Now, Ji Gong was still shouting away, begging for alms, when Squire Liang came out from the inner courtyard. “Who is making this racket at my gate?” The monk went over, first bowed with his palms together, and then said, “Since you ask, Squire, it’s this monk. I was passing this way. I’ve long heard that you’re a good man, and when I took a look at this house of yours, I saw it’s struck by the baleful influence of the Five Ghosts and Feilian1. There must be someone sick in the family. I want to cleanse your house and drive off the baleful influence, chase away the ghosts and cure the sick. But the moment I got to your gate, these servants of yours asked me for gate money2 first. I said I haven’t come begging favours from the squire, so where would I get gate money to give you? That’s how the quarrel started.” At this Squire Liang said, “These wretches! Who knows how many fiddles they’ve worked here at the gate?” “That’s not how it was, Squire,” said a servant. “When he got here, the first thing he said was that he’d come begging for alms.” And he gave his own account of all that had happened. The squire did not argue the point either. “Monk,” he asked, “where is your honourable temple?” “I’m from Lingyin Temple by West Lake in Hangzhou,” said the monk. “My name is Daoji. The one people get wrong and call Crazy Ji — that’s me.” Squire Liang looked the monk over, half believing and half doubting. “Since you are Ji Gong,” he said, “have mercy on us. Come with me.”

Ji Gong followed the squire all the way inside to the east inner room of the main house. There Ji Gong saw the young master, Liang Shiyuan, lying on the kang3, senseless and unconscious, with a crowd of serving women and servants waiting on him on either side. “My son!” Squire Liang said quickly. “Liang Shiyuan, wake up!” He called several times, but Liang Shiyuan lay in a stupor, aware of nothing, and did not so much as lift his head. “Squire, there’s no call to fret,” said Ji Gong. “I’ll have him saying a few words and eating something. In a little while you’ll see it work.” The Old Squire was delighted. “If that can be done, holy monk, have mercy on us!” The Lord Arhat reached up and took off his hat. He had Liang Shiyuan propped up, slowly set the hat on his head and chanted the six-syllable mantra4: “Om mani padme hum! Om! By command — he!” Liang Shiyuan slowly opened his eyes, let out a sigh and said, “Someone, get me some water.” The Old Squire was overjoyed at the sight and kept saying, “Good, good!” “On the strength of this one trick,” said the monk, “am I worth a meal from you or not?” “Holy monk, how can you say such a thing?” said Squire Liang. “Never mind a meal. Even if I kept you in offerings for the rest of your days, sir, it would be no more than right.” “There’s no need for that,” said the monk. “Holy monk, what would you like to eat?” said the squire. “I’ll have them prepare it.” “Call in the man in charge of your kitchen,” said the monk. “I’ll tell him.” A servant went and fetched the cook. “Go and get ready sugared and candied fruits, dried and fresh fruit, cold meats and hot stir-fries,” the monk said, “a whole table, a first-class high-piled seafood feast5, and I’ll eat it right here in the outer room.” The cook said he would. This was a family of great wealth, and everything was there on hand. The servants set out a table and stools, and before long the cook had all the dishes ready.

The squire invited the monk to take the seat of honour and drink, and the Old Squire sat beside him to keep him company, and they drank to their hearts’ content. The Old Squire thought to himself, “That hat of the monk’s is not bad at all. It works better than any elixir or wonder drug. I’ll ask him how much he wants and keep the hat for my son to wear.” Hearing Liang Shiyuan talking now in the room, asking for sugar water and wanting things to eat, the squire was very pleased. “Holy monk,” he said, “your wonderful arts are truly the kind where the illness goes the moment your hand touches it.” “Squire,” said the monk, “what do you think of this hat of mine? Is it good or not?” “Good,” said the squire. “Good it may be,” said the monk, “but I’m thinking of finding a buyer and selling it.” The squire was delighted to hear it. “Monk, how much do you want for it? I’ll take it.” “If you want to take it, Squire, that’s easily done,” said Ji Gong. “Give me this whole estate of yours, the businesses and the houses and the land, and I’ll give you the hat.” The Old Squire shook his head again and again. “I can’t afford it.” While they talked, the servants brought in all the dishes, and the squire kept the monk company over the wine.

“Squire,” said the monk, “call in that steward of yours who keeps your gate. I’ve got something to say to him.” The squire at once told a servant to go and fetch him. Shortly the man came inside. “Squire, you sent for me. What are your orders?” “Just now I said I wanted a first-class high-piled seafood feast,” said the monk, “dried and fresh fruit, cold meats and hot stir-fries, sugared and candied fruits, with your squire to keep me company. You see, I didn’t say anything wrong, did I? I’ve kept my word to you.” “Yes,” said the servant. “Squire,” said the monk, “you’ll have to show a little more mercy. I’ve got three attendants waiting outside, and they haven’t had a drink yet.” The squire ordered them asked in and a feast prepared. The servant thought, “He has attendants too? He hasn’t even got a whole set of clothes himself. His attendants must be poorer still.” With that he went outside and shouted, “Which of you came with that beggarly monk?” “I did,” said Gao Guotai. The servant looked: here was a man dressed as a Confucian scholar, handsome and distinguished, of uncommon bearing, and very well turned out. “Where are the other two?” the servant said. Su Lu and Feng Shun came over. “We’re with the monk too.” Liang Fu looked: these two were grander still. Su Lu was in fact one of Su Beishan’s household servants, and he was dressed even better. “The monk has money,” Liang Fu thought. “He’s dressed up all his attendants.” He hurried to show the three of them into the gatehouse, set out a feast and pressed them to eat. Inside, the Old Squire kept the monk company over the wine, chatting about this and that.

They were deep in lively talk when a servant came in from outside, went up to the squire and spoke into his ear, not daring to let the monk hear: “If it please the Squire, the Daoist Master has come.” It was only one sentence, but it put Squire Liang in a fix. He would have liked to stay and talk with the monk, but feared the Daoist would take offence and leave; he would have liked to go out to greet the Daoist and see to him, but feared the monk would take offence. The Old Squire’s idea was to offend neither of them. Monk or Daoist, whichever one cured his son, the Old Squire meant to reward. He was at his wits’ end. “Squire,” said the monk, “you must have a relative come to call. Don’t stand on ceremony on my account.” Those words brought the Old Squire to himself. “Yes,” said the squire. “Seeing to your relative is what matters,” said the monk. “Most likely it’s no outsider, either. Maybe your wife’s little sister6 has come.” The Old Squire laughed and stood up, and told the servants to keep the holy monk’s cup filled. “I’ll go and see. I’ll be back shortly to drink with you, holy monk.” With that he rose and headed for the outer study.

This was a small square courtyard with three-bay rooms on its four sides, and the west side room served as the outer study. When the Old Squire went into the study, he saw that the Daoist had already come in and sat down, and a servant was at his side serving tea. Squire Liang hurried to salute him. “Immortal Master, you honour us with your visit, and I failed to come out a long way to meet you. Forgive me, I beg you.” “What are you saying, Squire?” said the Daoist. “Between friends there’s no need for formalities.” Squire Liang quickly ordered wine set out and asked whether the Daoist would take meat or keep to vegetables. “Either will do,” said Zhang Miaoxing. The servants wiped down the table, set out cup after cup and dish after dish, and laid a whole table of wine and food. The Old Squire poured the Daoist’s wine with his own hands and kept him company at the side, chatting. “Immortal Master,” said Squire Liang, “let me ask you about someone. Do you know him?” “If he’s well known, I’ll know him,” said the Daoist. “If he’s obscure, I won’t.” “There is a Ji Gong at Lingyin Temple by West Lake,” said Squire Liang. “Do you know him?” Something stirred in the Daoist’s mind. “If I say Ji Gong has real ability, I won’t look like much myself.” Having thought it over, the Daoist said, “Squire, the one you mean is that drunken, raving Crazy Ji of Lingyin Temple by West Lake? An ignorant nobody, not worth mentioning.” Before he had even finished, a voice answered from the courtyard: “You mangy-haired Daoist7! Talking about people behind their backs!” The door curtain lifted, and the one who came in from outside was none other than Ji Gong. At the sight the Old Squire thought, “These servants are really maddening. I told you to keep the monk company over his wine. Why did you let him out? If he and this Daoist start quarrelling the moment they meet, it will be most awkward.”

A word of explanation: the monk had been inside drinking, with the servants waiting on him, when for no reason he stood up, went into the inner room and took the monk’s hat off Liang Shiyuan’s head. Liang Shiyuan had been sitting up, talking and laughing, but the moment the monk took the hat off, he rolled over and lay down, senseless and unconscious just as before. “Monk,” said the servants, “why did you take the hat off?” “How long does it take to lay on a table of wine?” said the monk. “All right,” said the servants. “So you’re swapping the hat for drink. We won’t even wait for the squire’s orders. We’ll lay another table for you, and you put the hat back on our young master.” “I’m not hungry now,” said the monk. “I’ll eat when I’m hungry.” As he spoke, the monk headed out. “Where are you off to, monk?” said a servant. “The latrine,” said the monk. “We’ll take you,” said the servant. “No need,” said the monk. “If anyone follows me, I can’t go.” So the servants did not dare follow him.

The monk came out and went straight to the west side courtyard. He had just reached it when the Daoist was telling the squire that the drunken, raving Crazy Ji was an ignorant nobody, not worth mentioning, and the monk heard it. That was why the monk said, “What nerve, you mangy-haired Daoist! Cursing people behind their backs!” He lifted the curtain, saying, “You mangy-haired Daoist!” Zhang Miaoxing was about to answer when Ji Gong looked up. “Oh! There’s a Daoist in this room. Don’t take offence. I wasn’t cursing you, I was cursing that other Daoist.” Squire Liang hurried to his feet. “Please sit, holy monk. Please sit, Immortal Master. Let me introduce the two of you.” “Squire, there’s no need to introduce us,” said Ji Gong, and as he spoke the monk sat down. A servant brought another cup and chopsticks, and the monk poured himself wine and drank. Seeing the monk in wretched rags, sitting down and tucking in straight away, the Daoist only then asked, “Monk, what temple are you from?” Ji Gong drank a cup of wine, rolled his eyes up and said, “Since you ask, I’m that drunken, raving ignorant nobody of Lingyin Temple by West Lake, not worth mentioning: Crazy Ji.” The Daoist was rather put out to hear it. “And what is your honourable surname, Daoist Master Zhang?” said the monk. “Monk, you’re doing this on purpose,” said the Daoist. “You know my name is Zhang, and you ask my honourable surname.” “Let me ask you about someone,” said the monk. “Do you know him?” “Who?” said the Daoist. “I’ve got a disciple’s disciple8 called Hua Qingfeng,” said the monk. “Do you know him?” At this the Daoist’s anger surged up. “He says my master is his disciple’s disciple!” he thought. “I’ll finish him off.” With that he said, “Monk, you’re talking nonsense from start to finish! This man of the mountains9 will finish you off!” At once the Daoist formed a hand seal10 and chanted a spell, meaning to pit his magic against Ji Gong’s.

To learn who won when the monk and the Daoist pitted their magic against each other, read the next chapter.