The Wisdom of a Poor Maiden (Russia - Dungan)

There once was a young Emperor, and when he became of age, he naturally desired a mate. He looked far and wide for an Empress but, alas, could not find a single young woman with whom to share his life and the throne.

One day, on his travels through his land, the young Emperor spied a very fetching and clean, young but also extremely poor maiden.

He fell in love with her at first sight! It was she he wanted an no one else. And so, as was the custom in those days, the Emperor--yes, even the Emperor--had to dispatch a matchmaker to negotiate the marriage. 

The parents of the maiden readily agreed to the match, but the young woman herself refused. 

"Why, my dear?" asked the matchmaker. "He is the Emperor himself! No one is mightier than he in our land! No one else possesses all that he has!"

"Emperor or not," replied the maiden, "I want a husband who has a skill, not just one with mere power. Today, he is the Emperor, but tomorrow? Is tomorrow promised to anyone? Emperors rise; they also fall. For this reason, I will not marry someone unless he has a skill."

The matchmaker returned to the palace and reported on the maiden's response. The Emperor was at first livid, but after some reflection he came to the conclusion that the maiden's words had merit. Yes, he was the mighty Emperor who could, at the snap of his fingers, muster a great army or order any delicacy under the sun for his personal enjoyment. But what could he actually do, create, accomplish, build? Nothing. And yes, today he was indeed the Emperor, but would he always remain so? What would tomorrow have in store for him?

The Emperor had a master weaver summoned to the palace.

"Can you teach me the art of weaving a rug?" he asked the weaver.

"Yes, Your Highness, I can."

The Emperor placed himself under this weaver's tutelage and thereafter, night after night, he learned to weave carpets. Two months later, he had accomplished his goal: to learn a skill; he could now weave a decent-looking but albeit simple carpet with flowery motifs. Not only that but he took this very carpet he had woven and presented it to the young lady he desired to marry.

Delighted that the Emperor had indeed learned a skill, the maiden immediately accepted his proposal to marry her.

Thus, the maiden from the poor household married the Emperor and became the Empress.

Not long after that, the Emperor donned peasant clothing as he was wont to do and left the palace to tour his land incognito, hoping to hear sincere words spoken by subjects not intimidated by being in the Emperor's presence.

He had traveled far and wide and one day came to a dumpling house to rest and to eat. The proprietor greeted the Emperor and led him into a dining room where he, the Emperor, sat down alone. The proprietor noted the chubby appearance of his well-fed guest and had some rough men come in and seize the Emperor, whom they had assumed was just a fat peasant. And why did they do this? The owner of this dumpling house made and sold dumplings made of human flesh.

The took the Emperor down to the cellar.

"What's the meaning of this?" cried the Emperor.

"Here we sell dumplings from human meat," one of the thugs replied. "You stumbled upon us, and so we'll make dumplings out of you! Now, in you go!"

They threw the Emperor in and locked the door.

The Emperor had to do some quick thinking. He called for one of his captors.

"What do you want?"

"Bring the owner down here!"

"What for?"

"Never mind! Just bring him down here. It shall be worth his while, and  you won't regret it!"

The owner came down.

"All right, so what is it?"

"Listen," said the Emperor, "my flesh made into dumplings wouldn't be worth the cost of even just one lamb. I am a master weaver, and I could weave a carpet for you the value of which could fetch a hundred lambs. Why, as they say, 'Be greedy for the small and thus lose the large?'"

The owner thought it over. The offer made sense, so he had his men escort the Emperor into yet another room where they soon supplied the Emperor with everything he would need to weave--a loom, fine wool thread, dyes, and so on.

The Emperor went ahead and started weaving. Soon, he had woven a flowery carpet.

"Now," said the Emperor to the restaurant owner and his thugs, "take this to the Imperial Palace. I know the the Emperor himself loves this style of carpet and will pay dearly to own it."

"The Emperor?"

"Yes, the Emperor!" said the real Emperor passing himself off as a carpet weaver. "Imagine the riches that will soon be flowing through your hands!"

Three months had already passed since the Emperor had disappeared, and so the Empress had now taken the reins and managed the Empire.

The Emperor had now been gone for three months. He had just vanished in the minds of his subjects. In his place reigned the Empress, who had guards scour the land looking for her husband. Heartbroken, she sat in the throne room and waited day after day for any report that might bring a glimmer of hope . . .

"Your Majesty," a servant announced one day, "a man is here wishing to show you a carpet."

"A carpet . . . Very well," she responded unfeelingly, "show him in . . ."

A man bearing the flowery carpet was ushered in before the Empress.

"Your Majesty," said the man, one of the dumpling shop's confederates, "it would be my greatest honor if you would behold this very fine carpet!"

"Very well," said the Empress with a sigh, "let me take a look."

She took a look and saw immediately it was a spitting image of the carpet her husband had woven for her before their marriage. She looked and then thought: Aha, my husband is likely being held by ruffians and has sent me this carpet as a message . . . She smiled at the man and said no more. She had the man richly rewarded and sent him on his way.

Before the thug had left the palace with his riches, the Empress had already ordered one of her most cunning guards to tail him. The guard followed him back to the dumpling house, noted the location and immediately returned to the palace.

The Empress had three hundred heavily armed guards sent to the address. The guards surrounded the shop so tightly that "not even a rooster could crow." The guards arrested everyone within the place and searched the premises from roof to cellar floor. In time, the located the Emperor locked in a room with his loom. The guards freed their monarch and had him identify one-by-one each criminal involved, including the owner.

The freed Emperor led the party, including the secured ruffians, back home. The owner and his underlings were placed in a dungeon. The next morning, the Emperor had each one put to death.

And thus this fortunate ending was made all possible by the wisdom of a poor maiden who had insisted her man, Emperor or not, learn a trade!

from Donggan minjian gushi chuanshuo ji, Boris Riftin [Li Fuqing], ed.; pp. 185-187. Full citation at 12/28/12. 

The Dungans (or Donggans) are Hui people, Mandarin-speaking Chinese Muslims, who reside in Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Russia, and other Central Asian nations, their ancestors having left China during the late Qing Dynasty. As I mentioned elsewhere (See 12/28/12), they speak and write a quaint, very colloquial Chinese. To those from China and Taiwan, Dungan Chinese might read as very choppy, perhaps even staccato in some texts, but no less intelligible than the written vernacular elsewhere in the Chinese world.

The present story is a version of "The Shah Weaves a Rug"--a folktale with Persian and Armenian cognates. (For the former, see Anita Stern's version in World Folktales, McGraw-Hill, 2001.)  This folktale emphasizes the impoverished state of the maiden destined to be empress and her innate sense of wisdom as well as if to suggest that the former is compensated by the latter. 

Motifs: P31, "(King) learns a trade"; P51, "Noble person saves self from difficulties by knowledge of a trade"; cL143.1, "Poor girl chosen rather than the rich." 

Memorial Day 2013

I'd like to honor all United States military personnel who have lost their lives in service to my country and in the defense of freedom. At the same time, I honor all fallen British, Commonwealth, and current Coalition allies.

I honor today my uncle Lyle Ellis, formerly of Vancouver, Canada, an American by birth. He is interred at
the Commonwealth War Cemetery, Yokohama, Japan. When Canada declared war on Germany in September 1939, he and my dad signed up for the Canadian Army. In Lyle Ellis's case, his doing so was for a war he wasn't yet obliged to join; nevertheless, he answered the call.

Our men and women should not be forgotten, for every time we read a book of our choice, voice an opinion, worship, wear clothing we want to wear, and choose to go abroad, we can do so because of their ultimate sacrifice.

Fred Lobb

Chunwang & the Ninth Maiden (Han) -- Part Six

That same day, at sundown, the Ninth Maiden encountered Chunwang.

"Husband, where has my father ordered you to sleep this evening?"

"Oh, he told me to sleep in the South Bedroom tonight."

"Chunwang, you'll have to take great care."

"Why?"

"I shall tell you. Remember the louse in the East Bedroom? Well, the South Bedroom has an even more cunning and dangerous and formidable creature, a 3,800 jin Worm Spirit!"

"This could be it for me," sighed Chunwang.

"Don't worry. Once again, I shall bring you a bowl of water and a plate of meat. I'll also give you a needle of mulberry wood. When the worm appears, repeat the same things you said last night: 'There's water here if you're thirsty, and there's meat here if you're hungry. If you're neither thirsty nor hungry, get out! Otherwise, the Ninth Maiden's got a needle here for you!' Then, when you've spoken those words, hold the wooden needle up for the Worm Spirit to see and wave it.

"That should do the trick," added the Ninth Maiden.

Chunwang was left alone for the night with a bowl of water, a plate of meat and a mulberry wood needle.

When it was the darkest part of the night, Chunwang felt the whole room shake and heard a chong! chong!
Nearby, coiled and as big as the largest millstone was the Worm Spirit, more disgusting and smellier than words could do justice.

Mustering up his courage, Chunwang said, "There's water here if you're thirsty, and there's meat here if you're hungry. If you're neither thirsty nor hungry, get out! Otherwise, the Ninth Maiden's got a needle here for you!"

He held up the mulberry wood needle and then waved it. As he did so, the room resounded like a volcano with the sound dengleng! dengleng! dengleng!

The Worm Spirit immediately picked itself up and scudded out of the room as fast as such a large, heavy entity could do so, not to return.

Early the next morning came the Master Immortal, once again carrying his shovel and broom, once again hoping to sweep up Chunwang's head. He opened the door to the South Bedroom a crack, and what did he see? Why, Chunwang sleeping soundly like a rock!

Oh, how the older man's face turned scarlet as he gnashed his teeth!

Fine, fine, he thought, just wait until tonight! 

That same day, at sundown, the Ninth Maiden took Chunwang aside and asked, "All right, which bedroom is it to be tonight?"

"Your father told me to sleep in the West Bedroom."

"Oh, that's the worst place so far!"

"And what is in the West Bedroom?"

"In the West Bedroom," said the Ninth Maiden, "dwells the Scorpion Spirit which stings with a thick venom blacker than a bottomless well! It will be very difficult to defeat!"

"Then, I'm doomed . . .," said Chunwang.

"I said 'difficult to defeat,' not 'impossible to defeat.' The only thing it fears is the large pair of scissors my mother keeps. In a moment I'll sneak into her chamber and take them for you. Once again you'll need to have a bowl of water and a plate of meat by your side, along with the shears. When the creature appears, remember to say, 'There's water here if you're thirsty, and there's meat here if you're hungry. If you're neither thirsty nor hungry, get out! Otherwise, your mother's shears are here for you!' Did you get that?"

"Yes," said Chunwang, "only please hurry up and get those shears!"

That night, with the large scissors, the plate of meat, and the bowl of water by his side, Chunwang prepared for what would probably be a sleepless night.

Sure enough, when utter darkness rules the night, the Scorpion Spirit appeared, coiling and twisting and turning, snapping its claws, positioning its stinger.

Taking a deep breath, Chunwang said, "There's water here if you're thirsty, and there's food here if you're hungry. If you're neither thirsty nor hungry, get out! Otherwise, your mother's shears are here for you!"

He held the scissors up, snipping at the air for good measure.

The Scorpion Spirit, shaking the whole room, turned tail and fled out.

Early the next morning, the Master Immortal, with his shovel and broom, appeared outside the door to the West Bedroom, absolutely sure this time that he would finally have the pleasure of sweeping up Chunwang's remains. He opened the door to see Chunwang, sitting up and smiling at him.

"My," said Chunwang, "you get up awfully early to do  your cleaning!"

The Master Immortal didn't say a word; instead, he nodded tersely, turned around and left, planning yet another way to finish off Chunwang for good.

from 
Tan Daxian, pp. 62-64

The Earth Demon, Yaksha (Han)

Our story occurred during the reign of the Guangxu Emperor (1875-1908) in Xinye, Henan Province. In Xinye there lived a prosperous jeweler, antique seller and craftsman, Lu Bancheng. Lu was extremely well-read in calligraphy and very enterprising, always scouting for valuable items. Not surprisingly, he took many business trips.

On one such trip, he was returning to Xinye from Hankou when the riverboat he was on made an emergency call to a river port due to some strong winds. However, the winds weren't strong enough to deter Lu from leaving the shelter of the berth to do some sightseeing. A temple by the river had caught his eye, and so that was where he headed.

Arriving at the gate, he discovered the temple was dilapidated and abandoned. There were weeds growing everywhere, and paint was peeling from the walls. Doors and windows were missing. Worst of all, the statue of Buddha was tilting. The whole place manifested a deep sense of gloom.

Then, Lu saw the painting.

A painting was still attached to one of the decayed walls. Lu looked at it. The painting style was definitely ancient and the style of the artist was somehow familiar to Lu, who had seen and had handled a great many such paintings in his time. The painting itself depicted Yakshas, demons or spirits from the bowels of the earth; a particularly hellish demon with a green face was wielding a bronze pitchfork.

Yes, I've seen this work before. Wu  . . . Wu Daozi . . ., thought Lu. This has got to be an original painting by Wu Daozi!

Lu had seen copies of this very same painting, with the original attributed to Tang Dynasty master muralist Wu Daozi, whose works by this time were now extremely rare. Who would have guessed that a painting by this giant of Tang art would be found in a run-down, abandoned temple? As such, it would fetch an enormous price . . .

Like a feverish madman but one still sane enough to be careful, Lu took out the artist's knife he always carried and gingerly used the blade to extract the painting from the wall. He carefully rolled it up and took it with him back to the boat.

Lu Bancheng was delighted with his find. He sat on the bow of the still-docked ship and ordered a warmed pot of wine and some food for himself to celebrate. There he sat, enjoying the wine, admiring the view, and reveling in his latest acquisition, one sure to bring him great riches!

He turned his head. Someone was on the dockside of the boat, looking at him and then at the food he was eating.

It was an unkempt, emaciated female beggar, whose lion mane of disheveled hair blew in the breeze.

Lu got up and beckoned to her. He approached the side of the boat, extended his arm and helped her aboard. He then handed her a plate of steamed buns, each of which she wolfed down. He also allowed her to eat the other food, which she did without bothering to use chopsticks.

Once she had finished eating, Lu asked her about herself, where she was from and so on.

She was a local, she told him, the daughter of a hog butcher. Her mother had died young; she and her father lived off the meat he didn't sell. Eventually, her father died, and she was then adopted into a household as a "little daughter-in-law," one who, once marriageable age had arrived, would marry the young man of the house. Things didn't work out so well, however. Since she was literally addicted to eating meat, she wouldn't touch any dish that didn't meat. Her adopted parents decided she was a burden, too expensive to raise as their future daughter-in-law. So, they turned her out. With nowhere else to go, she took refuge in the abandoned temple Lu had visited earlier that day and before long became a beggar.

Poor child, thought Lu. What if one day she runs into a vicious beast or a beast in human form? 

"Listen, young lady, " said Lu, "begging daily for a meal is no way to go through life. Why don't you work for me as one of my household staff? You'll have daily square meals and clothes to boot! You can have what others have, a home."

Ka-tong!

That was the sound of the beggar's head hitting the deck of the boat as she kowtowed before Lu out of deep  gratitude and joy. Lu gently helped her rise and escorted her into the cabin, where, before taking leave of her, he had someone provide her with a tub of water in which to bathe, a brush for her wild hair, and a change of clothes.

An hour or so later, someone knocked on the door of Lu's private cabin. He opened it to find a very enchanting servant girl carrying a tray with a teapot and cup. Exquisite eyes and lovely brows; brilliant white teeth and ruby lips; yes, she was gorgeous, indeed.

He stared at her. She was none other than the beggar!

He decided then and there to take her as his second wife, not as a household domestic.

Five days later, they were back in Xinye. Lu Bancheng immediately proceeded with the wedding plans. At the ceremony, all were impressed by the second Mrs. Lu's beauty. Lu himself couldn't get over his fortune and this new wife who had become his very precious darling, someone for whom he would spare no expense. 

All was well in the Lu house . . . for a while. 

The new Mrs. Lu had made many new fans with her grace and winsomeness. Yet, there was something decidedly odd about her. In all regards but one she was wonderful; when it came to eating meat, she was   a downright miserly glutton who demanded each plate of meat for herself. "Sharing" didn't seem to be a concept that she understood. 

She began to eat more and more meat, and as she did so, her personality underwent a change. Gone was all her humbleness. She now treated the household staff with oppressiveness and disdain, causing the servants to gnash their teeth in resentment as they went about their duties. 

The day came when Lu Bancheng wished to throw a lavish dinner party for clients. He had had more than twenty jin (more than ten kilograms) of pork cooked and placed in the kitchen on platters to await the guests. At midday, when the cook entered the kitchen to prepare the vegetables, he was astonished to find that the meat was gone, every slice of it.

Lu was called and he first suspected a member of the servant staff. He interviewed each one, and more than a few said the same thing--he or she had seen the new Mrs. Lu enter the kitchen alone sometime in the forenoon. 

Aha, he thought. But could she have actually consumed all that meat? 

The next day, Lu ordered half of an entire cooked hog brought into the kitchen. Lu then hid himself in a corner of his spacious kitchen. 

There, he waited . . .

Not long after, the "little beauty" tiptoed into the kitchen. The second Mrs. Lu then looked around and locked the kitchen door from the inside. Suddenly, her face and body underwent a transformation. Her hair turned red as her face turned a sickly green. Her eyes had become a baleful gold. With her hands, now long-nailed claws, she attacked the half hog lying on the pallet, ripping its flesh, stuffing the meat into her now bloody mouth and doing so over and over and over. 

Within minutes, the hog was gone; the pallet, as dry as a sun-bleached stone. 

Lu Bancheng watched the spectacle in horror and disgust, riveted to his hiding spot, too terrified to move. He watched the demon pat her gut in delight after finishing off half of a hog . It was a good while after she had left when he was able to get up and leave the kitchen. 

He went to his shop and gathered up ten of his stoutest, hardiest workers. He armed them with knives and guns.

"We're going to drive out and kill a demon," he informed them. 

He led his party back to his house, from where not only the demon had now fled but all of Lu's own family and servants as well. Lu had to dismiss the men and think of a plan to eradicate the demon he had brought into his own home. 

In town he sought the services of a Taoist priest who was reputed to be a very effective exorcist. 

For the next three days, the priest performed his rituals. While he did so, however, the demon went on a rampage as she searched for food. Not only pigs but sheep, cows and horses were being devoured alive.

After three days, the priest had to acknowledge all his efforts had been in vain. 

"This is a very powerful malevolent entity," he told Lu Bancheng, "one that has apparently invaded our community from somewhere else, one that has been honing its evil power for a thousand years. Thus, I'm afraid I don't have the ability to destroy it."

Reluctantly, Lu and the Taoist priest parted. 

Lu was at a loss about what to do. A powerful exorcist had no effect on a demon running amuck. What could he, Lu, possibly do to stop it? 

Then, it dawned on him. He had seen the face of the kitchen demon before--one of the faces of Yakshas on the temple painting he had brought home. He himself had brought this demon to his community. His willingness to steal a temple painting, a painting that had undoubtedly been placed in the temple to neutralize the power of these demons, had unleashed all this destruction. 

He ran into his house and into the room where he had hidden the temple painting. He grabbed the ancient, valuable work of art and headed outside. He went to a glazed well that had been built on the order of Han Emperor Guangwu (5 B.C.- 57 A.D.). The well was rumored to be bottomless. Without the slightest regret, he threw the painting down into the well. He next hired some workmen to drop a millstone down the well. For good measure, he had the well filled with earth.

The Yaksha, the second Mrs. Lu, was never seen again. 

from 
Qianqi baiguaide minjian gushi, Wang Fan, ed.; pp. 276-278. (See 2/21/13 for full citation.) 

Wu Daozi (A.D. 680-759) was an actual artist.

This legend, the product of an earlier, less sensitive time, doesn't mention anything about the first Mrs. Lu. And like many legends, it has a cautionary tone not unlike urban legends of today, which, in many cases, are just updated versions of cautionary tales from the medieval ages or even earlier periods. The didactic message attached to the end of the tale warns young readers not to take anything without having earned it and that nothing good comes from ill-gotten gains. The demon's father had been a hog/pig butcher, an inauspicious occupation in a tale with an anti-meat eating subtext. Like today's urban legends, the story also suggests to beware of hurriedly befriending strangers of the opposite sex.

 Yaksa (夜叉) comes from Sanskrit, with a number of meanings: "ghost that can eat," "ghost that can bite," "ghost that swiftly brings disease," but also "light and quick," etc. In Hindu mythology, Yaksas are friendly, benign attendants to the gods. They are associated with the air, water or land. Once Buddhism entered China, however, the Yaksa became identified with ghosts or gui (鬼), in earlier eras that catchall phrase for any revenant or demon that hated the living and that devoured human flesh but despite its supernatural powers, could be destroyed by humans . Consuming flesh, in fact, became one of their chief characteristics.  

Motifs: D435.2.1, "Picture comes to life"; F402.4, "Demon eats ravenously"; F496, "Demon of gluttony"; G11.15, "Cannibal demon"; G81, "Unwitting marriage to cannibal"; and cH461, "Cannibal nature of woman recognized when she devours dead buffalo raw."  

Three Contemporary Ghost Stories From China

Note: The third story is not for children. 

(1) Tofu, Anyone?

High school had let out for winter break, so A. and his friend headed home on foot.

The night was black, dry, cold, and no one else was on the street. The empty streets coupled with the bone-chilling winter made the scene all rather bleak and eerie.

The pair had not gone far when they suddenly saw someone ahead, an old woman.

It was odd enough for an older citizen to be out alone on a deserted street in such cold weather, but that was the least of it. What was truly strange was her clothing: she seemed to be dressed in women's clothes fashionable during the final years of the Qing Dynasty (1890-1912). Her hair was tied tightly behind her head, and she was shouldering a bamboo pole, carrying a container, chanting, "Tofu for sale! Tofu for sale!"

It then dawned on A. that he had heard this woman's intermittent chants outside his dorm window at least once while studying, as if she had been walking a circuit around the campus, coming and going and then returning . . .

"Hey, you see her?" A. asked his friend more than once.

Instead of replying yes or no, the friend gripped A.'s shoulder, attempting to push him past her. Very briefly did A. look upon the old woman's face, but she did not return the glance, for which A. was thankful.

Both A. and his friend tried as nonchalantly as possible to walk by her, and both were very relieved to do so quickly.

A. later would concede that he couldn't say for sure that the old woman he saw that night was a ghost, but certain questions remained unanswered. Why would an aged person be in outlandish nineteenth century garb and out on chilly nights like that, selling tofu, of all things, at that hour, likely circling their school campus?

Upon returning home, A. promptly told his mother all about the woman selling tofu on cold, deserted streets. His mother later took him to a temple to pray before the bodhisattvas and had him drink down a concoction made from the ashes or powder of an amulet.

A. admitted he had gone along with whatever his mother had told him to do, for he had truly been scared out of his wits by the strange old costumed woman hawking tofu on a dark street late one night.

from
Meiwan yige zhenshide liqi gushi: xiaoyuan guishi [An intriguing true story for each night: bizarre occurrences on campus], Zilong Qichuan, ed. Beijing: Xinshijie, 2010; p. 12.

This story comes from an anthology of what the editor and contributors claim to be true high school and college/university campus ghost stories and eerie happenings. The Chinese original was told in first person, but I adapted the narrative for third person. 

A. was presumably enrolled in a boarding school. In any case, it is not explained why A. and his friend are making their way home alone on dark, deserted streets at night. We are told in an earlier section that the school is in Hubei. A. explains that his school had all the qualifications for being classified as a "haunted campus": (i) an ancient history (with roots going back to a private school in the Song Dynasty); (ii) a somewhat remote location; (iii) a large area or campus; (iv) old buildings; (v) an attached hospital; and (vi) a neighboring lake or pond (5). The original list was of five items, with "hospital" and "lake" inexplicably lumped together. 

(2) Midnight Taxi Ride

This story happened in some major urban area in China. Let's say Beijing.

Late at night, a taxi picked up a fare, a young woman in white gown, leaving a party.

She gave him an address and off they went.

He delivered her to her destination, a massive housing complex. Unknown to both him and her, the place where he stopped, on the passenger's side, was just mere inches from an open ditch, where, in the daylight, construction work had been going on. She paid her fare and left the taxi via the right rear passenger's door.

The young woman took a step back and lost her footing, falling into the ditch.

"Aiiieeeee!"

The startled driver turned around to catch a glimpse of her, white dress and hair billowing upwards, disappearing before his very eyes.

Oh . . . oh . . .! thought the driver, his heart no doubt racing. That's a ghost . . . Yes, that 's one of those ghosts! I just picked up and delivered a ghost . . . like in all those stories . . . 

While the driver was gathering his wits and feverishly analyzing what he believed he had just seen, the young woman had managed to claw her way back up, seemingly materializing by rising from the earth, this time, by the front passenger's door.

"Ohhh . . . help me . . . !" she moaned, more out of anger than injury, but moaning nonetheless.

"Ahhhhh!" screamed the driver, pulling away and driving off as fast as he could, leaving behind a very annoyed and perplexed woman but also, later, providing local and worldwide society with yet another true tale of an encounter with the mysterious vanishing passenger!

from
Okay, so now you know this is not a true ghost story! Professor Li Yang (surname Li), an acclaimed professor of folklore from Qingdao, China, told me this story while he was here  in the United States for his yearlong research work. Professor Li is a very modest man who claims not to be a good storyteller, but his telling of the story was a lot funnier than my version. He is, in fact, an excellent raconteur. Another one of his stories, "The Midnight Bus," can be found at 8/6/12.

(3) There you are!

This story supposedly happened in Ningde, in northeastern Fujian Province. It is supposed to be true.

A couple with a child fell on hard times and began to quarrel. As their economic problems worsened day after day, the arguments became more acrimonious. Soon, their quarrels became violent to the point where one day, while their child was a way at school, the husband took a kitchen knife and murdered his wife.

The husband now had two major problems on his hand: disposal of the body and the creation of an excuse to explain away to his son where Mother was.

With great effort and stealth, he was able to bury the body somewhere without anyone's seeing him. He then went back home, cleaned up the house and waited for his son to come home. He wracked his brain trying to think of lie that would fool the child and stop him from probing his mother's whereabouts.

He apparently didn't have to worry. For the first, second and third days, the little boy didn't ask a single question about his mother's absence. The father thought this was very odd.

"You haven't seen Mom for several days now. How come, my son, you haven't asked about her?" he finally asked the child, unable to stand it any longer.

The boy's face became clouded for a moment and then he said, "Why are you asking that, Father?  Mom's been right behind you, laughing . . . only I don't like the way Mom looks now, Dad . . . Her eyes look scary . And Dad, how come you keep turning your back on Mom?"

The father turned around, but no one was there . . .

from
农村真实鬼故事, accessed 3/5/13. 

The story ends without further explanation or resolution. 

Chunwang & the Ninth Maiden (Han) -- Part Five

And so Chunwang, led by his wife, came before his father-in-law, the Master Immortal, a being that could be as sinister and dastardly as any entity from the lower regions.

Yet, at this moment, her father, much to her total amazement, instead of harming Chunwang on the spot, put on a great amount of charm. The two men sat together, with Chunwang in the seat of the guest of honor, drinking and eating happily with Chunwang, though, saying very little, as befits one whose father-in-law wields fearsome power.

Before concluding their dinner together, the Master Immortal turned to Chunwang and told him something. Then, he excused Chunwang from the dinner table and allowed him to go to his wife, the Ninth Maiden.

The Ninth Maiden had watched them from afar, and so when Chunwang came to her, she asked, "I know my father has probably told you to sleep somewhere this first night. Where is it to be?"

"Your father wants me to sleep in the East Bedroom."

"Oh," sighed the Ninth Maiden, "you could be in for some trouble, for in the East Bedroom, there dwells the Louse Spirit . . ."

"'Louse Spirit'?"

"Yes. It is a dangerous, loathsome creature that weighs 600 jin (i.e., 300 hundred kilograms) and feasts on human flesh. You won't see it when you lie down to sleep, but you can be sure it will come out in the middle of the night to eat you."

Chunwang gulped. "I hope you have some plan to save me!"

"Don't be afraid," she replied. "When you retire for the night, I shall give you a bowl of water, some meat, and a fine-toothed comb. When the Louse Spirit appears, say these words: 'There's water here if you're thirsty, and there's meat here if you're hungry. If you're neither thirsty nor hungry, get out! Otherwise, I also have the Ninth Maiden's comb to use upon you!'

"Trust me," the Ninth Maiden continued. "The creature will be scared to death of those words and flee like mad!"

That night in the East Bedroom, Chunwang prepared to sleep. Near him were the bowl of water, a plate of meat, and his wife's comb.

Sure enough, around the hours of sangeng (i.e., the third two-hour period of the ten hours of evening), Chunwang heard an ominous zong! zong! 

The Louse Spirit had materialized in the East Bedroom. What did it look like? Imagine a louse as big and as heavy as a water buffalo! And there it stood before Chunwang, its every movement causing the walls and floors to reverberate.
                                                       
Remembering the words the Ninth Maiden had taught him, Chunwang said, "There's water here if you're thirsty, and there's meat here if you're hungry! If you're neither thirsty nor hungry, get out! Otherwise, I also have the Ninth Maiden's comb to use upon you!"

Hearing that, the Louse Spirit turned tail, emitting gas and letting loose urine in mortal fear, and fled the East Bedroom.

Early the next morning, the Master Immortal himself, carrying a shovel and a bamboo broom, opened the door to the East Bedroom, intending with great pleasure to sweep up Chunwang's remains. Imagine his surprise when he saw Chunwang sleeping soundly, not a strand of hair ruffled upon his head!

The Master Immortal gritted his teeth and decided to come up with another plan, a better one, to do away with his unwanted mortal son-in-law.

from 
Tan Daxian, p. 62 

Note: "Emitting gas and letting loose urine" 屁滚尿流 is a Chinese expression appearing in the story, which means "to have the_____ scared out of you," or, in other words, " to be scared silly," "to be frightened out of one's mind," etc.                                                                         

The Temple That Flew up Into the Heavens (Han)

There is a popular saying about the world-famous Shaolin Temple in Henan Province: "Just as there is a Shaolin Temple on the ground, there is a Zhulin Temple in the sky." "A Zhulin Temple in the sky"! How is it possible for a temple to be lodged in the heavens? The following legend explains.

On Song Mountain, one of China's five holiest peaks, there once stood magnificent Zhulin Temple, "the temple of the Bamboo Grove," with its tall, verdant bamboo stalks standing within the temple precincts. The temple housed more than ten monks who went about their daily business of burning incense and praying to and making offerings for the Buddha. This was their life day in and day out.

The abbot was a rather conniving, self-important man named Daoqi, who had aspirations to becoming an  and then a buddha himself. In the daytime, he roamed the mountainsides, searching for plants and herbs by which he could concoct, through alchemy, an elixir to make his dreams come true. With all his experiments, he had boiled quite a few plants and swallowed many powdered capsules but to no avail. He remained as earthbound and mortal as the next man with the added results that his face had now taken a greenish hue and his personality had changed from goodhearted monk into something quite different. He was now said to be
"thirty percent human and seventy percent demon."

The youngest monk at Zhulin Temple was a child of little more than ten years, an orphan, given the name Daolan, for Master Daoqi always had him in a daily search for rare herbs and other plants to gather in his basket (lan = basket) to enable Daoqi to achieve his dream.

So, one morning, Daoqi screamed at Daolan to get up, get dressed, shoulder his basket and head out for the mountain slopes. With Daolan gone, Daoqi put on his robes and, with his rosary, and went towards the western peak of Song Mountain to gather some plants on his own.

While on the slopes of the western peak, Daoqi picked up the rich scent of some rare plant growing somewhere. The aroma filled him with encouragement. Could this plant, likely some kind of ginseng, he thought, be the one that allows me to enter the ranks of the buddhas, to become an immortal? 

Just then he heard the sounds of giggling and laughter. He turned his head in the direction of the mirthful sounds. This led him to a cliff, where, below, he saw two boys running in a meadow, playing and having the time of their lives. He looked closely. One of the boys was none other than Daolan. The other seemed younger than Daolan.

"Daolan!" cried the master, standing on the cliff. "I sent you out to gather herbs, and instead what do I find you doing? Playing, gallivanting around when you should be working! Take care that when you return to the temple if your basket is not full! If it's not, I'll tan your hide! So, go on and play if you dare! Just mind my words!"

Early that evening, Daolan returned with a basket brimming with different kinds of plants.

"From where did you steal these?" asked Daoqi.

"No one stole anything, Master! I cut and collected all these myself."

"Nonsense! I saw you wasting time playing around with a friend. Are you going to tell me that these plants leaped into your basket on their own?"

"W-well . . ."

"Don't lie!" said Daoqi, brandishing his staff. "Those of us who have taken the vow and joined the order cannot tell lies! He who tells lies will never become a buddha himself. Now, tell the truth!"

"The boy I was with, Master, the ginseng boy, he helped me gather the plants . . ."

"'Ginseng boy'? What's his name? Where does he live?"

"His name is Shenguo (i.e., "Fruit of the Ginseng"),  and he lives on the mountaintop."

"And this ginseng boy Shenguo can gather herbs and roots?"

"Can he ever, Master! Why, he can climb up the tallest tree or run up the steepest slopes to look for the kinds of plants you send me out to get, and in no time he can come back with a huge bundle!"

"All right. Tomorrow, he can accompany you. I want you two to pick as much as you can. Whatever you and he can't carry, I'll send some brothers to help you."

Early the next morning, Daoqi secretly followed Daolan up the mountain. He hid and watched as Daolan went to a cliff and whistled. Then, to Daoqi's amazement, a childlike figure seemingly unscrewed itself out of the ground. This was the ginseng boy, Shenguo. He was a little smaller than Daolan. He had three antenna-like projections jutting from his greenish head. His body was reddish and plump. Daoqi watched the two boys, hand-in-hand, skip off to collect herbs, carefree, happy, like two small boys anywhere.

Oh, thought Daoqi, now delirious, this is just too wonderful! Too wonderful! This is exactly what I had been looking for! This has got to be the flower that blooms once every three thousand years, the plant that turns into the ginseng of the immortals after five thousand years! And he's mine!

Late that evening, Daoqi called for Daolan to report to the abbot's quarters.

"Daolan," said Daoqi, "take this needle and ball of white thread. Tomorrow, when you are out with Shenguo and when it's time to come back, and when he isn't paying attention, pin the needle and thread to one of his horns. Don't let on what you have done. Return the remaining thread to me."

"But Master . . ."

"Just do it! If you come back without following my instructions, there'll be no food for you! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Master . . ."

Small child that he was, Daolan had no idea why Master Daoqi would order him to do such a thing. In any case, Daoqi was the master, the abbot, and Daolan was obliged to follow his commands. After all, he, Daolan, was just a novice monk, and there must be a good reason for such an order.

Daolan did as he was told. As he turned to head back to the temple, he was surprised to see Daoqi heading his way, carrying a hoe, smiling like a madman.

"Ha ha! He cannot hide himself today!" chanted the older monk. "Can't hide himself today! Give me the thread."

Daolan handed Daoqi the now very small ball of thread and watched what Daoqi was up to. Daoqi followed the thread trail to a place on the edge of the cliff. He then started to heave away large rocks and dig as if his life depended on it.

Finally, he unearthed what he had come for--a giant human-shaped root, the ginseng boy.

Daolan gasped. The root was still, inert. Was this not his friend, the boy he had been playing with every day?

"Master, Master, is . . . he . . . ?"

"Yes, he's dead," lied Daoqi.

"Oh, save him, Master! Great mercy . . ."

"This is not a person!" said Daoqi. "It's only a shapeshifting mountain demon, and I'm going to boil and eat it! You should thank me for ridding the mountain of a dangerous being! So stop all your gabbing and get back to the temple!"

That afternoon, back at the temple, having ordered everyone else to stay away, Daoqi cleaned and washed the ginseng root. He then located the largest cauldron he could find and placed all the kindling he could gather under the cauldron. The cauldron was filled with water and the ginseng root was placed inside. He lit a fire beneath the cauldron.

This will have to boil for hours and hours, he thought, probably even after all these idiots are asleep for the night. Then, I'll have the root to eat all to myself. I'll have long since turned into a buddha and have ascended into the heavens, while these morons will still be scratching their heads and trying to solve the whole puzzle!

Who would have thought that right at that moment, as Daoqi greedily guarded the slowly warming cauldron, a visitor would arrive?

"Master Daoqi," announced a monk, "Abbot Wutong of Bailian Temple is here to see you!"

"All right, now listen to me," said Daoqi. "I'll be leaving the temple for a short time. Let it be known that nobody touches anything while I'm gone!"

Then, Daoqi headed to the main gate where visitors are received. Instead of courteously inviting Wutong inside to sit and enjoy refreshments, Daoqi left with him to go on a walk.

The last thing I need is for this meddlesome Wutong to know what I'm cooking! Daoqi said to himself.

As soon as the monks saw Daoqi leave, they gathered around the slowly bubbling cauldron which was already emitting an irresistible scent.

"Word is going around that the Master captured some kind of mountain goblin!" said one. Then, taking a peek under the cauldron lid, he added, "It's some kind of fat, juicy being! Oh, does that scent make my mouth water!"

"Hey," said another, "we all took orders. We're not supposed to even touch meat or wine or things like that! On the other hand, look at our Master! He's cooking this delicious meal all for himself! I'd say the old abbot is trying to pull one over on us younger monks!"

"You're right!" said still another. "Come on! Let's all grab a piece of what's cooking inside the cauldron! Let's  all divide it up and enjoy it together! What's good for the old Master is also good for us! Why should he get it all?"

The luscious aroma and the sight of the juicy meat being boiled away was too much for the monks. They cut up the ginseng boy, each getting a piece, and devoured him like wolfhounds eating prey until there was nothing left.

So there they were . . . monks ravenously gorging themselves on what had been little Daolan's friend.

 Daolan watched as the bits and pieces of what had been his friend disappeared into the mouths of his fellow monks. His heart pained him to see the spectacle, and he brushed away the tears with his forearm. Finally, the aroma was too much even for him to resist, and he had a spoonful of the soup the ginseng boy had been boiled in. He then put the spoon down in disgust.

Then came word Daoqi had returned. The old monk had finally been able to see Wutong off, ridding himself of what he considered a great nuisance. He immediately headed for the cauldron. He lifted the lid to discover the ginseng boy was gone and all that was left was some soup.

Daoqi was absolutely livid. He bellowed, viciously cursing every monk in the temple so loudly that none, including those trying to hide, could escape the invective.

Then, one monk appeared before him, little Daolan, the child monk.

"You old greedy demon!" said Daolan. "Taking everything for yourself! Then scolding everyone with disgusting language for daring to try a  bit of what you have been coveting--the boiled remains of what had once been a living being! Very well, O Master. Watch this!"

Daolan took a ladle and scooped out the remains of the cauldron's soup into a large bowl.

"Whatever I can't finish, I'll pour out," said Daolan. "You won't get a drop!"

He proceeded to drink ladle after ladle of the soup.

Daoqi was now enraged to the point of bursting a blood vessel, yet he remained riveted to where he stood. When it became clear that Daolan had nearly finished the soup, Daoqi came to life and lunged for Daolan and the bowl. Daolan saw Daoqi coming, so, keeping the bowl level and pressed against his chest, he ran towards the front gate, with Daoqi not far behind.

Faster and faster Daolan ran . . . until he slipped, stumbled and spilled the contents of the bowl upon the ground, with Daoqi himself slipping and falling behind him, injuring his arm as he fell to the ground.

An earsplitting  hua! hua! hua! immediately followed.

The sky thundered and the earth rolled and rocks flew. Those walking were knocked off balance; those lying prone on the ground rolled like ink brushes on a tilted table.

All around the temple spurted magnificent golden rays as rosy clouds gathered overhead.

Then, the whole temple--without one brick or beam left behind--slowly, surely rose into the air, ripping itself violently away from its earthly foundations, picking up speed as it ascended.

Inside the temple was everyone who had partaken of the soup. Daoqi, who had had none, desperately grabbed hold of the front gate threshold as the temple now soared upwards.

"Living Buddha!" he cried. "Please allow me to ascend with the temple . . . "

Daolan kicked Daoqi's arm with his foot, saying, "Fall, demon with a black heart, demon that dares to have drunken dreams of ascending into heaven as a buddha!"

The pain of Daoqi's injured arm was too much for him to bear, and so he let go. Down, down through the clouds he plunged, ending up as a silent, crushed lifeless heap somewhere below.

And so Zhulin Temple found itself in heaven. All the monks there immediately became immortals, with little Daolan achieving the highest status of them all. He had drunk most of the soup, which apparently housed most of the concoction's efficacy.

In time, another temple was built in the same place where Zhulin Temple had once stood. This new temple was, of course, Shaolin Temple. The two temples are said to complement each other--twin counterparts. It is also said that if one stands at the right spot in Shaolin Temple, one will be able to see Zhulin Temple way up in the sky. If this is hard to believe, there's only one to make sure it's true--to go there and see for yourself.

From
Qianqibaiguaide minjian gushi [Bizarre folktales]. Wang Fan, ed. Changchun: Jilin Daxue Chubanshe, 2010; pp. 124-128.

This particular legend, retold by Li Dongmei, appears in the above anthology without any accompanying notes as to when and where it was gathered. The anthology itself seems geared towards a middle school readership. 

The story is very reminiscent of a Manchu tale, "The Ginseng Boy" (see 1/11/08). The resolution of the Manchu tale is on a much happier note. The present story is an interesting reflection on the potency of the ginseng root, suggesting when the root takes the form of a living being, which is then boiled for consumption, it has the potential literally to raise buildings off the ground and send them into the sky. The root can also enable those who who eat it or drink the soup it is cooked in to become immortals. Ironically, Daolan, technically a murderer for what he does to his abbot, ends up becoming an immortal of high rank after sampling the soup his friend is cooked in. Daoqi ,who had never tasted the ginseng root, is thoroughly castigated and meets a horrible end. Somewhat of a mixed message? In any case, the story thus remains a strong condemnation of venal monks. In a didactic note appended to the story, the editor writes: "Remember that the results of your efforts reflect you, and do not fool yourself that the means you took to achieve them do not matter" (128). 

Motifs: D.431.6, "Plant transformed to a person"; F772.2.6, "Flying tower (temple)"; F773, "Remarkable church (temple)."