a generous bribe and begged him to drop the matter; the official also took Nan's money and let the case go. From that time, Nan's fortunes gradually declined. Moreover, the strange affair became widely known, and for years no one would give their daughter to him in marriage.

# Nan Shi

Nan, having no choice, traveled more than a hundred *li* to the north to betroth the daughter of a man surnamed Cao, a *jinshi* degree holder. Before the wedding ceremony could be completed, a rumor spread among the common people that the court was about to select daughters of good families to fill the imperial harem. Because of this, all families with daughters sent them back to their husbands' homes. One day, an old woman arrived leading a sedan chair and announced that she had come from the Cao household to deliver the bride. She helped the young woman into the room and said to Nan: "The selection of concubines is now urgent. In this haste, we cannot observe the proper rites—I am simply delivering the young lady here." Nan asked: "Why is there no entourage?" She replied: "Her dowry is modest and will follow shortly." The old woman left in haste. Nan observed that the young woman was also quite charming, so he began jesting with her. She lowered her neck and fussed with her sash, her expression remarkably resembling that of Dou's daughter. Nan felt a creeping revulsion, but did not dare speak of it. The woman climbed onto the bed, pulled the coverlet over her head, and slept. Nan assumed this was simply a bride's customary shyness and thought nothing of it. When dusk fell and no one from the Cao household had arrived, he began to suspect something was wrong. He pulled back the coverlet to question the woman, only to find she had already grown deathly cold and still. Astonished and bewildered, he could make no sense of it. He dispatched a messenger at full speed to inform the Cao household, but the Cao family had in no way sent a daughter. The matter was passed around as a strange tale.

At that time, the daughter of a certain Mr. Yao, a *juren* degree holder, had recently been buried, but the following night grave robbers broke into her tomb, shattered the coffin, and stole the corpse. Having heard of the strange occurrence, Yao went to Nan's residence to investigate, and indeed, the woman was his daughter. He lifted the coverlet and saw that her body was entirely naked. Yao was furious and brought charges before the magistrate. Because Nan had repeatedly behaved without moral restraint, the magistrate already despised him. He was convicted of tomb-robbing and desecrating a corpse, and sentenced to death.

The Historian of Strange Happenings comments: "To begin by seducing someone and then to marry them is not virtue—how much less so when one makes a vow at the start and then casts the person aside? When she was beaten in the chamber, he listened; when she wept at his door, he still listened—yet how could he be so cruel? And the retribution visited upon him was even more terrible than that suffered by Scholar Li!"

# Liang Yan

Liang Yan of Xuzhou suffered from sneezing that would not stop for a long time. One day, as he was lying down, he felt an extraordinary itch in his nose and suddenly sat up with a tremendous sneeze. Something shot out and fell to the ground, shaped like a roof tile-dog ornament, about the size of a fingertip. He sneezed again, and another one fell. Four sneezes, and four had fallen in all. They wriggled and moved, gathering together to sniff one another. Soon the stronger one bit into and devoured the weaker; after eating one, its body immediately grew larger. In the blink of an eye, it had swallowed the others, leaving only a single creature, larger than a squirrel. It extended its tongue all around, licking its own mouth. Liang was greatly startled and tried to stomp on it. But the creature climbed up along his stocking and gradually reached his thigh. He grabbed his robe and shook it violently, but the creature clung fast and would not come off. Soon it slipped inside his jacket and crawled and scratched at his waist and ribs. Terrified, he hastily stripped off his robe and threw it to the ground. Feeling for it, he found the creature had already adhered itself to his waist. He could not push it off; when he pinched it, it caused pain. It had become a fleshy outgrowth—its mouth and eyes had closed, like a crouching rat.

# Dragon Flesh

Grand Secretary Jiang Yuxuan once said: "Below the Dragon Mound, if one digs several feet into the ground, one finds it packed full of dragon flesh. Anyone may cut and take as much as they wish, but they must not utter the word 'dragon.' If someone says, 'This is dragon flesh,' then thunder and lightning will strike, killing the person on the spot." The Grand Secretary himself once ate the flesh, and it is indeed no exaggeration.