'This is a vicious beast!' exclaimed the Taoist. 'Even I could Caption

The fox shrank back fearfully, indicating his submission.

not subdue it! This girl was very foolish to provoke it.' He continued, 'Nonetheless, we can now use her to question the fox.'

Pointing his index finger and middle finger at the maid, he pronounced certain spells, and suddenly she rose from the ground and knelt before him. The Taoist asked her where she hailed from.

'I come from the Western Regions,' replied the maid, in a voice that was clearly not her own but that of the fox. 'We have been here in the capital for eighteen generations.'

'How dare creatures such as you dwell in the proximity of His Imperial Majesty? Off with you at once!'

The fox-voice was silent, and the Taoist thumped the altar-table angrily. 'How dare you disobey my orders? Delay a moment longer, and my magic powers will work on you harshly!'

The fox shrank back fearfully, indicating his submission, and the Taoist urged him once more to be gone. Meanwhile the maid had fallen to the ground again, dead to the world. It was a long while before she regained consciousness.

All of a sudden they saw four or five white lumps of some strange substance go bouncing like balls one after the other along the eaves of the building, until they were all gone. Then peace finally reigned in the Dong household.

30.

FRIENDSHIP BEYOND THE GRAVE.

There was a gentleman of Huaiyang by the name of Ye. (His other names I cannot recall.) He was acknowledged by his contemporaries to be a master of prose and verse composition, but had been unlucky and had never yet succeeded in his first-degree examination.

Now a certain Ding Chenghe Crane Rider who hailed from the north-east was appointed Magistrate in Ye's district and, happening to read one of his essays, was most struck by the beauty of his prose. He summoned him and in the course of conversation found himself taking an immediate liking to him. He invited him to come and continue his studies in the official yamen, and provided him with a regular stipend and occasional gifts of money and grain to support his family. When it came to the time for the preliminary examination, Ding spoke highly of Ye to the Examiner, and as a result he was ranked among the most promising candidates.

After the first-degree examination proper, Magistrate Ding, who had entertained the highest hopes for Ye, obtained his draft essay and was ecstatic in its praise. But for some reason fate was against Ye yet again, however fine his essay may have been. When the results were posted, his name was nowhere to be seen on the list, and he made his way home a hugely disappointed man, full of remorse at having failed his friend and patron in this manner. He began to waste away and became as listless and dead to the world as a wooden puppet.

Magistrate Ding heard of this and summoned him to the yamen, where he did his best to console the young man, who wept without ceasing. Ding felt sorry for him and by way of consolation offered to take him along with him when he next went up to the capital for his own triennial review. Ye was most grateful to him for his solicitude, but bade him farewell and returned home, where he shut himself away, refused to go out and in a short while fell seriously ill. Ding sent a string of messengers to inquire about his health, and prevailed upon Ye to take countless sorts of medicine, but all to no effect.

In the meantime, Ding himself was dismissed for some offence caused to a superior, and made up his mind to abandon his official career altogether and retire to the country. He wrote in a letter to Ye: 'I had already chosen a day to return to my home in the north-east, but shall postpone my departure to await your recovery. As soon as you are well, come to me, and we shall leave together the same evening.'

This message was brought to Ye's bedside, and when he read it, Ye wept profusely. His reply was brief, couched in the following terms: 'My illness is a serious and obstinate one. Please set off without me.'

The servant returned with this message, but Ding still refused to leave on his own, and waited. Several days later, his gate-man announced the arrival of Mr Ye, and Ding hurried out joyfully to greet him, asking anxiously after his health.

'Alas, this wretched ailment of mine has delayed you far too long, sir,' said Ye apologetically. 'But now at last I can accompany you.'

So Ding packed his bags and set off with Ye at first light the next morning.

When they reached Ding's native village, he instructed his own son to treat Ye with the greatest respect and to regard him as his teacher, waiting upon him and constantly keeping him company. The son's name was Zaichang, and he was at the time sixteen years old. He had not yet acquired a proficiency in the prevalent rhetorical techniques of the Eight-Legged Essay, although he was a youth of exceptional promise, and had only to read through a piece of prose a couple of times to memorize it perfectly. A year later, under Ye's expert tutelage, he was writing fluent compositions of his own and, thanks to his father's influence, was accepted into the District Academy. Ye copied out all his own best essays for young Ding to study, and the youth was able as a result to answer all of the seven questions in his examination papers and was listed second overall.

Ding the elder spoke to Ye. 'You have imparted to my son sufficient knowledge for him to succeed in his examinations. But you yourself, the fount of this knowledge, are still denied the success you deserve. This is indeed a sorry state of affairs!'

'It is simply the work of fate,' replied Ye. 'Thanks to our friendship and the good fortune it has brought me, I have at least been able to put my humble accomplishments to some good purpose. That is a consolation. And your son's success will at least show the world that my own dismal failure in life has not been due to a complete lack of talent. I am content with that. To have one true friend is enough for me. Why should I strive for worldly success?'

Ding was anxious that by keeping Ye too long a guest in his house he would prevent him from attending the next examination in his own home district, and urged him to return home for this purpose. Ye seemed most unhappy at the idea of leaving, and Ding did not insist but instead instructed his son to purchase for Ye the rank of membership in the Imperial College once he was in the capital, since this would entitle Ye to sit directly for the second degree. Ding junior duly succeeded in the metropolitan examinations, and immediately upon receiving the post of Secretary in one of the Boards, he arranged for Ye to be admitted to the Imperial College, and kept him company there day and night.

A year later, Ye himself finally sat the examinations in the capital and was awarded the full status of second-degree graduate. At the same time young Ding was ordered to go on a tour of duty to Henan Province.

'I shall be not far from your home town,' he said to Ye. 'This would surely be an excellent chance for you to return home and celebrate your own recent success.'

Ye was delighted at this idea, and together they selected a propitious day for the journey. On reaching the area of Huaiyang, young Ding sent servants and horses to escort Ye home. He arrived to find the house dilapidated and desolate, and, entering with some hesitation, encountered his wife just as she was coming out with her winnowing basket. When she set eyes on Ye, she dropped her basket and recoiled in horror.

'I am greatly changed, I know,' said Ye sadly. 'Now I have become a person of rank. But surely you recognize me, even if we have not seen each other for more than three years?'

'You have been dead this long while!' replied his wife from a safe distance. 'How can you talk of rank? We have not even been able to give you a proper burial! We were too poor to do so, and our little boy was too young to deal with such things. Now the boy is older and ready to take his place in the world. He will see to it that a grave-site is chosen in the proper way. I beseech you not to come and haunt us!'

This plea brought an expression of great sorrow to Ye's face. He walked hesitantly into the house, and there he saw his own coffin as plain as could be. He fell straight to the ground and melted into thin air before the eyes of his bewildered wife, leaving his gown, cap and shoes strewn on the ground like fragments of a discarded cocoon. Distraught with grief, the wife gathered the clothes up in her arms before abandoning herself to a fit of weeping. Presently their son came home from school, and seeing the horses tethered at the gate, inquired why they had come. Rushing in to tell his mother that they had a distinguished visitor, he found her brushing away her tears. She told him what she had just witnessed, and together they questioned the servants who had accompanied Ye, from whom they learned the full story.

The servants returned to their master, and when they told young Ding what had transpired he shed bitter tears and sent for a horse and carriage to take him to Ye's home, to mourn for him there. He provided money for the funeral expenses, and Ye was buried with the honours due to a second-degree graduate. Young Ding also provided generously for Caption

She dropped her basket and recoiled in horror.

Ye's son, engaging a tutor for him and recommending him to the Examiner. A year later, he passed the first-degree examination.

31.

KARMIC DEBTS.

A prominent mandarin named Wang Xianqian, of Xincheng, had a steward who was very comfortably off. One day, this steward dreamed that a man rushed into the house and said to him, 'Today you must pay me back those forty strings of cash you owe me.'

The steward asked him who he was, but the man made no answer and hurried past him into the inner apartments.

The steward awoke, to learn that his wife had given birth to a son, and he knew at once that this child was a karmic retribution, his 'payment' of a debt contracted in a previous life. He duly set aside forty strings of cash, the sum specified in his dream, and used it to buy whatever food, clothes and medicines the baby might need.

By the time the boy was three or four years old, the steward found that of the forty strings (forty thousand coins all told), there remained no more than seven hundred coins. One day, when the wet-nurse came by and played with the child before his eyes, the steward merely looked at him and exclaimed, 'The forty strings are nearly spent. It is time you were on your way.'

The words were no sooner spoken than the child pulled a strange face, his head fell back and his eyes opened in a glassy stare. They tried to revive him, but without success. The father used the balance of the forty strings to pay for a coffin, and buried him.

This should be a warning to people with unpaid debts.

Caption

The wet-nurse came by with the child.

A childless old man once consulted an eminent monk on this same subject.

'You owe nothing,' said the monk, 'and are owed nothing: in such circumstances, how can you expect to have a child?'

A good son is the repayment of a debt due to his parents, the result of good karma; a bad, wilful child is a creditor come for his money, a bad karmic debt. The birth of a child should not be cause for joy, nor should the death of a child be cause for sorrow.

32.

RITUAL CLEANSING.

A certain Taoist priest who lived in the Chaotian Temple was an adept of the old breathing-yoga known as tu-na, 'breathing in the new, and breathing out the old'. An old gentleman also lodged in the same temple, and since the two of them shared the same interest in self-cultivation, they had become firm friends. The old man, who had lived there for several years, always went away ten days before the seasonal ceremonies to Heaven and Earth were due to be performed, and never returned until they were over. His regular absences puzzled the Taoist, and one day he asked him for an explanation.

'There should be no secrets between friends such as ourselves,' said the old man, 'so I will tell you the truth. I am a fox-spirit. When they hold those big ceremonies, unclean spirits like foxes are all exorcized. So I have to go somewhere else.'

The following year, he left as he always did, but this time there was a longer interval than usual before he returned. His Taoist friend thought it strange and questioned him again.

'This time you nearly saw the last of me!' replied the old man. 'I meant to get well away, but somehow I was feeling too lazy, so I thought I'd be safe sneaking under that big vat at the back, the one they use to cover the drain outlet. It seemed a good enough hiding place. But I was unlucky. One of the Spirit Guardians came to that very spot to cleanse it, and when he saw me he attacked me angrily with his whip. I fled in terror, but he chased me all the way to the Yellow River. He was just about to catch up with me, and in sheer desperation I threw myself into a cesspit. That was too disgusting for the Guardian, and he turned back. When I pulled myself out of the cesspit, Caption

'One of the Spirit Guardians attacked me with his whip.'

I absolutely stank, I was much too foul to return to humanity. First I jumped in some water to clean myself up, then I stayed underground for months, waiting for the filth and the stench to wear off. Today I have come to say goodbye, and to give you a warning. Leave this place. Take refuge somewhere else. A great disaster is on its way. This is not a good place to be.'

And with these words he left. The Taoist took his advice and went elsewhere. Sure enough, before long the troubles of the last days of the Ming dynasty began.

33.

THE DOOR GOD AND THE THIEF.

The Temple of the Eastern Sacred Mountain is situated in the southern outskirts of the city of Ji'nan. On either side of the main entrance stand Door Gods over ten feet high, terrifying statues, popularly known as the Eagle and the Tiger.

There was a Taoist by the name of Ren living in the temple, who used to rise every morning at cockcrow and go to burn incense and recite his scriptures. Now, one day, a thief hid himself in the cloister and waited for the Taoist to rise before sneaking into his cell and rifling through his things. To his disappointment, there was nothing of value there, save three hundred copper coins that he found beneath the priest's mat. These he pocketed, loosened the door bar and made off, heading towards the slopes of Thousand Buddha Mountain. He had walked southward some way into the foothills, when he saw a strapping great fellow descending the mountain towards him, with a goshawk perched on his left shoulder. Coming closer, he observed the man's face, which was swarthy and dark as copper, and noticed a striking resemblance between him and one of the temple's Door Gods. He fell to his knees, trembling in terror. The spirit reproached him, 'Where are you off to with that stolen money?'

More terrified than ever, the thief kowtowed frantically. The Door God took hold of him and led him back to the temple, where he made him put the money on the floor of the monk's cell and left him there kneeling beside it. The Taoist, having finished his prayers, returned to his cell and was astonished to find the man there. The thief told him the whole story, and the Taoist took the money and sent him on his way.