We set aside now Guangrui at his post and Xuanzang at his religious labors, and take up instead the banks of the Jing River outside the city of Chang'an, where there dwelt two worthy men: one a fisherman named Zhang Shao, the other a woodcutter named Li Ding. They were, so to speak, unranked scholars who had never sat the examinations, literate men of the wilds.
One day, having sold the firewood off their shoulders and the carp from their baskets in Chang'an, they went into a wineshop together, drank until they were half-tipsy, and, each carrying off a bottle, strolled back along the bank of the Jing at an easy pace.
“Brother Li,” said Zhang Shao, “to my mind those who scramble for fame lose their very persons to it; those who snatch at profit destroy their bodies for it; those who take office sleep as though bedded down with a tiger; those who bask in imperial favor go about with a snake up their sleeve. Reckon it all up, and none of it matches our clear waters and green hills — free and unfettered, content with plain fare, drifting along as fortune allows.”
“Brother Zhang speaks with reason,” replied Li Ding. “Only, your clear waters are no match for my green hills.”
“Your green hills are no match for my clear waters,” said Zhang Shao, “and I have a lyric to the tune Butterflies in Love with Flowers to prove it.”
Ten thousand lǐ of misty waves, and the little skiff rides light; leaning at ease against its lone canopy, I am wrapped in a murmur sweet as Xi Shi's own voice.
Rinsing away every care and washing the heart clean, fame and gain grow few; idly I pluck at the spikes of smartweed and the blades of the reeds.
A scattering of sand-gulls is company enough to delight in the Way; on the willow bank, in the reedy cove, my wife and children laugh together with me.
One good sleep, and wind and wave alike subside; no glory, no disgrace, and not a single care.
“Your clear waters are no match for my green hills,” said Li Ding. “I too have a lyric to Butterflies in Love with Flowers to prove it.”
A stretch of cloud-wrapped woods, brimming with pine-pollen; in silence I listen to the orioles cry, their nimble tongues like the tuning of a reed-pipe.
The reds thin and the greens grow lush as spring warms to its height, then all at once summer arrives and the seasons wheel on.
Then comes autumn's turn, changing as lightly as before; the yellow chrysanthemums are fragrant, fit to be savored.
Harsh winter passes as swiftly as a snap of the fingers; through all four seasons I roam free, with no one to answer to.
“Your green hills are no match for my clear waters,” said the fisherman, “and mine yield the better things to enjoy. I have a lyric to Partridge Sky to prove it.”
In this immortals' country of cloud and water, a livelihood is easily had; ply the oars, moor the boat athwart the stream, and there is home.
Fresh-scaled fish cut open live and green turtle stewed; on the instant, purple crabs steamed and red shrimp boiled.
Green reed-shoots, sprouts of floating-heart, and better still, water-chestnuts and gorgon-fruit.
Tender lotus-root and ripe lotus, the young leaves of water-celery; arrowhead tubers, wild-rice stems, and the blossoms of the marsh-flower.
“Your clear waters are no match for my green hills,” said the woodcutter, “and mine too yield the better things. I also have a lyric to Partridge Sky to prove it.”
Towering ranges and steep ridges run out to the edge of the sky; a thatched hut, a grass hermitage — that is my home.
Salted and cured fowl and geese outdo your crabs and turtles; river-deer and wild sow, hare and deer, beat your fish and shrimp.
Leaves of fragrant toon, sprouts of the golden chinaberry, and better still, bamboo shoots and mountain tea.
Purple plums and red peaches, ripe mume and apricot; sweet pears, sour jujubes, and the blossom of the sweet-olive.
“Your green hills are truly no match for my clear waters,” said the fisherman. “I have besides a lyric to the tune Immortal of the Skies.”
A single leaf of a boat lodges wherever it will; amid ten thousand folds of misty wave I know no fear.
Dropping the hook, casting the net, I take the fresh-scaled catch; no rich sauces, yet all the more savory for that — my old wife and little ones gathered round in a circle of content.
When the fish run thick I sell them off in the Chang'an market, trading them for fragrant unstrained wine to drink myself merry.
My straw rain-cape for a quilt, I lie out on the autumn river, snoring in my sleep, free of every worry, with no hankering after the world's glory and rank.
“Your clear waters are still no match for my green hills,” said the woodcutter. “I too have a lyric to Immortal of the Skies.”
A thatched cottage of a few rafters, raised at the foot of the hill; pine, bamboo, plum, and orchid — how lovely they truly are.
Threading the woods and crossing the ridges to seek out dry firewood — no one takes it amiss; I sell it as I please, be it little or much, just as the world allows.
I take the coin and buy wine to my heart's delight; an earthen bowl, a porcelain cup — how utterly at ease I am.
Reeling drunk, I lie down in the pine's shade, without a care to snag me, beyond all gain and loss, heedless of the world's rise and fall.
“Brother Li, your life in the hills is not so merry as my trade on the water,” said the fisherman. “I have a lyric to the tune Moon over the West River to prove it.”
Red smartweed in heavy bloom mirrors the moon; yellow reeds toss their leaves in the wind.
The azure sky stretches clear and far, the Chu river lies empty; a single stir sets the whole pool of stars atremble.
Great fish come into the net in ranks; little mandarin-fish take the hook in clusters.
Once got and cooked, the flavor is all the richer; laughing proud on rivers and lakes, I make merry din.
“Brother Zhang, your trade on the water is still not so merry as mine in the hills,” said the woodcutter. “I also have a lyric to Moon over the West River to prove it.”
Withered leaves and dead creepers litter the path; broken tips of aging bamboo fill the hills.
Old-man's-beard and dried kudzu tangle and climb every which way; I break them off, bind them with cord, and lash down my load.
Worms have bored the elms and willows hollow; the wind has snapped the crowns of pine and nanmu.
I gather it, heap it up against the winter cold, and trade it for wine and coin just as I choose.
“Your hills may bear comparison, yet still they lack the secluded elegance of my clear waters,” said the fisherman. “I have a lyric to the tune Immortal by the River to prove it.”
As the tide ebbs I shift the lone skiff along and slip away; deep in the night I lay down the oar and come home singing.
Straw cape under the waning moon — how deep the stillness! The roosting gulls are not startled up, and at the sky's edge the colored clouds break open.
Weary, I lie on the reedy islet with nothing at all to do; though the sun is three poles high, still I linger abed.
As my heart wishes, to my full content, I order my own days; the court officials wait shivering for the water-clock — how could that match my ease of mind?
“Your clear waters' secluded elegance is still no match for the deeper seclusion of my green hills,” said the woodcutter. “I too have a lyric to Immortal by the River to prove it.”
Along the grey path, autumn high and clear, I go out dragging my axe; in the cool of evening I carry my load home again.
Wild flowers stuck at my temples — how singular a sight! Parting the clouds I find the path out, and wait for the moon to call the gate open.
My little ones and my mountain wife come out laughing to greet me; on a grass pallet, a wooden pillow, I lie aslant and take my ease.
Steamed pears and boiled millet are set out in a trice; the new brew in the jar has ripened — truly it swells the secluded heart.
“These are the trades that keep the two of us,” said the fisherman, “the business of feeding ourselves. But you have nothing to match the delights of my idle hours, and I have a poem to prove it.”
At my leisure I watch the white cranes fly across the blue sky; mooring my boat by the stream, I close my grey-wood door.
Leaning on the awning, I teach my son to twist the fishing-line; resting the oar, together with my wife I spread the nets to dry.
With my nature settled, all is as calm as stilled waves; my body at peace, I feel of course how faint the wind.
Green straw cape and blue bamboo hat, worn as the season asks — far better than wearing the purple-ribboned robes of the court.
“Your idle hours are still no match for the goodness of mine,” said the woodcutter. “I too have a poem to prove it.”
At my leisure I watch the white clouds drift, faint and far; sitting alone in my thatched hut, I close my door of bamboo.
With nothing to do, I set my children to open the scrolls and read; and now and then, facing a guest, I take up a game of go.
When joy comes, staff in hand, I sing along the fragrant path; when the mood strikes, I carry my qin up the green mountainside.
Straw sandals, a hempen sash, a coverlet of coarse cloth — with an easy heart, far better than wearing robes of silk.
“Li Ding,” said Zhang Shao, “we two are truly the sort who can be close through soft-hummed verse, with no need of clappers and golden goblets. But merely reciting set lyric pieces is nothing rare. Let us each link a few lines, and see how this fisher-and-woodcutter talk of ours turns out.”
“Brother Zhang has put it most finely,” said Li Ding. “Please, brother, recite first.”
And Zhang Shao began:
The boat lies still within green water and misty waves; the home stands deep in the mountains, amid empty wilds.
Dearly I love the stream-bridge when the spring waters rise, and most I cherish the crags and peaks veiled in dawn cloud.
Fresh carp from the Dragon Gate, stewed and boiled in season; worm-bored dry firewood, kindled and blazing by day.
Hook and net, in all their kinds, suffice to keep one in old age; carrying-pole and rope, these two things serve one to the end.
In the little boat, lying face-up, I watch the wild geese fly; on the grassy path, leaning aslant, I listen to the honking swans.
In the arena of wagging tongues I have no part; in the sea of right-and-wrong my footprints are few.
By the stream I hang out nets to dry, fine as brocade; on the rock I grind my axe anew, till its edge is keen.
Under the bright, bright autumn moon I often fish alone; in the still, still spring hills I meet no one at all.
When fish are plenty I trade them for wine and drink with my wife; when firewood is left over I buy a jug and gather with the children.
Singing to myself, pouring for myself, I follow my own wild ease; with long songs and long sighs I give myself to the tossing wind.
Hailing elder brothers, calling younger, I gather my boat-mates; leading friends and bringing companions, I gather the old men of the wilds.
Calling the forfeits, guessing fingers, we pass the cups round and round; breaking up tallies, calling out words, we idly pass the wine-bell.
Boiling shrimp and cooking crab, merry morning after morning; frying duck and stewing fowl, abundant day after day.
My simple wife brews the tea, her mood loose and at ease; my mountain wife cooks the rice, her heart calm and unhurried.
At dawn I raise my pole and rinse it in the light waves; at sunrise I shoulder my firewood and cross the great torrent.
After rain, cape thrown on, I seize the living carp; before the wind, plying my axe, I fell the withered pine.
Hiding our tracks and fleeing the world, we play the dull and foolish; hiding our names and burying them, we act the deaf and mute.
“Brother Li,” said Zhang Shao, “I have just presumed to speak the opening lines; now it is your turn, elder brother — you begin a couplet, and I, your younger, will carry it on.”
And Li Ding took it up:
A wind-and-moon madman by pretense, a fellow of the hills and wilds; on rivers and lakes I lodge my pride, an old man past his service years.
Of pure leisure I have my share, and follow where freedom leads; of wrangling tongues I hear nothing, and delight in the peace of the times.
On moonlit nights I sleep sound in my thatched hut; when the sky darkens I cover myself with a light bamboo-leaf cape.
Forgetting the self, I make friends of pine and plum; gladly I keep company in the pact of gulls and egrets.
In my heart no scheming after fame or gain; at my ears no sound of shield and spear.
As the mood takes me, a single cup of fragrant unstrained wine; to pass the day, three meals of wild-herb broth.
Two bundles of firewood serve me for a living; a single rod with hook and line is my whole trade.
At leisure I call my little ones to whet the steel axe; in quiet I bid my simple boys mend the old nets.
When spring arrives I love to watch the willows green; when the season softens I delight to see the reeds turn blue.
In summer, escaping the heat, I trim the new bamboo; in the sixth month, taking the cool, I pluck the tender water-caltrop.
At Frost's Descent the fowl are fat, and I butcher them any day; at the Double Ninth the crabs are plump, and I boil them in season.
When winter comes and the sun is up, I am still deep in sleep; through the nine-nines, though the sky be high, of myself I feel no cold.
Through the eight seasons, in the hills, I give my nature free rein; through the four seasons, on the lake, I let my feelings roam at will.
Gathering firewood, I have the very zest of an immortal's household; casting my line, I keep nothing of the worldly form at all.
Beyond my door the wild flowers are fragrant and bright; at my boat's prow the green water lies wave upon level wave.
With my body at peace, I speak not of the Three Ministers' rank; with my nature settled, I am better off than a ten-lǐ city.
A ten-lǐ city, for all its high walls, must guard against the general's command; the Three Ministers, for all their eminence, must heed the herald's summons.
To delight in hills and delight in waters — this is truly rare; I thank Heaven, thank Earth, and thank the bright gods.
The two of them, having each recited their lyric pieces and then linked their verses couplet by couplet, came to the place where their roads divided, and bowed to take their leave.
“Brother Li, take care on your way,” said Zhang Shao, “and watch sharp for tigers as you climb. Should any peril befall you, it will be a case of: tomorrow on the street, one friend the fewer.”
Hearing this, Li Ding flew into a rage. “You lazy wretch! Good friends should stand in for each other even in life and death — how dare you curse me? If I should meet a tiger and come to harm, then you are bound to meet the waves and be capsized!”
“I shall never in all my life be capsized,” said Zhang Shao.
“The sky has winds and clouds none can foretell; a man has fortune and misfortune by turns,” said Li Ding. “How can you be so sure of coming to no harm?”
“Brother Li, say what you will, you have nothing sure to go on,” said Zhang Shao, “whereas my trade has something sure to it, so I shall certainly meet no such fate.”
“That living of yours on the face of the water is perilous in the extreme, all murk and shadow,” said Li Ding. “What could you possibly reckon on?”
“You simply don't know. Here in Chang'an, on West Gate Street, there is a fortune-teller. Every day I bring him a golden carp, and he passes me a hexagram from his sleeve; go by the bearings he gives, and it is a hundred hits in a hundred casts. Today I went to buy a divination again, and he told me to cast my net on the east side of the bend in the Jing River and throw my hook on the west bank, and I would surely come home with a full load of fish and shrimp. Tomorrow I'll come up to the city, sell them for wine-money, and meet with you again, elder brother.”
And with that the two took their leave of each other.
This was a case of the saying: words spoken on the road, and someone lying in the grass.
It happened that the Jing River's water-court kept a water-patrolling yaksha, who, hearing these words of a hundred hits in a hundred casts, rushed back to the Crystal Palace and reported in alarm to the Dragon King: “Disaster! Disaster!”
“What disaster is this?” the Dragon King asked.
“Your servant, patrolling the water, came to the riverbank and overheard a fisherman and a woodcutter talking,” said the yaksha, “and as they parted, their words were most alarming. The fisherman said that here in Chang'an, on West Gate Street, there is a fortune-teller who divines with perfect accuracy. Every day he brings the man a carp, and the man passes him a hexagram from his sleeve, so that he scores a hundred hits in a hundred casts. If his reckonings are always so exact, will he not fish out our whole water-tribe? How then are we to keep the water-court in its splendor, to leap the waves and toss the billows, and uphold Your Majesty's might?”
The Dragon King, in a great fury, snatched up his sword and would have gone straight up to Chang'an to destroy this fortune-teller. But from the side stepped the dragon-sons and dragon-grandsons, the shrimp courtiers and crab officers, the shad field-marshal, the mandarin-fish vice-minister, and the carp grand-steward, who all petitioned together:
“Let Your Majesty stay your anger. As the common saying goes: words that pass the ear are not to be believed. If Your Majesty goes forth, clouds will surely follow and rain attend you, and you will alarm the common folk of Chang'an and draw down Heaven's censure. Your Majesty's comings and goings are beyond fathoming, your transformations without limit: only change into a scholar and go into Chang'an to make inquiry. If such a man truly exists, there will be time enough to destroy him; and if he does not, would you not be harming an innocent for nothing?”
The Dragon King, heeding their counsel, laid aside his precious sword, raised neither cloud nor rain, came up onto the bank, gave his body a shake, and changed himself into a scholar robed in white — truly:
His bearing noble and imposing, he seemed to tower over ravines and rise to the very sky.
His gait was measured and dignified, and in all things he kept to compass and rule.
In speech he followed Confucius and Mencius; in manner he embodied the decorum of the Duke of Zhou.
He wore a gown of jade-colored gauze with a bordered hem, and on his head a carefree scholar's flat kerchief.
Setting out, he strode along on his cloud-steps and came straight to West Gate Street in the city of Chang'an, where he saw a knot of people, jostling and packed close, all noise and clamor. Among them one was holding forth in grand style: “For a man whose fate-sign is the Dragon, the Tiger stands in clash with him. Though the branches yín, chén, sì, and hài are said to form a harmonious set, what is to be feared is the day that offends the Year-Lord.”
Hearing this, the Dragon King knew at once that this was a place where divinations were sold. Stepping forward, he parted the crowd and looked within. He saw:
Pearls and gems along all four walls, and the whole hall hung with figured silks.
From the treasure-duck censer the incense never ceased; in the porcelain vase the water was wondrously clear.
To either side were ranged paintings by Wang Wei, and above his seat hung high an image of Master Guigu.
An inkstone of Duan, ink of gold-flecked soot, set off by a great brush of frost-white hair;
the Forest of Fire-Pearls and the reckonings of Guo Pu, carefully matched against the new canon of the Bureau.
In the six lines of the hexagram he was deeply versed; in the eight trigrams thoroughly skilled.
He could know the pattern of Heaven and Earth, and well understood the disposition of ghosts and spirits.
On his one board the zi and wu bearings were fixed and set; a whole breast of stars he could array in order.
Truly, things to come and things long past he viewed as in a moon-bright mirror;
how many houses would rise, how many fall, he discerned as though a very god.
He knew the ill and fixed the auspicious, pronounced on death and foretold life.
When he opened his talk, wind and rain came swift; when he set brush to paper, ghosts and spirits took fright.
On his signboard, characters set out his name in full: Master of Divine Reckonings, Yuan Shoucheng.
Who was this man? He was none other than the uncle of Yuan Tiangang, the reigning Director of the Astronomical Bureau — Yuan Shoucheng himself. The master was indeed of striking appearance and elegant bearing; his fame spread through the great realm, his art the foremost in Chang'an.
The Dragon King came in at the door and greeted him. When the courtesies were done, the master invited him to the seat of honor, and a serving-boy presented tea.
“On what matter has the gentleman come to inquire?” the master asked.
“I would have you divine how the skies will run — overcast or clear,” said the Dragon King.
The master straightaway passed a hexagram from his sleeve and pronounced: “Cloud shrouds the mountain-tops, mist wraps the treetops. If you would divine the rain, it will surely fall tomorrow.”
“At what hour tomorrow will the rain come?” said the Dragon King. “And how many chǐ and cùn will it measure?”
“Tomorrow at the hour of chen the clouds will spread, at si the thunder will break, at wu the rain will fall, and at wei it will be complete — in all, three chǐ, three cùn, and forty-eight drops of water.”
The Dragon King said with a laugh: “These words must be no jest. If tomorrow it truly rains, and rains by the hours and the amounts you have set, I will send you fifty taels of divination-silver in thanks. But if there is no rain, or if it does not keep to your hours and amounts, then I tell you plainly: I will smash your shop-front, tear your signboard to shreds, and drive you out of Chang'an on the spot, and you shall not delude the crowds here any longer.”
“That is entirely as you please,” the master answered cheerfully. “Farewell, then, farewell — we shall meet again tomorrow, after the rain.”
The Dragon King took his leave, left Chang'an, and returned to his water-court, where the water-spirits great and small received him. “How did Your Majesty find that seller of fortunes?” they asked.
“Oh yes, there is one,” said the Dragon King, “but only a glib-tongued fellow who patters for his supper. I asked him when it would rain, and he said it would rain tomorrow. I asked him at what hour and in what amount, and he said the clouds would spread at chen, the thunder break at si, the rain fall at wu, and be complete at wei — three chǐ, three cùn, and forty-eight drops in all.”
“I laid a wager with him: if it turns out as he says, I send him fifty taels in thanks; but if it is even a little off, I smash his shopfront, drive him packing, and forbid him to delude the crowds in Chang'an.”
The water-tribe laughed and said: “Your Majesty is Chief Superintendent of the Eight Rivers, the great Dragon-God who governs the rain; whether it rains or not, Your Majesty alone knows. How dare he talk such nonsense? That fortune-teller is surely going to lose — surely he will lose!”
Just then, while the dragon-sons and dragon-grandsons, the fish nobles and crab officers, were still laughing and talking over the matter, a voice called out from the middle air: “Dragon King of the Jing, receive the decree!”
All raised their heads to look: it was a golden-robed strongman, bearing aloft the Jade Emperor's decree, coming straight down toward the water-court. In alarm the Dragon King straightened his robes and composed himself, burned incense, and received it, and the golden-robed envoy returned into the sky.
The Dragon King gave thanks for the grace, broke the seal, and looked; upon it was written:
By command: you, Marshal of the Eight Rivers, drive the thunder and wield the lightning forth —
tomorrow bestow the grace of rain, and bring universal relief to the city of Chang'an.
The hours and amounts set in the decree did not differ by a hair's breadth from what the master had foretold. It frightened the Dragon King out of his very wits.
After a moment he came to himself and said to the water-tribe: “That there should be such a seer in the mortal world — one who truly comprehends the patterns of Heaven and Earth! I am bound to lose to him!”
“Let Your Majesty set your mind at ease,” the shad field-marshal submitted. “What difficulty is there in beating him? Your servant has a small stratagem that will surely stop that fellow's mouth.”
The Dragon King asked for the plan, and the marshal said: “Send the rain off its hour, and give it a few drops short, and then that fellow's divination will be proved inaccurate — how could you fail to beat him? Then smash his signboard, drive him packing, and where is the difficulty in that?”
The Dragon King followed his counsel, and indeed troubled himself no further.
The next day, he mustered the Earl of Wind, the Duke of Thunder, the Cloud-Lad, and the Lightning-Mother, and went up to the ninth heaven above the city of Chang'an. He held off until the hour of si before spreading the clouds, made the thunder break at wu, the rain fall at wei, and the rain cease at shen — and let fall only three chǐ and forty drops. He had shifted the hour by one, and docked the amount by three cùn and eight drops.
When the rain was done he dismissed his generals and sent them back. Then, pressing down his cloud-head, he changed once more into the white-robed scholar, went to the great street inside the West Gate, burst into Yuan Shoucheng's divining-shop, and, giving him no chance to speak, smashed his signboard, brushes, and inkstone all to pieces.
The master sat in his chair, utterly unmoved.
The Dragon King then swung up a door-plank to strike him, cursing: “You demon who prates of fortune and disaster, you rascal who deludes the crowd's mind! Your divination has no power, your words are wild nonsense. The hours and drops of today's rain you named do not match at all. Yet still you sit there so composed — be off at once, and I will spare your life!”
Shoucheng, still not showing the least fear, lifted his face to the sky and laughed coldly. “I am not afraid, I am not afraid. I bear no death-sentence — I only fear that it is you who bear one. Others may be deceived; but me you can hardly deceive.”
“I know you: you are no scholar, but the Dragon King of the Jing. You have defied the Jade Emperor's decree, altered the hours, docked the amount, and broken the law of Heaven. On the Dragon-Execution Terrace you will scarcely escape the blade — and yet here you stand, cursing me?”
Hearing this, the Dragon King was struck to the heart with terror, his hair and flesh crawling. He flung down the door-plank at once, straightened his robes and made obeisance, and knelt before the master.
“Do not blame me, master. My earlier words were spoken in jest — who could have known the pretense would come true, that I should truly break the law of Heaven? What am I to do? I beg you, master, save me, save me! If you do not, I will not let you go, though I die for it.”
“Save you I cannot,” said Shoucheng. “I can only point out to you a road to life, that you may find a way to survive.”
“I beg your instruction,” said the dragon.
“Tomorrow, at the third quarter of the hour of wu, you are to go before the Registrar of Human Affairs, Wei Zheng, to be beheaded,” said the master. “If you truly wish to keep your life, you must go with all haste to appeal to the reigning Emperor Taizong of Tang. Wei Zheng is a chancellor in the Tang king's service; if you can obtain his favor, only so will you be safe.”
Hearing this, the Dragon King bowed his farewell and departed in tears. Before he knew it, the red sun had sunk in the west and the moon-star had risen. There was to be seen:
Mist congeals, the hills turn purple, and the homing crows are weary; travelers on the long road put up at the wayside inns.
At the ferry-head new-come geese roost on the sandbar; the River of Stars appears; the watch-tallies hasten; in the lonely village the lamp-fires burn without a flame.
The wind curls the censer-smoke through the quiet Daoist cloister; in the butterfly dream, the sleeper is nowhere to be seen.
The moon shifts the flower-shadows up the balustrade; the starlight scatters, the water-clock's note changes, and unawares the deep of night is already half spent.
This Dragon King of the Jing did not return to his water-court but stayed aloft in the air. Waiting until about the hour of zi, he gathered in his cloud-head, furled his mist-horns, and came straight to the gate of the imperial palace. At that moment the Tang king was dreaming that he had walked out beyond the palace gate and was pacing in the moonlight among the shadows of the flowers.
Suddenly the Dragon King changed into human form, came forward and knelt, crying out: “Your Majesty, save me, save me!”
“Who are you?” said Taizong. “I shall save you.”
“Your Majesty is a true dragon; I am a dragon under doom,” said the Dragon King. “Because I have broken the law of Heaven, I am to be beheaded by Your Majesty's worthy minister, the Registrar of Human Affairs Wei Zheng. So I have come to beg — I pray Your Majesty save me!”
“Since it is Wei Zheng who is to behead you, I can save you,” said Taizong. “Set your mind at ease and go.”
The Dragon King, overjoyed, kowtowed his thanks and departed.
Now the Tang emperor, once awakened from his dream, kept it constantly in mind. It was already the third point of the fifth watch, and Taizong convened the court, gathering the two ranks of civil and military officials. There was to be seen:
Mist enfolds the phoenix towers; incense hangs about the dragon hall.
Light shimmers, and the vermilion screen seems to stir; clouds brush past, and the kingfisher-plumed canopy flows.
Ruler and minister accord like Yao and Shun; the rites and music, august and grave, approach those of Han and Zhou.
The attendants' lanterns, the palace maids' fans — pair on pair they glint with color;
the peacock screens, the qilin hall — everywhere the light floats bright.
They cry the mountain-cheer of Ten Thousand Years; they offer the flowery wish of a Thousand Autumns.
The silence-whip cracks three times; the capped and robed bow before the tasseled crown.
Palace blossoms blaze splendid, and a heavenly fragrance wafts; the bank-willows sway soft, and the imperial music is sung.
The pearl blinds, the kingfisher blinds — on golden hooks hung high;
the dragon-and-phoenix fans, the rivers-and-hills fans — and the jeweled palanquin at rest.
The civil officers, brilliant and refined; the military officers, vigorous and keen.
The imperial way divides the high from the low; along the vermilion steps the ranks are arrayed by grade.
Golden seals and purple ribbons ride in threefold splendor; enduring as earth and lasting as heaven, ten thousand thousand autumns.
When the officials had finished their court-audience homage, each took his place in his own file, and the Tang king flashed his phoenix eyes and dragon pupils and looked them over one by one from the head of the ranks. Among the civil officers were Fang Xuanling, Du Ruhui, Xu Shiji, Xu Jingzong, Wang Gui, and the rest; among the military officers were Ma Sanbao, Duan Zhixuan, Yin Kaishan, Cheng Yaojin, Liu Hongji, Hu Jingde, Qin Shubao, and the rest — every one of dignified and solemn bearing. But the chancellor Wei Zheng was nowhere to be seen.
The Tang king summoned Xu Shiji up to the hall. “Last night I had a strange dream: I dreamed that a man came face to face with me and bowed, calling himself the Dragon King of the Jing. He had broken the law of Heaven, he said, and was to be beheaded by the Registrar of Human Affairs, Wei Zheng; he begged me to save him, and I gave my promise. Yet today, before the ranks, Wei Zheng alone is not to be seen. Why is this?”
“This dream is a true portent,” Xu Shiji replied. “You must summon Wei Zheng to court, and Your Majesty must not let him go out the door; keep him past this one day, and the dragon of the dream may be saved.”
The Tang king, greatly pleased, at once issued a decree, ordering the officer of the guard to summon Wei Zheng to court.
Now the chancellor Wei Zheng was at his residence, observing the celestial signs by night and just then burning a precious incense, when he heard from the ninth heaven the cry of a crane: it was a fairy envoy sent down by Heaven, bearing a golden mandate of the Jade Emperor, ordering him at the third quarter of the hour of wu to behead the old dragon of the Jing in a dream. The chancellor gave thanks for Heaven's grace, fasted and bathed, and in his residence tested his sword of wisdom and circulated his primal spirit — and so he had not gone to court.
The moment he saw the officer of the guard come with the summons, he was seized with dread; yet not daring to delay his sovereign's command, he had no choice but to hurriedly straighten his robes and bind his sash, and go to court with the summons, kneeling before the throne to beg pardon.
“You are pardoned, my minister,” said the Tang king. “There is no fault.”
At that time the assembled ministers had not yet withdrawn from court; now the king ordered the blinds rolled up and the court dismissed. Keeping Wei Zheng alone, he called him up to the golden hall and into the inner chamber, and first discussed with him the policies of securing the realm and the strategies of settling the state. As the time drew near the end of si and the start of wu, he ordered the palace attendants: “Fetch the great board, and let me play a game with my worthy minister.”
The palace consorts thereupon brought the go board and set it out on the imperial desk. Wei Zheng gave thanks for the favor and at once played against the Tang king, move answering move, deploying their battle-lines. It accorded exactly with the words of the Classic of the Rotted Axe-Handle:
The way of chess and go prizes strictness and care.
The superior play lies in the center, the inferior at the edges, the middling in the corners — this is the constant rule of the go-player.
The rule says: better to lose a stone than to lose the initiative.
Striking on the left, look to the right; attacking behind, watch what lies ahead.
There is a first that becomes last, and a last that becomes first.
Where two groups both live, do not try to cut them; where all is alive, do not needlessly connect.
In spreading out, do not be too loose; in pressing close, do not be too cramped.
Rather than cling to stones in the hope of saving them, better to abandon them and take the victory;
rather than move off alone to no purpose, better to make your position firm and shore yourself up.
When they are many and I am few, first contrive to live;
when I am many and they are few, strive to extend my power.
The good winner does not wrangle; the good arrayer does not fight;
the good fighter is not defeated; the good loser is not thrown into disorder.
In go, one begins by joining in the orthodox and ends by winning through the unexpected.
Whenever an opponent, with nothing pressing, shores himself up, he has a mind to invade and cut you off;
one who abandons the small and does not rescue it has a design upon the great;
one who plays as his hand falls is a man without a plan;
and one who responds without thinking follows the road to defeat.
The Book of Songs says: anxious and cautious, as though standing at the brink of a chasm.
This is what is meant.
A poem says:
The board is the earth, the stones are heaven; their colors follow yin and yang, and the whole of creation is complete.
Playing on to the subtle point where all transformations open through, one laughs and boasts of the axe-rot immortal of old.
Ruler and minister played on together, and just as the game reached the third quarter of the hour of wu, with the board's endgame still unfinished, Wei Zheng suddenly slumped forward at the edge of the desk, snoring in a doze.
Taizong said with a smile: “My worthy minister is truly worn in heart from upholding the altars of the realm, and spent in strength from founding its rivers and hills — no wonder he has unknowingly dozed off.”
And he let him sleep and did not call him.
Before long Wei Zheng awoke and prostrated himself on the ground. “Your servant deserves ten thousand deaths, ten thousand deaths! Just now I was overcome with weariness and knew not what I did — I beg Your Majesty to pardon my discourtesy to my lord.”
“What discourtesy is there in you?” said Taizong. “Get up; let us sweep away the unfinished game and play afresh, you and I.”
Wei Zheng had just given thanks for the favor and taken a stone in his fingers, when suddenly there arose a great shouting outside the court gate. It was Qin Shubao, Xu Maogong, and the others, who cast down before the throne a blood-dripping dragon's head and reported: “Your Majesty — shallow seas and dried-up rivers have been seen before, but a wonder like this has never been heard of.”
Taizong and Wei Zheng rose. “Where has this thing come from?”
“South of the Thousand-Pace Gallery, at the crossroads, this dragon's head fell out of the clouds,” said Shubao and Maogong. “Your servants dared not fail to report it.”
“What is the meaning of this?” the Tang king asked Wei Zheng in astonishment.
Wei Zheng turned and, knocking his head to the ground, said: “It was I who beheaded it just now, in a dream.”
At these words the Tang king was greatly startled. “While you were dozing, my worthy minister, I saw you neither stir nor lift a hand, and you had no blade — how then did you behead this dragon?”
“My lord, my body was here before my sovereign, but my dream departed from Your Majesty. My body, before my sovereign, faced the unfinished game, eyes closed and drowsing; my dream, parting from Your Majesty, rode an auspicious cloud, my spirit roused and stirring.
“That dragon was upon the Dragon-Execution Terrace, bound fast there by the soldiers and generals of Heaven. And I said to him: you have broken the law of Heaven and rightly incur the penalty of death; by Heaven's command, I cut short your remaining life.
“The dragon, hearing this, grieved in anguish; I braced my spirit. The dragon, hearing this, drew in his claws and folded his scales and willingly received death; I braced my spirit, hitched up my robe, stepped forward, and raised the frost-bright blade. With a single ringing stroke the sword passed through — and the dragon's head thereupon fell into the empty void.”
At these words Taizong's heart was torn between grief and joy. For joy, he praised Wei Zheng as a fine minister — with such a hero at court, why fear the realm would ever be insecure? For grief, he reflected that in his dream he had promised to save the dragon, only for it to come, against all expectation, to this execution.
He could only force up his spirits and issue a decree ordering Shubao to hang the dragon's head in the marketplace and make it known to the people of Chang'an. Meanwhile he rewarded Wei Zheng, and the assembled officials withdrew.
That evening he returned to the palace, his heart weighed down with gloom. He thought of the dragon in his dream, weeping and pleading for its life — who could have known that impermanence would allow no escape from this calamity? Brooding a long while, he gradually felt his spirit grow weary and his body ill at ease.
That night, about the second watch, he heard a sound of wailing outside the palace gate, and Taizong grew all the more afraid. As he drowsed, he saw again the Dragon King of the Jing, holding in his hand a blood-dripping severed head, crying aloud: “Tang Taizong, give me back my life! Give me back my life! Last night your mouth was full of promises to save me — why then, at daybreak, did you turn about and summon the Registrar of Human Affairs to behead me? Come out, come out! Let us go before the King of the Underworld and argue it out.”
He seized hold of Taizong and would not let go, clamoring again and again. Taizong's mouth was stopped and he could not speak, and struggled until the sweat ran all over his body.
Just at this moment of deadlock, from the due south there came fragrant clouds curling and bright mists drifting, and a female immortal came forward, waved a willow branch in her hand — and the headless dragon, weeping and wailing, went straight off toward the northwest.
This, it turned out, was the Bodhisattva Guanyin, who by the Buddha's command had come to the Eastern Land to seek out the scripture-pilgrim, and was lodging in the shrine of the city-god of Chang'an. Hearing by night the weeping of ghosts and the wailing of spirits, she had come expressly to drive off the doomed dragon and deliver the emperor. As for the dragon, he went straight to the courts of the underworld to lay his complaint — but of that no more here.
Now Taizong came to himself, crying out over and over: “Ghosts! Ghosts!” In their alarm the empresses of the three palaces, the consorts of the six chambers, and the attendant eunuchs trembled and shook, and passed the whole night without sleep.
Before they knew it, it was the third point of the fifth watch, and the many civil and military officials of the whole court were waiting outside the court gate for the audience. They waited until daybreak, and still there was no morning court; and this alarmed them, every one hesitant and afraid. Only when the sun was three poles high did a decree come out: “Our heart is unwell; the officials are excused from court.”
In no time some five to seven days had slipped by, and the officials, anxious and fearful, were just about to force their way in to attend upon the emperor and ask after his health, when a decree came from the Empress Dowager summoning the court physician into the palace to administer medicine. The assembled officials waited outside the court gate for word.
After a while the physician came out, and the officials asked what the illness was. “His Majesty's pulse is disordered — weak and yet racing — and he raves of seeing ghosts,” said the physician. “Moreover I find one skipped beat in every ten, and no breath in the five viscera; I fear the unspeakable may come within seven days.” At these words the officials were struck pale with dismay.
In the midst of their grief and alarm, another decree came from the Empress Dowager, summoning Xu Maogong, the Duke Who Guards the State, and Yuchi Gong to attend the emperor. The three lords received the decree and hurried in beneath the Palace-Dividing Tower.
When they had made their obeisance, Taizong composed his face and said with an effort: “My worthy ministers, I took up arms at nineteen and have campaigned south and north, warded off east and swept clear west, through bitter years without number — and never once have I seen the least trace of anything uncanny. Yet today, of all things, I see ghosts.”
“We founded these rivers and hills and killed men beyond counting,” said Yuchi Gong. “What is there to fear in ghosts?”
“You do not believe it,” said Taizong. “Outside the gate of my very bedchamber, once night falls there is a hurling of bricks and a clattering of tiles, and demons wailing — it is truly not to be borne. By day it is bearable enough, but the dark of night cannot be endured.”
“Let Your Majesty set your heart at ease,” said Shubao. “Tonight your servant and Jingde will guard the palace gate and see what manner of ghost there is.” Taizong approved the proposal, and Maogong gave thanks and withdrew.
That day, as evening came, each took up his armor; the two of them, mailed and helmeted, grasped their golden maces and battle-axes and stood guard outside the palace gate. Fine generals! See how they were arrayed:
On their heads golden helmets gleaming bright; on their bodies mail like dragon-scales.
The heart-guarding mirror-plates flash with auspicious cloud; the lion-and-barbarian clasps drawn tight, the embroidered sashes fresh as rosy dawn.
This one, phoenix eyes turned heavenward, makes the very stars afraid; that one, ring-round eyes flashing like lightning, sets the moonlight afloat.
They were in truth heroes and stalwarts, meritorious ministers of old — who came at last to be called, for a thousand years, the Guardians of the Gate, and to serve, through all the ages, as the gods of the door.
The two generals stood in attendance beside the gate, and all night until dawn not a single trace of anything uncanny was seen. That night Taizong slept peacefully in the palace, untroubled.
At daybreak he summoned the two generals and richly rewarded them. “Since I fell ill I have not been able to sleep for days, and tonight, relying on the might of you two generals, I have been wholly at peace. Pray withdraw and take your rest, and guard me again come evening.” The two generals gave thanks and withdrew.
For the next two or three nights the watch was likewise peaceful. Only the imperial meals grew less, and the illness turned graver.
Taizong, moreover, could not bear the two generals' hardship, and again summoned Shubao, Jingde, and the lords Du and Fang into the palace, instructing them: “These two days I have indeed been at peace, but it only puts Generals Qin and Hu to the trouble of a whole night's watch. I wish to call skilled painters to render the true likenesses of the two generals and paste them on the gate, so as to spare them the toil. What do you say?”
The officials at once followed the decree, chose two skilled portraitists, had the lords Hu and Qin dress as before in their armor, painted them to the life, and pasted the pictures on the gate. And that night, too, all was quiet.
After two or three days like this, there came again from the rear palace gate a banging and clattering, bricks and tiles rattling in confusion. At dawn he summoned the officials. “For days now, happily, the front gate has been quiet; but tonight the rear gate sounds again — will this not frighten me to death once more?”
“The front gate's unrest, Jingde and Shubao guard,” said Maogong, coming forward. “The rear gate's unrest should be given to Wei Zheng to guard.”
Taizong approved the proposal and summoned Wei Zheng to guard the rear gate that night. Wei Zheng received the order, and that evening, fully accoutred, holding that very sword which had slain the dragon, he stood in attendance before the rear palace gate — a fine hero indeed. See how he was arrayed:
A raw-silk kerchief bound at his brow, a brocade robe with jade belt hanging at his waist.
His wind-catching cloak-sleeves flutter bright as frost, outmatching the very visage of the door-gods Tu and Lei.
Black boots planted, he sits four-square; a keen blade in his hand, fierce and bold.
His two round eyes glaring, he scans on every side — what evil spirit would dare approach?
All night long the palace was bright, and there were no more demons. Yet though front gate and rear were now at peace, the emperor's body grew steadily heavier.
One day the Empress Dowager again issued a decree, summoning the officials to deliberate the arrangements for the funeral. Taizong in turn summoned Xu Maogong, charged him with the great affairs of state, and enjoined him earnestly, in the manner of the Shu sovereign Liu Bei entrusting his orphan. When he had finished, he bathed and changed his robes, and simply awaited his hour.
Wei Zheng stepped out from the side, took hold of the dragon-robe, and submitted: “Let Your Majesty set your heart at ease. Your servant has one thing that will assure Your Majesty long life.”
“The sickness has already entered the vitals, and my life is on the verge of peril,” said Taizong. “How can it be assured?”
“Your servant has a letter, which I present to Your Majesty to carry down to the underworld and deliver to the Fengdu Magistrate, Cui Jue.”
“Who is Cui Jue?” said Taizong.
“Cui Jue was a minister before the late Emperor Gaozu — first Magistrate of Cizhou, and later Vice-Minister of Rites,” said Wei Zheng. “In life he and I were sworn brothers of the eight bows, and knew each other most intimately. He is dead now, and serves in the underworld as the Fengdu Magistrate in charge of the registers of life and death; often he meets me in dreams. If Your Majesty takes this letter and gives it to him, then, mindful of his slight bond with your humble servant, he will surely let Your Majesty return. He will assuredly send your soul back to the world of the living and restore the dragon-countenance to the imperial capital.”
At these words Taizong took the letter into his hand, tucked it into his sleeve, and thereupon closed his eyes and died. The three palaces and six chambers, the empress and consorts, the senior attendants and the crown prince, and the two files of civil and military officials all raised the wail of mourning and put on white. And in the White Tiger Hall the coffin was set to lie in state — but of this no more.
In the end, there is no knowing how Taizong returned to life — so listen to the next chapter for the explanation.