Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) (27 page)

“Yes, in Shih Hsü’s command there’s an officer who resembles me.”

The ghost and the student went together to visit the officer. They sat down opposite him. Then the ghost took an iron pick about a foot long, set the point on the top of the officer’s head, and began to pound it with a hammer.

“I feel some pain in my head,” said the officer. Soon the pain became severe, and within an hour the officer was dead.

—
Kan Pao

A fisherman named Hsü made his home outside the north gate of Tzu, a township in present-day Shantung. Every night he took along some wine to the riverside to drink while he fished. And each time, he poured a little offering on the ground “so that the spirits of those who have drowned in the river may have some wine too.” When other fishermen had caught nothing, Hsü usually went home with a basketful.

One evening as Hsü was tippling by himself, a young man approached him and paced back and forth. Hsü offered him a drink and grandly shared his winejar. It was a disappointing night, however, for he failed to catch a single fish. “Let me go downstream and drive them up for you,” said the young man, who rose and departed in a manner that seemed to be airborne. He returned shortly and said, “A number of fish will be arriving.” And indeed, Hsü could hear a chorus of splashing as the approaching fish struck at insects. He took up his net and got several, each a foot long.

Delighted, Hsü thanked the young man and started home. Then he turned to offer his benefactor some fish, but the young man declined, saying, “I have often enjoyed your delicious brew. For my trifling assistance it’s not worth speaking of reciprocity. In fact, if you wouldn’t refuse my company, I’d like to make a custom of it.”

“We have spent only an evening together,” answered Hsü. “What do you mean by ‘often enjoyed? But it would be a pleasure
if you kept visiting me, though I’m afraid I don’t have anything to repay your kindness.” Then he asked the young man his name.

“I am a Wang,” was the reply, “but have no given name. You could call me ‘Liu-lang,’ or ‘Sixth-born,’ when we meet.” And thus they parted.

Next day Hsü sold his fish and bought more wine. In the evening the young man was already there when Hsü arrived at the riverbank, so they had the pleasure of drinking together again. And again after several rounds the young man suddenly whisked away to drive the fish for Hsü.

Things went on agreeably like this for half a year when out of the blue Liu-lang announced to Hsü, “Ever since I had the honor of your acquaintance, we have been closer than closest kin. But the day of parting has come.” His voice was filled with sadness.

Hsü was surprised and asked why. The young man started to speak and then stopped several times until he said at last, “Close as we are, the reason may shock you. But now that we are to part, there’s no harm in telling you the plain truth: I’m a ghost, one with a weakness for wine. I died by drowning when I was drunk, and I have been here for several years. The reason you always caught more fish than anyone else is that I was secretly driving them toward you in thanks for your libations. But tomorrow my term of karma ends, and a replacement for me will be coming. I’m to be reborn into another life on earth. This evening is all that remains for us to share, and it is hard not to feel sad.”

Hsü was frightened at first, but they had been close friends for so long that his fear abated. He sighed deeply over the news, poured a drink, and said, “Liu-lang, drink this up and don’t despair. If our ways must part, that’s reason enough for regret; but if your karmic lot is fulfilled and your term of suffering relieved, that’s cause for congratulation, not sorrow.” And together they shared a deep swig of wine. “Who will replace you?” asked Hsü.

“You’ll see from the riverbank. At high noon a woman will drown as she crosses the river. That will be the one!” As the roosters in the hamlet called forth the dawn, the two drinkers parted, shedding tears.

The next day Hsü watched expectantly from the edge of the river. A woman came carrying a baby in her arms. As she reached the river, she fell. She tossed the child to shore, then began crying and flailing her hands and feet. She surfaced and sank several
times until she pulled herself out, streaming water. Then she rested a little while, took her child in her arms, and left.

When the woman was sinking, Hsü could not bear it and wished he could rush to her rescue. He held back only because he remembered that she was to replace Liu-lang. But when the woman got herself out he began to doubt what Liu-lang had told him.

At dusk Hsü went fishing in the usual spot. Again his friend came and said to him, “Now we are together again and need not speak of parting for the time being.” When Hsü asked why, Liu-lang replied, “The woman had already taken my place, but I had pity for the child in her arms. Two should not be lost for one, and so I spared them. When I will be replaced is not known, and so it seems that the brotherhood between us shall continue.”

Hsü sighed with deep feeling. “Such a humane heart should be seen by the Highest in Heaven.” And so they had the pleasure of each other’s company as before.

Several days later, however, Liu-lang came to say goodbye again. Hsü thought he had found another replacement, but Liu-lang said, “No, my compassionate thought for the drowning woman actually reached to heaven, and I have been rewarded with a position as local deity in Wu township of Chauyüan county. I assume office tomorrow. Please remember our friendship and visit me; don’t worry about the length or difficulty of the journey.”

“What a comfort to have someone as upright as you for a deity,” said Hsü, offering his congratulations. “But no road connects men and gods. Even if the distance did not daunt me, how could I manage to go?”

“Simply go; don’t think about it,” replied the young man. After repeating the invitation, he left.

Hsü went home to put his things in order and set out at once, though his wife mocked him. “You’re going hundreds of miles? Even if this place exists, I don’t think you can hold a conversation with a clay idol!” she sneered. Hsü paid no attention. He started off and eventually arrived in Chauyüan county, where he learned that there really was a Wu township. On his way there he stopped at a hostel and asked for directions to the temple. The host said with an air of pleasant surprise, “By any chance is our guest’s surname Hsü?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

The host left abruptly without making a reply. Presently a mixed throng approached and circled Hsü like a wall; men carried their babies, women peeped around their doors. The crowd announced to an amazed Hsü, “Several nights ago we had a dream in which our deity said that a friend named Hsü would be coming and that we should help him out with his traveling expenses. We have been respectfully awaiting you.” Marveling at this reception, Hsü went to sacrifice at the temple.

“Since we parted,” he prayed, “my thoughts have dwelled on you night and day. I have come far to keep our agreement, and I am both favored and deeply moved by the sign you gave the local people. But I am embarrassed to have come without a fitting gift. All I brought was a flask of wine. If it is acceptable, let us drink as we used to on the riverbank.” His prayer done, Hsü burned paper money. Shortly he saw a wind arise behind the shrine. The smoke swirled around for a time and then disappeared.

That night Liu-lang, looking altogether different now that he was capped and garbed in finery, entered Hsü’s dreams. Expressing his appreciation, Liu-lang said, “For you to come so far to see me moves me to tears, but I am unable to meet you directly because I hold such a trivial position. It saddens me to be so near to the living and yet so far. The people here have some meager presents for you as a token of our past association. Whenever you are to return home, I shall see you off myself.”

Hsü remained in Wu township a few more days before preparing to leave. The people of Wu tried to keep him longer, making earnest appeals and inviting him to daylong feasts with different hosts. But Hsü was set on returning home. The people outdid themselves in generosity, and before the morning passed his bags were filled with gifts. The grey-haired and the young gathered to see him out of the village. And a whirlwind followed him some three or four miles farther. Hsü bowed again and again. “Take care of yourself, Liu-lang,” he said. “Don’t bother coming so far. With your humane and loving heart, you can surely bring good fortune to this township without advice from old friends.” The wind swirled around for a time and then was gone. The villagers, exclaiming in wonder at these events, also went to their homes.

When Hsü arrived back in his own village, his family’s circumstances had improved so much that he did not return to fishing. Later he saw people from Chauyüan county who told him that the deity was working miracles and had become widely known.

The Recorder of Things Strange says: To attain the heights of ambition without forgetting the friends one made when poor and lowly—that is what made Wang Liu-lang a god! Nowadays, when do the high and noble in their carriages recognize those still wearing a bamboo hat?

—
P’u Sung-ling

Li Cheng of Lunghsi in present-day Kansu was an imperial relation. As a youth he was learned and excelled in composition. At the age of twenty he had become an esteemed and eminent scholar and was awarded a stipend by the governor.

In the spring of the tenth year of the reign of T’ien Pao (
A.D
. 751) Li Cheng was one of the successful candidates under the assistant prime minister, Yang Mo, and advanced to the highest degree. Some years later he was assigned to fill the vacant office of chief constable in Chiangnan.

By nature Li Cheng was an indolent man, and arrogant because of his talents. He could not adjust to his low position as chief constable and felt frustrated and depressed. Whenever he met with his colleagues, he said after a few drinks, “How could the likes of you be in a class with me?” His associates resented this bitterly.

In time he resigned his office and secluded himself at home for nearly a year. Then, pressed by the necessity of earning a living, he packed his bags and went to the southeast to seek office from the local administrators. He had a considerable reputation in that area, and many people gathered to study under him and enjoy his talented company. A year or more later as he was packing to leave, they weighed him down with generous presents.

Li was traveling home with his gifts when he stopped at a lodge in Jufen. There he was stricken with fever and lost his senses. He made his servant miserable and whipped him unmercifully. After
ten days the illness worsened, and Li ran raging into the night. No one knew where he had gone, though his servant waited and tried to find him. But in another month’s time when Li Cheng still did not return, the servant disappeared with his master’s horse and possessions.

The following year the scholar Yüan Ts’an of Ch’en prefecture was on his way to the southernmost province of Kuangtung with an imperial commission to serve as supervisory censor. He and his escort came by stagecoach to the territory of Shangyü in Honan province. As he was about to set out the next morning, the man in charge of the post station told him, “There’s a tiger on the road ahead—a ferocious man-eater. No one goes through except in broad daylight. It’s still too early. Stay a bit longer; you must not go ahead.”