Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) (28 page)

“But I am the emperor’s representative,” cried Ts’an angrily. “We are many on horseback, and no beast of mountain or marsh can do me harm.” And he ordered the carriage forward. He had hardly gone a quarter of a mile when a tiger charged from the brush. Ts’an was terrified. Then the tiger dove for cover and spoke in a human voice, “How strange! I nearly killed my old friend!”

From the thicket Ts’an recognized the voice of Li Cheng! The two men had taken their degrees together and had been close friends, but their ways had parted years ago. Now, hearing Li Cheng’s voice, Ts’an was both frightened and amazed and could not understand what was happening. Finally he asked, “Who are you? Can you be my friend Li Cheng of Lunghsi?”

The tiger moaned several times, then said to Ts’an, “I
am
Li Cheng. Kindly stay a few moments and have a word with me.”

Ts’an got off his horse and addressed the bushes: “Dear Li Cheng, how did you come to this?”

“Since we parted long ago,” said the tiger, “I have had no news of you. How have you been, and where are you bound for now? Just before, I saw two of your officers riding ahead. The courier was leading them and holding your seal of office. Can it be that you are an imperial censor on a tour of duty?”

“Recently I was fortunate to take my place as a censor. I have been sent on a mission to Kuangtung.”

“You have established yourself through your literary achievements,” said the tiger, “and your entering the ranks at court is truly a great fulfillment. But even greater is the integrity of the
position of imperial censor, who bears the responsibility of examining the conduct of all the officials! His Majesty has exercised discretion in selecting an outstanding man like you. And it is a heartfelt satisfaction to me that you have attained this position. I greatly congratulate you.”

“In times gone by,” replied Ts’an, “you and I achieved recognition the same year and formed a friendship closer than the common sort. But time has raced past, while our voices have been unheard and our faces unseen by one another. My heart and eyes have been denied their hopes of seeing your excellent example. Who would have imagined that today I would hear you speak with such remembrance of our old friendship! But why are you hiding yourself instead of coming out to meet me? That’s not how it should be between old friends!”

“I am no longer human,” replied the tiger from the thicket. “How can I present myself to you?” Ts’an asked how such a thing could have happened, and the tiger said, “I had visited the southeast and last year was on my way home. I stopped at Jufen, where I suddenly fell ill and went mad. I raced into the hills and soon found myself walking on all fours. I could feel my heart grow ruthless, my strength enormous. My limbs had long hair on them. When I saw men in full dress on the road or rushing about with their burdens, when I saw birds aloft or animals afoot, I wanted to devour them! When I reached the south of Hanyin, I suffered the pangs of hunger. A plump man crossed my path, so I seized him and gobbled him up to the last scrap. That has become my practice ever since. Although I was an arrogant man, I still remember my family and my friends. But having violated holy sanctions, having turned suddenly into a wild beast, I have been ashamed to face anyone. Alas, you and I were awarded our degrees the same year, and we have always been close. Today you hold an imperial commission and bring honor to your parents and your friends. But I have to hide myself in the forest and abandon the world of men forever. I leap up and sigh vainly at the sky; I lower my eyes to the ground and weep. Ruined and unfit to serve—such is my fate.” The tiger cried and moaned, unable to master its feelings. “If you have turned into another species, why are you still able to speak?” asked Ts’an. “It is my form that has changed,” said the tiger. “My heart and mind have human understanding. But I am rude and impetuous, filled with fears and hatreds, and unable to do what is expected of a friend and host. All I ask is that you remember me and pardon my inexcusable conduct. When you return from your tour in Kuangtung, if we should meet again I shall surely forget our lifelong friendship and regard you as another meal in my trap. Be on your guard; don’t let me commit such a crime and earn the scorn of my fellow scholars.”

The tiger added, “You and I are as one. May I entrust something to you?”

“I would never refuse my old friend,” replied Ts’an. “Please explain fully, for I am eager to help you.”

“Had you not agreed,” the tiger said, “I would not have dared to mention it. When I was at the inn, I fell ill and went mad. After I entered the mountains, my servant made off with my horse and baggage. My family must still be in my old village. Would they
ever imagine what befell me? When you come back from the south, please send a message to them saying only that I have died—nothing of what happened today. I am in your debt if you will do this.”

The tiger added, “In this world I have no property. My son is still too young to make a living for himself. You have a high position at court, and you have always set an example of morality and loyalty to friends. Nothing surpasses the friendship we had. I hope you will keep in mind how helpless my son is and see to his needs now and then, lest he perish by the roadside. What a blessing this would be!”

When he was done speaking, the tiger began to cry. Ts’an also cried and said, “We share our joys and our sorrows. Your son is as my own. I will do my utmost to comply with your grave charge. Have no worry for his welfare.”

“In former times,” the tiger said, “I wrote a few dozen pieces which have never circulated, and the drafts are scattered and lost. If you could transcribe them for me, while I would never dream of their being noted publicly, they may contain something useful to pass on to my descendants.”

Ts’an called for a servant to bring writing materials and wrote as the tiger recited. It came to nearly twenty chapters. The style was lofty, the meaning profound. Ts’an sighed over and over as he read the text.

“These tell of the things I tried to do, the man I tried to be,” said the tiger. “I have no right to expect that my words will mean anything to future generations. But you are on a mission and have a schedule to meet; if you dally here too long, the courier will fret over missing the next stage. So now our ways part for good. The sorrow this causes me cannot be described.”

After a prolonged goodbye, Ts’an left. The first thing he did when he returned from the south was to dispatch a letter to Li Cheng’s son with some money for the funeral. In a month’s time the son came to the capital and called at Ts’an’s residence to ask for his father’s coffin. Having no choice, the imperial censor told him all. Later Ts’an shared his official salary with Li’s wife and son to spare them any hardship. Eventually Ts’an rose to become vice minister of war.

—
Chang Tu

Hsi Lien of Tungan, a county in Hunan province, was a gullible, artless man and that is how he had a falling-out with the Yangs, a rich family in the same hamlet. Old Yang had died a few years before, and now Hsi Lien was at death’s door. “Old Yang has bribed agents of the underworld to beat me,” he cried. Hsi Lien’s body became red and swollen. He moaned once and was no more.

Hsi Fang-p’ing, his son, could not eat for grief. “Father was a plain and simple man,” he said, “and not clever with words. Now he has suffered injustice at the hands of a vile ghost, and I’m going to take myself to that world below and plead his cause.” Those were the last words Hsi Fang-p’ing spoke for many a day. He would stand, he would sit, but he seemed to have lost his mind, for his soul had already departed from his body.

As Hsi Fang-p’ing’s spirit set out on the journey, he had no idea where he was headed. But he asked his way of travelers on the road, and they directed him to the city where his father was already in prison. Hsi went to the prison gates and saw his father lying under the eaves, a wreck of his former self. When the father lifted his eyes and saw his son, he wept pathetically. “All the jailors take bribes,” he said. “They have been beating me day and night. My legs are like pulp.”

Hsi cursed the jailors. “If my father has committed a crime, he should be tried according to the law of the realm,” he said angrily. “How can you underworld demons take the law into your
own hands?” Then he went out and prepared a written complaint. He appeared at the morning sessions held by the city god, voiced his grievance, and submitted the paper. Old Yang took fright and began passing out gifts before presenting himself to answer the charges. The city god showed Hsi Fang-p’ing no consideration and held that his complaint was groundless. Furious but without recourse, Hsi traveled some ten leagues in the kingdom of the dead until he reached the governor’s seat, where he complained formally about the favoritism shown by the city god and his underlings. The governor delayed judgment for half a month, then had Hsi beaten and ordered the city god to repeat the trial.

Hsi arrived at the city again and was placed in the stocks, where he fumed because he could not make his wrongs known. Fearing that Hsi would try to appeal further, the city god sent guards to escort him forcibly home to the world of the living. The guards excused themselves at the gates to the upper world, and Hsi did not go through. He sneaked back to the underworld to appeal to the king of the dead against the cruelty and greed of the governor and the city god.

The king at once took the two officials into custody to answer the charges. So the pair secretly sent their trusted henchmen to negotiate with Hsi, offering him one thousand pieces of silver if he would drop the case. Hsi rebuffed them. Several days later the keeper of the inn where Hsi was staying said to him, “You are too proud, my friend. The officials are seeking accommodation with you, but you are resisting them. I understand that each of them has offered gifts to the king, and I fear your cause is doomed.” Hsi took this to be idle rumor.

But soon the court attendants came to summon him before the king of the dead, and the king was in a fury. He would not allow Hsi to make a deposition; instead he ordered twenty strokes for him.

“What’s my offense?” cried Hsi, but the king seemed to hear nothing.

“I’m only getting what I deserve!” shouted Hsi. “After all, who told me to be poor? No one; so it must be my fault.”

The King grew even angrier and ordered him placed on a bed of fire. Two ghosts seized Hsi and took him away to the east yard, where there was an iron bed frame with a fire burning under it. The surface of the bed glowed red hot. The ghosts stripped him
bare and heaved him onto it, kneading him and rolling him back and forth. The pain was intense. His bones and flesh were charred black, and he wished for death. After two hours of this, the ghost said, “Enough!” Then they lifted him up and told him to come down and put on his clothes. Luckily he could walk, though he was lame.

Back at the hall of justice, the king of the dead said to him, “Will you still seek a new trial?”

“A great wrong has yet to be rectified,” replied Hsi. “So long as heart and mind survive in me, it would be an insult to Your Majesty for me to withdraw. I demand the trial.”

“What evidence will you present?” the king asked.

“Evidence of all that I have suffered.”

In a passion the king ordered his men to saw through Hsi Fang-p’ing’s body. The two ghosts took him to a wooden pole eight feet high with two boards standing at the foot of the pole. The tops and bottoms of the boards were dark with bloodstains. The ghosts were about to tie him to the planks when a shout came from the hall for “someone named Hsi.” The two ghosts marched him back. The king of the dead asked him, “Still brazen enough to call for a trial?”

“I demand a trial,” was Hsi Fang-p’ing’s answer.

The king ordered them to hurry him away and cut him open. The ghosts squeezed Hsi between the two boards and tied them to the pole. Then they began to saw. Hsi felt the top of his head slowly coming apart. Pain enveloped him, but he bore it without crying out. “Tough son of a gun,” he heard a ghost comment. The saw grated as it reached Hsi’s chest. “He’s a devoted son, and pure in heart,” he heard a ghost say. “Tilt the saw a bit so we don’t damage the heart.” Hsi felt the blade curving as it moved downwards. The pain doubled. His torso was divided. The boards were removed, and his two halves fell to the ground.