In Yunlan Town a wicked Daoist works his sorcery;Liang Wancang, a good man, falls victim to harm

Now, Liang Shiyuan was standing outside the gate when a Daoist priest came from due west and stopped in front of him. “Limitless Buddha! Good, good! This humble Daoist idles among the Three Mountains and roams the Five Sacred Peaks when time hangs heavy, seeking the Way and searching out immortals. I am good at reading a man’s complexion, and I can deal with fortune good and ill. Looking at the young master’s features — your five features so upright and well set — you are surely of the stuff of the Hanlin Academy.” Liang Shiyuan hastily bowed and saluted him. “What is your honoured surname, Daoist Master? On which famous mountain, in which grotto do you pursue your cultivation? I should like to hear.” “I took my vows at Xiangyun Temple on Mount Wuxian, just five li due north of here,” said the Daoist. “My surname is Zhang and my name Miaoxing, and I am particularly fond of reading faces.” “Since you are fond of reading faces, Daoist Master,” said Liang Shiyuan, “may I beg you to read mine?” When the old Daoist heard this, it was exactly what he had been hoping for. The reason he had come was this. Returning to his temple from his wanderings, he had found the enclosing wall fallen down and the main hall in disrepair. Zhang Miaoxing said that his junior brother Liu Miaotong didn’t know how to beg for alms to repair the temple and did nothing but sit at home eating. “I can’t beg for alms anymore,” Liu Miaotong said. “These days Liang the Good of Yunlan Town won’t put his name in anybody’s subscription book. He’s set up a gruel kitchen at his house and spends it all on relief for the poor folk round here. It was one of our own Daoist people who spoiled things. A while back a friend of ours from the Daoist fold got a hundred taels of fine silver out of Liang the Good, saying it was to repair a Buddha hall. Then he never repaired any Buddha hall. He spent the whole hundred taels whoring in the brothels, and Squire Liang saw him coming out of a brothel. That’s why the Old Squire won’t give to monks or Daoists. So where am I supposed to beg for alms?” “Fine,” said Zhang Miaoxing. “If I can’t get alms out of Liang the Good, I’ll kowtow to you. I’ll go tomorrow.” So today he had come here, and seeing the young master, Liang Shiyuan, standing at the gate, he knit his brows and a scheme came to him. He came over to read the young man’s face, and when the young master asked him for a reading, Zhang Miaoxing meant to work the Five Ghosts’ Head-Nailing spell1 and the Seven Arrows that Lock the Yang Throat, and so extort alms by foul means. First Zhang Miaoxing took the young master’s hand. “Young master, these features of yours are of the very highest order. Looking at your honoured face, with its clear brows and fine eyes, you were born into a house of poetry and books, a family of rites and music, and your forebears laid no thin foundation. Truly you are the fine jade within the stone, the cinnabar osmanthus among the flowers. Not only have you already entered the county school But for now your star of office has not yet shown itself. You meet your chance and do not meet it; you get through and do not get through. You are like a bird that would soar into the clouds, fallen among thorns and brambles, or a fish big enough to swallow a boat, stranded on a patch of muddy ground. Without the waters of the Three Rivers, how can it shed its scales and become a dragon? Tell me the hour, day, month and year of your birth, the eight characters2, and I’ll reckon it all out carefully on my fingers.” Liang Shiyuan told him his eight characters in full. The wicked Daoist fixed them in his memory, secretly formed a sign with his fingers and chanted a spell, aimed it at Liang Shiyuan, and without warning struck him with his palm! Of his three souls3, one was hooked away; of his seven spirits, two. Liang Shiyuan gave a start, spun round and fell. The old Daoist went back to his temple and had his junior brother tie up a straw man out of dry grass. He wrote the eight characters on it with a vermilion brush and pinned the straw man through the heart with seven new needles. Liu Miaotong was an honest, good-hearted man. Seeing him behave like this, he asked who it was he was harming. “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Zhang Miaoxing. “This isn’t called harming anybody. I mean to extort alms from Squire Liang.” From then on he took a stroll over to Yunlan Town every day.

A word of explanation: after the old Daoist had gone, one of the servants came out to look and found the young master lying outside the gate. He at once called the other servants, and they carried Liang Shiyuan to the main rooms of the inner courtyard. When Squire Liang heard, he was frightened half out of his wits. He was past sixty, and this was his only child. If anything happened to him, it would be the end of everything! He hurriedly sent for the best doctors to treat his son. The doctors came and examined him, and all of them said, “He has lost his souls. Medicine will do no good.” In his desperation the Old Squire prayed to the gods and to Heaven and made great vows4. Two days passed, and the young man was no better.

That morning Liang the Good stood at his gate watching the people come begging for gruel. There were a good many of them. He was gloomy enough already. Then he saw a woman coming from the south. Ahead of her ran three boys, all eleven or twelve years old; behind her followed two boys of about seven or eight; on her back she carried a little boy of three or four; and in her arms she held one more, a year or two old. Squire Liang looked. “Goodness, this woman has brought along every child in the neighbourhood. Someone, ask that lady to come over.” A servant went across. “Ma’am, my master the squire would like a word with you.” The woman came over, slowly set all the children down first, then kowtowed. “May you have the Three Abundances and the Nine Blessings5, sir: much fortune, long life and many children, and fortune and long life without end.” “Are all these children yours?” Squire Liang asked. “My surname is Zhao,” said the woman. “My husband is away trading and hasn’t come home. My children are little, there are a lot of mouths to feed, and on top of that there’s this famine year. So I came here to beg a share of gruel, so my family can stay alive.” Squire Liang told a servant, “Fetch ten strings of cash and give them to these little ones.” The woman kowtowed her thanks, took the money and went. The Old Squire thought to himself: that woman just now is poor, but she has seven children; one day, when they are grown, she will be blessed indeed. I have riches by the million, but my one son is sick like this now. It seems to me that a man’s life in this world is mostly settled by fate. If I am fated to have no son, there is no use begging gods and Buddhas.

He was turning this over and over when he saw an old Daoist coming from due west. He wore a black gown, his face was like blade-iron, a full beard ran up into his sideburns, and a sword was slung slantwise across his back. He was saying, “Limitless Buddha! Good, good! I have idled among the Three Mountains and roamed the Five Sacred Peaks, and never have I seen a house so baleful! This house has fallen foul of the baleful influence of the Five Ghosts and Feilian6. It bodes ill for the little ones of the family, and portends a terrible illness clinging to someone.” When Squire Liang heard this, he hurried over. “Greetings, Immortal Master. If my house has fallen foul of the baleful influence of the Five Ghosts and Feilian, I beg you to break it for me.” “Squire,” said the old Daoist, “you must take me inside the house so I can look carefully and see how things truly stand.” Liang Wancang took the old Daoist into the inner courtyard. He looked about everywhere, and then they went into the study. “Squire,” the old Daoist said, “tomorrow, inside your main gate, put up an altar platform thirty-two feet high. On top of it set an Eight Immortals table and a grand preceptor’s chair. Also have ready one packet of long-life incense, a set of the five altar vessels7, a sheet of yellow rough-edged paper, an inkstone, a writing brush, a piece of bletilla root, a packet of cinnabar, a bowl of rootless water8 with coriander root in it, and a platter of the five grains. Across the front of the platform hang silks of the five colours — blue, yellow, red, white and black — matching metal, wood, water, fire and earth, the Five Elements. And have five hundred taels of silver ready. I’ll scatter it as blessings for you, and the evil influence on your house will be gone. First I’ll lift these Five Ghosts, and then I’ll cure your son for you.” The squire was overjoyed to hear it. He promptly told a servant to pour tea. “I have not yet asked your honoured name, Daoist Master. How should I address you? On which famous mountain, in which grotto do you cultivate yourself?” “Great men are forgetful, Squire,” said the old Daoist. “I often come by your place. My surname is Zhang and my name Miaoxing. I took my vows at Xiangyun Temple on Mount Wuxian, five li north of this town.” “So you are a neighbour,” said the squire. “I have been very remiss.” He quickly ordered a vegetarian meal to be served. The old Daoist waved his hands again and again. “Don’t trouble yourself, Squire. I’ll impose on you another day. I still have to go back to the temple and get ready the things I’ll need, so that I can come tomorrow to drive out the evil influence.” With that he rose and took his leave. The squire saw him out in person, and they parted with a bow over clasped hands.

After the old Daoist had gone, the squire promptly told his servants to put up an altar platform inside the main gate and to get ready all the things required, just as the Daoist had listed them. The whole crowd of servants bustled about for half the day, and by sunset everything was ready. Everyone went to bed, and nothing worth telling happened that night.

Next day everyone got up and did nothing but wait for the old Daoist. By mid-morning the Daoist still hadn’t come — but a monk had. It was Ji Gong, who was taking Gao Guotai, Su Lu and Feng Shun back to the capital from Yuhang County and happened to pass this way. The monk opened his eyes wide and saw the altar platform inside the gate. Lord Arhat had long since worked it all out by divination. “Sinful wretches,” he said to himself, “daring to work your sorcery and make mischief here!” He told the three of them, Gao Guotai, Su Lu and Feng Shun, to wait for him there. The monk strode straight to the main gate, where several servants were standing. He greeted them with a monk’s salute9. “Sorry to trouble you all. This monk is just passing through, and I haven’t eaten since morning. I’d like to beg a vegetarian meal at your esteemed house.” “Monk,” said the servants, “you’ve come too late. Look at our gate — there’s a notice stuck up right here: ‘No alms given.’ Our squire used to be a charitable man. He liked nothing better than feeding monks and giving to Daoists. But these days, monk or Daoist, our squire gives nothing to any of them. If you’d come to the gruel kitchen early, you could have begged a share of gruel. You’re too late. Come back tomorrow.” “I haven’t eaten since morning,” said the monk. “Have pity on me, all of you.” Off to one side sat the old steward, who dearly loved to do a good deed. Hearing how pitifully the monk spoke, he stood up. “Monk, I’ve been out of sorts since I got up, and I’ve got a bowl of white rice I haven’t touched, not even the vegetables. I’ll bring it out for you.” With that he went in, brought out the rice and handed it to the monk. The monk reached out to take it; the old steward let go, and the monk pulled his hand back too — crash! Bowl and rice fell to the ground together. “You monk!” said the old steward. “I brought you out some rice out of the kindness of my heart. How could you knock the bowl over?” The monk laughed. “You want this monk to eat your leftovers?” “If you don’t eat leftovers, what do you eat?” said the old steward. “I want dried fruits and fresh ones, cold meats and hot stir-fries, tossed noodles and candied fruits, chicken, fish, duck and pork — a whole table of it! Seat this monk at the top all by himself and have your squire keep me company, and then I’ll eat.” At this the servants’ tempers flared. “You beggarly monk, talking such rubbish! Our squire keep you company at dinner? You’re talking in your sleep. If you want our squire to dine with you, you’ll have to die and be born again first.” “Do you stand by what you say?” said the monk. “If this monk can’t beg a meal like that out of this house, I’ll own myself in the wrong.” And as he spoke, the monk started shouting, “Here to beg for alms! Hey!” He grabbed at his mouth and flung something in through the main gate. The servants covered their mouths and laughed.

The monk shouted three times running, and then a voice from inside said, “Who’s making that racket out there?” A squire came out from within. The monk saw that this squire stood eight feet tall. On his head was a squire’s double-flapped cap of ease10, embroidered in three shades of blue; he wore a squire’s cloak of ease in sapphire-blue satin, its collar fastened tight; and on his feet were official boots with patterned soles. His face was like the old moon of late autumn, his brows kindly and his eyes gentle, and from his chin flowed a grizzled beard. Coming out from inside and seeing Ji Gong, he wanted to ask Lord Arhat to cure his son.

To learn what happened next, read the next chapter.