Zhao Wang of Teng county and his wife were devout Buddhists who ate no meat or fish, and in their village they were known as “the good people”. The family was fairly well off. They had one daughter, Xiao’er, who was exceptionally clever and beautiful, and Zhao doted on her. When she was six he sent her to study under a tutor with her elder brother Changchun, and in five years she knew the Five Classics thoroughly. A fellow pupil, a scholar named Ding, courtesy name Zimo, three years older than she, was gifted and dashing, and the two were much drawn to each other. Ding told his mother privately what he wished, and she asked the Zhaos for the girl’s hand. But Zhao hoped to betroth his daughter into a great family, and refused. Before long Zhao was taken in by the White Lotus sect1, and when Xu Hongru2 rose in revolt, the whole family was drawn in among the rebels. Xiao’er was well read and quick to understand: the arts of paper soldiers and bean horses3, and all the rest, she mastered at first sight. Six young girls served Xu as their master, and Xiao’er was counted the best of them, so he passed all his arts on to her. Because of his daughter, Zhao was given great trust.

By now Ding was eighteen and had become a licentiate of the Teng county school. Yet he would not hear of marriage, for he could not forget Xiao’er. He slipped away from home and joined Xu’s forces. Xiao’er was glad to see him and treated him with honours beyond the usual rule. As Xu’s best disciple she was in charge of military affairs, going in and out day and night, and her parents had no chance to interfere. Ding saw her every night; she would send all the attendants away, and they often talked till the third watch. Ding said to her privately, “Do you know why I have come here?” “No,” she said. “It is not that I have some wild hope of climbing onto a dragon4,” said Ding. “The reason I came — truly, it was for you. This crooked way will get nowhere; it leads only to destruction. You are a clever woman. Have you not thought of that? If you will run away with me, my heart will not have been given in vain.” She was lost in thought for a while; then she woke, as if from a dream. “To go behind my parents’ backs would be wrong,” she said. “Let me tell them.” The two went in and set out the gains and the dangers. Zhao would not see it. “Our master is a divine being,” he said. “How could he go wrong?” Xiao’er knew he could not be talked round. She changed her girl’s tufts for a married woman’s coil5 and took out two paper kites, and she and Ding each mounted one. With a whir the kites spread their wings, and like the jianjian birds6 they flew wing to wing. At first light they reached the border of Laiwu. Xiao’er pinched her kite by the neck, and at once it folded its wings and dropped. She put the kites away. They changed to a pair of donkeys and rode on to the village of Shanyin, where they passed themselves off as refugees from the fighting and rented a house.

The two had left in haste and brought little with them, and they had no firewood or stores to speak of. Ding was very worried. He tried to borrow grain next door, but no one would lend them so much as a pint or a peck. Xiao’er showed no sign of worry; she simply pawned her hairpins and earrings. With the door shut they sat quietly facing each other, guessing lantern riddles and reciting from memory the books they had left behind, competing to see who came out ahead; the loser was struck on the wrist with two fingers held together. Their neighbour to the west, a man named Weng, was a chief among the greenwood outlaws. One day he came back from hunting. “‘Wealthy through his neighbour7,’” said Xiao’er. “Why should I worry? We will borrow a thousand taels from him for a while. Surely he will give them to us!” Ding thought that would be hard. “I will make him glad to hand it over,” she said. She cut the figure of a judge out of paper, set it on the floor, and covered it with a chicken coop. Then she took Ding by the hand up onto the couch, heated some wine they had stored away, and took down the Rites of Zhou8 to make the rules of a drinking game: either of them would name a volume, a page and a line, and they would look it up together. If the officer named there had the sign for food, water or wine in his title, the player drank; if he was one of the wine officers, the player drank double. Presently Xiao’er turned up the Wine-Maker, and Ding filled a great horn cup to the brim and pressed her to drain it. She made a wish over it: “If the money comes to us as a loan, you will turn up a drinking officer.” Ding turned the pages and found the Turtle-Catcher. Xiao’er laughed aloud. “It is done!” she said, and handed him a cup so full it dripped. Ding protested. “You are one of the water folk,” she said. “You must drink like a turtle.” While they were still noisily arguing, they heard a clattering in the coop. Xiao’er got up. “It has come,” she said. They opened the coop and looked: there was a cloth sack stuffed with big silver ingots, packed tight and bulging. Ding was astonished and delighted beyond words. Later an old woman from the Weng house came over with a child in her arms to visit, and told them on the quiet: “When the master got home, he was sitting up at night by the lamp when the floor suddenly split open, so deep you couldn’t see the bottom, and a judge came up out of it. ‘I am a constable of the underworld,’ he said. ‘The Lord of Mount Tai9 is holding a council of all the officers of the dead to draw up the black register of men of violence. A thousand silver lamp stands are needed, each weighing ten taels. Whoever gives a hundred stands will have his sins wiped away.’ The master was terrified. He burned incense, knocked his head on the floor and prayed, and offered up a thousand taels. The judge sank slowly back down, and the ground closed over him.” Husband and wife heard her out and made a show of clucking in wonder. From then on they gradually bought oxen and horses, kept servants, and built a house of their own.