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

by Roberts, Moss

  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

  The Censor and the Tiger

  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.”

  “But I am the emperor’s representative,” cried Ts’an angrily. “We are many on horseback, and no beast of mountain or marsh can do me harm.” And he ordered the carriage forward. He had hardly gone a quarter of a mile when a tiger charged from the brush. Ts’an was terrified. Then the tiger dove for cover and spoke in a human voice, “How strange! I nearly killed my old friend!”

  From the thicket Ts’an recognized the voice of Li Cheng! The two men had taken their degrees together and had been close friends, but their ways had parted years ago. Now, hearing Li Cheng’s voice, Ts’an was both frightened and amazed and could not understand what was happening. Finally he asked, “Who are you? Can you be my friend Li Cheng of Lunghsi?”

  The tiger moaned several times, then said to Ts’an, “I am Li Cheng. Kindly stay a few moments and have a word with me.”

  Ts’an got off his horse and addressed the bushes: “Dear Li Cheng, how did you come to this?”

  “Since we parted long ago,” said the tiger, “I have had no news of you. How have you been, and where are you bound for now? Just before, I saw two of your officers riding ahead. The courier was leading them and holding your seal of office. Can it be that you are an imperial censor on a tour of duty?”

  “Recently I was fortunate to take my place as a censor. I have been sent on a mission to Kuangtung.”

  “You have established yourself through your literary achievements,” said the tiger, “and your entering the ranks at court is truly a great fulfillment. But even greater is the integrity of the position of imperial censor, who bears the responsibility of examining the conduct of all the officials! His Majesty has exercised discretion in selecting an outstanding man like you. And it is a heartfelt satisfaction to me that you have attained this position. I greatly congratulate you.”

  “In times gone by,” replied Ts’an, “you and I achieved recognition the same year and formed a friendship closer than the common sort. But time has raced past, while our voices have been unheard and our faces unseen by one another. My heart and eyes have been denied their hopes of seeing your excellent example. Who would have imagined that today I would hear you speak with such remembrance of our old friendship! But why are you hiding yourself instead of coming out to meet me? That’s not how it should be between old friends!”

  “I am no longer human,” replied the tiger from the thicket. “How can I present myself to you?” Ts’an asked how such a thing could have happened, and the tiger said, “I had visited the southeast and last year was on my way home. I stopped at Jufen, where I suddenly fell ill and went mad. I raced into the hills and soon found myself walking on all fours. I could feel my heart grow ruthless, my strength enormous. My limbs had long hair on them. When I saw men in full dress on the road or rushing about with their burdens, when I saw birds aloft or animals afoot, I wanted to devour them! When I reached the south of Hanyin, I suffered the pangs of hunger. A plump man crossed my path, so I seized him and gobbled him up to the last scrap. That has become my practice ever since. Although I was an arrogant man, I still remember my family and my friends. But having violated holy sanctions, having turned suddenly into a wild beast, I have been ashamed to face anyone. Alas, you and I were awarded our degrees the same year, and we have always been close. Today you hold an imperial commission and bring honor to your parents and your friends. But I have to hide myself in the forest and abandon the world of men forever. I leap up and sigh vainly at the sky; I lower my eyes to the ground and weep. Ruined and unfit to serve—such is my fate.” The tiger cried and moaned, unable to master its feelings. “If you have turned into another species, why are you still able to speak?” asked Ts’an. “It is my form that has changed,” said the tiger. “My heart and mind have human understanding. But I am rude and impetuous, filled with fears and hatreds, and unable to do what is expected of a friend and host. All I ask is that you remember me and pardon my inexcusable conduct. When you return from your tour in Kuangtung, if we should meet again I shall surely forget our lifelong friendship and regard you as another meal in my trap. Be on your guard; don’t let me commit such a crime and earn the scorn of my fellow scholars.”

  The tiger added, “You and I are as one. May I entrust something to you?”

  “I would never refuse my old friend,” replied Ts’an. “Please explain fully, for I am eager to help you.”

  “Had you not agreed,” the tiger said, “I would not have dared to mention it. When I was at the inn, I fell ill and went mad. After I entered the mountains, my servant made off with my horse and baggage. My family must still be in my old village. Would they ever imagine what befell me? When you come back from the south, please send a message to them saying only that I have died—nothing of what happened today. I am in your debt if you will do this.”

  The tiger added, “In this world I have no property. My son is still too young to make a living for himself. You have a high position at court, and you have always set an example of morality and loyalty to friends. Nothing surpasses the friendship we had. I hope you will keep in mind how helpless my son is and see to his needs now and then, lest he perish by the roadside. What a blessing this would be!”

  When he was done speaking, the tiger began to cry. Ts’an also cried and said, “We share our joys and our sorrows. Your son is as my own. I will do my utmost to comply with your grave charge. Have no worry for his welfare.”

  “In former times,” the tiger said, “I wrote a few dozen pieces which have never circulated, and the drafts are scattered and lost. If you could transcribe them for me, while I would never dream of their being noted publicly, they may contain something useful
to pass on to my descendants.”

  Ts’an called for a servant to bring writing materials and wrote as the tiger recited. It came to nearly twenty chapters. The style was lofty, the meaning profound. Ts’an sighed over and over as he read the text.

  “These tell of the things I tried to do, the man I tried to be,” said the tiger. “I have no right to expect that my words will mean anything to future generations. But you are on a mission and have a schedule to meet; if you dally here too long, the courier will fret over missing the next stage. So now our ways part for good. The sorrow this causes me cannot be described.”

  After a prolonged goodbye, Ts’an left. The first thing he did when he returned from the south was to dispatch a letter to Li Cheng’s son with some money for the funeral. In a month’s time the son came to the capital and called at Ts’an’s residence to ask for his father’s coffin. Having no choice, the imperial censor told him all. Later Ts’an shared his official salary with Li’s wife and son to spare them any hardship. Eventually Ts’an rose to become vice minister of war.

  —Chang Tu

  Underworld Justice

  Hsi Lien of Tungan, a county in Hunan province, was a gullible, artless man and that is how he had a falling-out with the Yangs, a rich family in the same hamlet. Old Yang had died a few years before, and now Hsi Lien was at death’s door. “Old Yang has bribed agents of the underworld to beat me,” he cried. Hsi Lien’s body became red and swollen. He moaned once and was no more.

  Hsi Fang-p’ing, his son, could not eat for grief. “Father was a plain and simple man,” he said, “and not clever with words. Now he has suffered injustice at the hands of a vile ghost, and I’m going to take myself to that world below and plead his cause.” Those were the last words Hsi Fang-p’ing spoke for many a day. He would stand, he would sit, but he seemed to have lost his mind, for his soul had already departed from his body.