Now, the monk pushed the crowd apart, squeezed his way in and looked. Standing in the middle was a poor scholar. On his head was an old scholar’s cap with a hole burned in it, and he wore an old scholar’s cloak with seven patches from top to bottom. In his arms he held a small child. The man was in his thirties, his face withered and haggard. Standing there, he said, “Good people, this child I’m holding is a year and two months old. His mother died three days ago, and I can’t afford to hire a wet nurse. He’s bound to starve. If anyone will have him, take him.”

A word of explanation: this man was called Ma Peiran, a native of Changshu County in Changzhou Prefecture. He had studied at home since boyhood and married a wife, Madam Zhou. Living off what he had and earning nothing, he ate his way through the whole family estate; he knew only how to read books and had no idea how to make a living. In the end he had not a tile over his head nor a foot of ground under his feet. He had just the one small child, and he took his wife and child and fled hard times to Lin’an, where they lodged outside the Qiantang Gate in the house of Wu Bozhou. This Wu Bozhou ran boats on West Lake; anyone who went out on West Lake mostly hired his boats. He had over a hundred boats under him. He and Ma Peiran were old friends, and knowing Ma Peiran was a man of letters, he kept him on the boats to keep the accounts. Every day Ma earned two or three hundred coppers, enough to keep husband and wife fed. But as luck would have it, his fortunes ran out. Four bullies had sprung up on West Lake who were forever carrying people off there, until nobody dared go out on the lake and nobody hired the boats. Ma Peiran had no choice but to stop work. The worst of the bullies on West Lake was Chancellor Qin’s younger brother, Wang Shengxian, the Flashy Libertine1 (Huahua Taisui). At that time the chancellor under Emperor Gaozong was Qin Hui2. He had been born a Wang and adopted into the Qin family. Wang Shengxian was Chancellor Qin’s own brother. Leaning on his brother’s power, he often went out on the lake with his bruisers, and whenever he saw a pretty woman he had them snatch her. Nobody dared cross him, so nobody dared go out on the lake, Wu Bozhou could not hire out his boats, and Ma Peiran was left with no work. His wife, Madam Zhou, was a good and virtuous woman. “Are you and I to sit here and starve?” she said. “You stay home and look after the child. I’ll go out and take in some sewing, and that way we can get by.” She said it several times over, but Ma Peiran did not say a word, so Madam Zhou left the child at home and simply went off. Ma Peiran sat in the room and thought to himself, “A grown man who can’t keep his wife and raise his son, waiting for his wife to work for other people so he can eat — what kind of thing is that?” The more he thought, the more wretched he felt. He truly saw no way out, and he picked up the child, meaning to throw himself into West Lake and die. Then he thought again: “This child came to his father and mother only a year ago, and now he’s to die as well. It’s a real pity. Better to give him to someone, and then I’ll die.” That was why he had come to Shizi Street3 and stood there, saying, “Good people, whoever wants this child, take him.” He called out several times. An old man standing nearby looked: the child was a fine-looking boy. “I have no son myself,” he thought. “I might as well keep him.” He was just going over to take the child when someone beside him said, “Don’t take him, old fellow. Take that child once, and he’ll follow you home. In a couple of days his mother will turn up too, wanting to borrow silver off you, and a couple of days after that his father will come along. Don’t fall for it.” Hearing this, the old gentleman did not want him either. “Give the child to me,” said Ji Gong. “Monk,” said Ma Peiran, “what would you want a child for? You’ve left the household life.” “I’ll take him as my disciple,” said the monk. “Monk,” said Ma Peiran, “the child can’t eat yet, he isn’t weaned. How could that work?” “If it won’t work, I won’t take him,” said the monk. “Tell me the truth: is the child’s mother really dead? My temple is right next door to where you live. You live in Wu Bozhou’s house, don’t you?” “His mother isn’t dead,” said Ma Peiran, “but I’m not running a racket, using the child to swindle people.” “I know,” said the monk. “Come along with me. I’ll take you to find your wife, bring the three of you together again and find you some work.” When Ma Peiran heard this, he asked, “Where is your honoured temple, Reverend? And how should I address you?” The monk told him everything, and led Ma Peiran on. As he went, Ji Gong made up a song on the spot:

Ji Gong led Ma Peiran on until they came to the door of a pickle shop. “Shopkeeper,” said the monk, “give me three coppers’ worth of pickled turnip.” Someone inside answered and brought it out. “That’s too little,” said the monk. “I’ll give you two coppers.” The shopkeeper came over. “Monk, ours is a proper shop. We don’t do two prices, and if you haggle we don’t sell.” “It’s not that I’m haggling,” said the monk. “I’ve only got two coppers left in this pouch of mine. I’m begging one copper off you as alms.” “You’re a man who has left the household life,” said the shopkeeper. “All right, then.” The monk reached into his pouch and felt about. “Oh! This pouch of mine has a hole in it — I’ve lost another copper. Let me give you one for now, and I’ll bring you the other tomorrow.”

With that he walked on. Right across the way was a vegetable stall. The monk went up close. “Shopkeeper, give me a copper’s worth of garlic.” “One copper a head,” said the stallkeeper, and handed the monk a head of garlic. The monk gave him a copper, took the garlic and looked it over. “Shopkeeper, a copper for a head of garlic, and you give me a rotten one? Change it for me.” The stallkeeper picked out another head for the monk, and the monk never handed back the rotten one. One copper had bought him two heads. The monk had set out with just two coppers on him, meaning to buy four kinds of gifts5 and take them to someone for a birthday. Ma Peiran thought the monk a cheeky, penny-pinching sort. He had followed him about half a li when they came upon a man selling dog meat6 by the roadside. The monk went over. “This meat is really fat, really fragrant, really tender — streaky, three layers deep. If you’re going to eat meat, you want lean inside the fat.”

After praising it for a good long while, he said, “Shopkeeper, throw in a piece for me to eat.” The meat seller had not made a sale all day, and here was a poor monk who had praised his meat for ages and wanted a piece to eat. In his good humour the dog-meat seller took his knife and cut him a piece of about two ounces. The monk took it and looked at it. “You ought to give me a bit more.” “Not enough for you?” said the dog-meat seller. “It’s not that it isn’t enough for me,” said the monk. “But if I ask and you won’t add a bit, even the kindness of this piece is lost. If you’re doing someone a favour, do it all the way.” The dog-meat seller cut him another piece. Without spending a single copper, the monk had got two pieces of dog meat for nothing. The monk went on, and heard someone over there selling steamed buns. He called to the bun seller: “Come over here, I’ll buy.” The bun seller came over. “Are they hot?” said the monk. “Just out of the steamer,” said the bun seller. As he spoke he set down his carrying pole and lifted the lid, and the steam billowed up. The monk reached in and took one — and left five black fingerprints on it. He had just put it to his mouth and bitten when he hurriedly dropped it. “I forgot, I didn’t bring any money. I didn’t dare eat it.” The bun seller was furious at the sight. That bun would never sell now, with tooth marks and spit on it, and black fingerprints besides. He thought to himself, “I’d like to have it out with him, but I’ve only just set out for the day, and he’s a man of religion besides.” He stood there dumbfounded for a long while, then said, “Oh, never mind. I’ll count this bun as thrown away.” He put it down to bad luck. “If you’re going to throw it away,” said the monk, “don’t. Give it to this monk as alms. When I run into you tomorrow, I’ll bring money and pay you back.” “Take it and go,” said the bun seller. The monk took the bun and led Ma Peiran to Fengshan Street. There they saw a great gate on the north side of the street, hung with lanterns and festooned with silk, the gateway crowded with carriages and horses. This family was one of the richest in Lin’an. The master was surnamed Zheng, his given name Xiong, and people called him the Iron-Faced Heavenly King7 (Tiemian Tianwang). Today he was holding a birthday celebration for the old lady, his mother, and all the gentry and men of wealth of Lin’an had come to offer their congratulations. When the monk reached the gate, he whispered in Ma Peiran’s ear, thus and so, and told him to wait there: an opportunity would come his way. Ma Peiran nodded. The monk went up the steps. “Thanks for your trouble, gentlemen.” A servant came out of the gatehouse and saw it was a beggar of a poor monk. “Monk,” the servant said, “you’re too early. The guests haven’t sat down to the feast yet.

If you want the leftovers8, come back later.” “Nonsense!” said Ji Gong. “I know it’s the old lady’s birthday here. I’ve bought four kinds of gifts and come specially to offer birthday greetings.” Hearing this, the servant thought to himself, “Our master has always loved giving alms. He throws money around like dirt and spends freely for a good cause, and whenever he meets someone poor and in trouble he always helps them out. Maybe our master did this man a kindness, and he knows today is the birthday and wants to repay him. I mustn’t look down on him. Even a poor man has a heart to show. Maybe he knows what the old lady likes to eat and has bought a little something. Maybe he’s bringing birthday peach buns and noodles, cakes, or a banquet voucher9.” Having thought this through, he said, “Monk, which temple are you from?” “I took my vows at Lingyin Temple, a humble little place,” said the monk. “Did you bring your gifts yourself,” the steward said, “or is someone carrying them along after you?” “I brought them on me,” said the monk. “Give me your gifts,” said the servant, “and I’ll report you to the accounts office.” From his sleeve the monk brought out one steamed bun, two heads of garlic, two pickled turnips and two pieces of dog meat, and handed them to the steward. “Give the old lady the dog meat to eat with the garlic,” the monk said, “and the bun to eat with the pickles.” The servant took one look and flung them on the ground in a temper. “Clear off, quick! Coming here to make trouble for us.” No sooner had the things hit the ground than two dogs came over to eat them. The monk hurriedly shooed them away. “Spotty, Four-Eyes! If you two eat it, what’s the old lady going to eat?” The monk picked the things up. “If you won’t announce me, I can shout.” And he bawled at the top of his voice, “Gifts are here!” Clutching the things in his hand, he flung them inside. The servants all saw it and said, “This monk’s a lunatic. Leave him be.”

A word of explanation: Guanghui had come to bring Zheng Xiong gifts out of greed. He knew the Zheng family’s garden was haunted by a demon, and he could catch demons and cleanse houses, so he meant to use the gifts to get a foot in the door and then make some silver catching the demon. When he arrived that day, everyone made way for him and showed him to a seat at the table where Yang Meng and Chen Xiao sat. Yang Meng liked to talk. “Reverend Master, you’ve come,” he said. “I have,” said Guanghui. “Let me ask you about a monk,” said Yang Meng. “Do you know him?” “Who?” asked Guanghui. “The Elder Ji Gong of Lingyin Temple on West Lake,” said Yang Meng. “Crazy Ji?” said Guanghui. “A raving lunatic — what does he amount to? As it happens, I’m good friends with his master. Strictly speaking he’s my nephew in the faith13. He’s always wanting to learn my powers from me, but I haven’t got that kind of time to teach him.” This made Yang Meng angry. “The swine,” he thought, “the way he talks is downright hateful. He says my master is his nephew in the faith — that makes me his grandson! I’ll go and find my master and ask him. If it’s true, well and good. If there’s no such thing, I’ll smash this baldpate’s skull to pieces.” With that he stood up and was just about to go out when he heard shouting outside: “Birthday gifts are here!” Yang Meng knew it was Ji Gong’s voice. “My master’s come. Good — now I’ll ask him.” And he hurried out. With this visit Ji Gong was going to turn the birthday hall upside down and fight Guanghui with magic.

To learn what happened next, read the next chapter.