In verse:
The capital, a great city, truly a sight to behold, Eight rivers flowing round four hills. How many emperors rose from this place— Since ancient times all the world speaks of Chang'an.
This chapter tells of the great city of Chang'an in Shaanxi, where emperors of successive dynasties established their capitals. From the Zhou, Qin, and Han onward, its three prefectures flowered like brocade and eight rivers flowed circling the city. Thirty-six lanes of flowers and willows, seventy-two towers of pipes and strings. On the map of China and the outer lands, it stood first under heaven—truly a place of wonders. It was now the reign of Emperor Taizong the Cultured of the Great Tang, who had changed the era name to Zhenguan; he had been upon the throne thirteen years, the year being jisi.
Let us not speak of the heroes who secured the state before his throne, nor of the champions who won the realm and contested its borders.
Instead we tell of two worthies dwelling on the banks of the Jing River outside Chang'an: one a fisherman named Zhang Shao, one a woodcutter named Li Ding. The two of them were "graduates who never sat the examination"—hermit scholars who could read. One day, having sold the firewood from their shoulders and traded the carp from their baskets in the city of Chang'an, they entered a tavern together, drank until half-tipsy, each took a flask, and strolled slowly back along the bank of the Jing River.
Zhang Shao said: "Brother Li, I think of those who scramble for fame—fame costs them their lives; those who grab at profit—profit brings them death; those who receive rank sleep embracing a tiger; those who win favor walk with a serpent in their sleeve. Reckon it up—better by far our blue waters and green hills, free and easy, content with plain fare, taking life as it comes."
"Brother Zhang speaks reason," said Li Ding. "Only, your blue waters cannot match my green hills."
"Your green hills cannot match my blue waters," said Zhang Shao. "I have a lyric to the tune 'Butterfly Loves Flowers' in proof:
Ten thousand li of misty waves, one little skiff, Quietly leaning on the lone awning, The sound of Xishi lingers round. Washing clean the heart, scant thought of fame and gain, Idly plucking knotweed ears and reeds. A few dots of sandgulls—enough to delight in: Willow banks, reed coves, Wife and children laughing together. One sound sleep though wind and waves be pert— No glory, no disgrace, no sorrow."
"Your blue waters cannot match my green hills," said Li Ding. "I too have a lyric to the tune 'Butterfly Loves Flowers' in proof:
A stretch of cloudy forest full of pine pollen, Silently hearing the orioles, Their clever tongues like tuned pipes. Red thin, green fat, spring at its warmest— Suddenly summer comes, the light turns. Then autumn arrives, so soon to change: Yellow flowers fragrant, Fit for enjoyment. Swift winter comes, as if pinched between fingers— Roaming free through the four seasons, no man to command."
"Your green hills truly cannot match my blue waters," said the fisherman. "The good things we enjoy! I have a lyric to the tune 'Partridge Sky' in proof:
In immortal country, clouds and water suffice for a living; The swinging oar, the beam athwart the boat—that is home. Live-split fresh scales, green turtle stewed, Quick-steamed purple crabs, red shrimp boiled. Green reed shoots, Water-shield sprouts, Water chestnuts and gorgon fruit, better still to boast. Tender lotus root, aged lotus, celery leaves fresh, Arrowhead and wild rice stem and bird-flower."
"Your blue waters cannot match my green hills," said the woodcutter. "The good things we enjoy! I too have a lyric to the tune 'Partridge Sky' in proof:
Lofty ridges and steep peaks reach the sky's edge; A thatched hut, a brushwood lodge—that is my home. Cured chicken and goose beat crab and turtle, Roebuck, boar, hare, and deer surpass fish and shrimp. Fragrant toon leaves, Chinaberry sprouts, Bamboo shoots and camellia, better still to boast. Purple plums, red peaches, apricots ripening, Sweet pears, sour dates, cassia flowers."
"Brother Li, your hills truly cannot match my waters," said the fisherman. "I have another, to the tune 'Heavenly Immortal':
One leaf of a little boat, dwelling where I please, Ten thousand folds of misty waves, no fear. Dropping the hook, casting the net, catching fresh fish— No rich sauces, yet full of flavor; Old wife and little child, a family made whole. Fish in plenty, traded in Chang'an's markets, Bought fragrant brew, drunk my fill. Straw cloak for a quilt, I sleep on the autumn river, Snoring deep, No cares at all— No longing for the world's honor and rank."
"Your blue waters still cannot match my green hills," said the woodcutter. "I too have one, to the tune 'Heavenly Immortal':
A few bays of thatched cottage built below the hills, Pine, bamboo, plum, and orchid—truly lovable. Through forest and over ridge I seek dry firewood, No one blames me, I sell as I will, More or less as the world allows. With money I buy wine, happy at heart, Earthen bowl and clay cup, free and easy. Dead drunk, I sleep in the pine shade— No ties, no stakes, No heeding the world's rise or fall."
"Brother Li," said the fisherman, "your mountain trade cannot match the pleasures of my water trade. I have a lyric to the tune 'West River Moon' in proof:
Red knotweed in full bloom mirrors the moon, Yellow reed leaves toss in the wind. The blue sky, clear and far, the Chu river empty, A whole pool of stars stirred and swirled. Into the net, big fish in squadrons; Down the hook, little perch in schools. Caught and cooked, the flavor is richest of all— Laughing proud upon the rivers and lakes."
"Brother Zhang," said the woodcutter, "your water trade cannot match the pleasures of my mountain trade. I too have a lyric to the tune 'West River Moon' in proof:
Dead leaves and withered vines choke the road, Broken-topped old bamboo fills the hills. Dodder and dried kudzu tangle and clutch, Broken off and wound into rope, bundled into loads. Worm-eaten hollow elm and willow, Wind-snapped pine and nan wood. Gathered and heaped up against winter's cold, Traded for wine, for money—mine to command."
"Though your hills might compare," said the fisherman, "they cannot match the quiet elegance of my blue waters. I have a lyric to the tune 'Immortal at the River' in proof:
The tide fallen, I shift my lone boat away, Deep in night, my oar-song done. Straw cloak, waning moon—how serene! Roused gulls startle not; At heaven's edge colored clouds part. Weary, I sleep on the reed isle, nothing to do, Sun three rods high, still I drowse. My heart's own will arranges all at ease— Courtiers shiver waiting for the water-clock: How can they match my open heart?"
"The quiet elegance of your blue waters cannot match the quiet elegance of my green hills," said the woodcutter. "I too have an 'Immortal at the River' in proof:
Down the darkling path in autumn's height I haul my axe, In evening cool I shoulder my load home. Wild flowers pinned at my temple—strange delight! Parting clouds, I seek the way out; Waiting for the moon, I call the door open. My little child and mountain wife greet me with smiles, Grass bed and wooden pillow, laid aslant. Steamed pears and millet, quickly spread before us, New brew ripened in the jar— Truly it fortifies the quiet heart!"
"These are the trades of us two, our means of living," said the fisherman. "But you have not the blessings of my hours of leisure. There is a poem in proof:
At ease I watch the white cranes fly at heaven's edge, My boat moored by the stream, blue door shut. Leaning on the awning, I teach my child to twist the fishing line; Oars shipped, with my wife I spread the nets to dry. With nature stilled, one knows the waves are calm; With the body at peace, one feels the wind turn gentle. Green straw cloak, blue bamboo hat, worn at any season— Better than hanging at court the purple sash of rank."
"Your hours of leisure cannot match my hours of leisure," said the woodcutter. "There is a poem in proof too:
At ease I watch the drifting white clouds fly, Sitting alone in my brushwood lodge, bamboo door closed. With nothing pressing, I teach my child to open a book; Sometimes with guests I sit a game of chess. Joy comes—I staff in hand sing down the fragrant path; Mood rises—I carry my qin up the emerald slope. Straw sandals, hempen sash, a coarse cloth quilt— A heart at ease outshines the dress of silk."
Said Zhang Shao: "Li Ding, the two of us truly can croon our little verses together, no need for clappers or golden goblets. But scattering lyrics is nothing rare. Let us each link a few couplets, and see how fisherman and woodcutter carry on their talk!"
"Brother Zhang speaks best," said Li Ding. "Pray begin."
"A boat moored in the blue waters amid misty waves, A home dwelling deep in the mountains, in the open wilds. I love best the spring flood rising at the stream bridge, I pity most the dawn clouds veiling the rocky peaks. Fresh carp from Dragon Gate, cooked at any hour, Worm-eaten dry firewood, burned day by day. Hook and net, in many kinds, suffice for old age; Carrying-rope and shoulder-pole, two trades, may see me to my end. On the little boat, lying back, I watch the flying geese; On the grassy path, leaning aslant, I hear the swan's cry. In the arena of tongues I have no part; In the sea of right and wrong few are my traces. By the stream, nets hung to dry like brocade; On the rock, the axe ground again and again to sharpness. In autumn moonlight, bright upon bright, I fish alone; On spring mountains, silent upon silent, no one passes. Fish in plenty, traded for wine, I drink with my wife; Firewood left over, bought by the flask, I share with my sons. Self-singing, self-pouring, free and unbound, Long songs, long sighs, let the wild wind do its worst. Calling brother, calling friend, I invite the boat crew, Companions and mates gathered with the old men of the wild. Passing the cup, guessing the fist, the cups go round and round; Splitting characters, playing with words, the wine-clock passes on. Boiling shrimp, cooking crab—joy every morning; Frying duck, braising chicken—plenty every day. My simple wife brews tea, her heart at ease; My mountain spouse cooks rice, unhurried her mind. At dawn I lift the pole and wade the light waves; At sunrise I shoulder firewood across the great highway. After rain, cloak on my back, I seize the living carp; Before the wind, axe in hand, I fell the withered pine. Hiding my tracks from the world, I play the fool; Buried name and surname, I play the mute and deaf."
"Brother Li," said Zhang Shao, "I presumed to lead with the first couplets; now it is your turn, brother, to lead a pair, and your little brother will follow:
A wild man of the hills, feigning madness with wind and moon, An old spare hand, lodging pride in rivers and lakes. I had my share of quiet ease and careless freedom, No word of scandal reaching me—rejoicing in the peace. On moonlit nights, my body sleeps sound in the thatched hut; At dusk the light bamboo cloak warms all it covers. Forgetting passion, I befriend the pine and the plum; Glad at heart, I swear fellowship with gull and heron. No schemes for fame or profit in my breast; No sound of war within hearing of my ears. At any hour, one pour of fragrant wine; Through the day, three bowls of wild-herb soup. Two bundles of firewood are my livelihood; One pole and line is my trade. At ease I call my little child to grind the steel axe; Quietly I bid my simple son patch the old nets. When spring comes I love to watch the willows green; When the season warms I joy to see the reeds turn blue. In summer's heat I take shade among new bamboo; In the sixth month's cool I pluck the tender water chestnuts. At Frost's Descent, chickens fat, I kill one any day; At Double Ninth, crabs at their prime, I cook them in good time. When winter comes, sun risen, still I sleep sound; In the depth of the ninefold cold, I naturally do not swelter. Through the eight seasons, in the hills, I let my nature loose; Through the four times, on the lakes, I indulge my heart. Gathering firewood, I have the immortal's mood; Dropping the hook, I wear no worldly shape. Outside the gate, wild flowers, bright and brighter; At the boat's head, green water, wave upon wave so calm. Body at peace, I speak not of the Three Dukes' seats; Nature stilled, I am stronger than a walled city of ten li. A city of ten li must guard against the gate-command; The Three Dukes' high seats must heed the summons of the throne. To love the hills, to love the waters—truly rare! I thank heaven, thank earth, thank the shining gods."
The two of them, having traded lyrics and linked couplets, came at last to the parting of their ways, and bowed to take their leave.
"Brother Li," said Zhang Shao, "take care on the road! Going up the mountain, watch closely for tigers. Should some mishap befall you, it would be one old friend the less upon tomorrow's street!"
Li Ding flared up: "You lazy lout! A good friend would take even life and death in your place—how dare you curse me? If I meet a tiger and am done for, may you meet a wave and the river overturn you!"
"I shall never in this life overturn in the river," said Zhang Shao.
"Heaven has storms no forecast foretells; men have weal and woe from moment to moment," said Li Ding. "How can you guarantee no mishap?"
"Brother Li," said Zhang Shao, "though you say so, you have not grasped it. My trade is not like yours—mine can be reckoned, and such mishaps will surely not befall me."
"Your trade upon the water is the most perilous there is," said Li Ding, "dark and hidden and chancy—what reckoning is there in it?"
"You don't understand," said Zhang Shao. "Here in Chang'an, on the West Gate street, there is a fortune-telling gentleman. Every day I present him a golden carp, and he passes me one divination from his sleeve. Following his directions, I hit the mark a hundred times out of a hundred. Today I go again to buy a divination; he tells me to set my nets at the east of the Jing River bend and cast my hook on the west bank, and I shall surely come home with a full load of fish and shrimp. Tomorrow I'll come to town, sell my catch, buy wine, and chat with you again, old friend." So the two parted.
Truly it is: words spoken upon the road have listeners in the grass. For there was a water-patrolling yaksa of the Jing River water palace who had heard the words "a hundred times out of a hundred." He sped back to the crystal palace in alarm and reported hurriedly to the Dragon King:
"Disaster! Disaster!"
"What disaster?" asked the Dragon King.
"Your servant was patrolling the waters and came to the riverside," said the yaksa, "where I heard a fisherman and a woodcutter talking as they parted—and their parting words were most alarming. The fisherman said: in Chang'an, on the West Gate street, there is a fortune-telling gentleman whose calculations are the truest. Every day the fisherman gives him a golden carp, and he passes him a divination from his sleeve, instructing him so he hits the mark a hundred times in a hundred. If his reckoning proves so true, will he not have our whole water tribe netted clean away? How then shall the water palace keep its splendor? How shall we leap the waves and roll the billows to aid Your Majesty's majesty?"
The Dragon King was furiously angry, seized his sword, and was for going straight up to Chang'an to put the fortune-teller to death.
But dragon sons and dragon grandsons, shrimp ministers and crab councilors, the shad strategist, the perch vice-minister, and the carp grand steward flashed out beside him and memorialized as one: "Let Your Majesty first quench his anger. As the proverb says, words that pass the ear must not be believed. If Your Majesty goes, there will surely be clouds attending and rain assisting, and I fear you would startle the common folk of Chang'an and draw blame from Heaven above. Your Majesty's powers of hiding and showing are beyond fathoming, your transformations have no fixed form—simply change into a scholar and go into Chang'an to make inquiry. If such a man exists, it will not be too late to destroy him; if he does not, would this not be wrongly harming an innocent?"
The Dragon King followed their counsel. He set aside his precious sword, raised neither cloud nor rain, came up out of the bank waters, shook his body, and transformed into a scholar in white robes—truly stately and heroic in bearing, head high against the sky, yet walking with measured dignity, following rule and compass. His speech honored Confucius and Mencius; his courtesies embodied King Wen of Zhou. He wore a jade-colored silk gown and a "free-and-easy" cap with a single band. Striding off upon the road, he made straight for the great West Gate street of Chang'an.
There he saw a knot of people, jostling and bustling, chattering and clamoring, among whom some were holding forth: "For those born in the dragon year, the tiger year is in clash. Though tiger, dragon, snake, and pig be called a matching set, what one fears is the day offending the year's lord."
The Dragon King, hearing this, knew it must be the place of divination. He stepped forward, parted the crowd, and looked within. There:
Pearls and jade on all four walls, Brocade and embroidery filling the hall. From the duck-shaped censer, incense never ceasing; In the porcelain vase, water clear past telling. On either side hung paintings in the manner of Wang Wei; Above the seat was suspended the portrait of Guigu. An inkstone of Duan stream, ink of golden smoke, Set off by brushes of frost-white hair; The Fire-Pearl Grove, the divination numbers of Guo Pu, Carefully matched with the newest classics of divination. Thoroughly versed in the six lines of the hexagram, A complete master of the eight trigrams. He knows the principles of heaven and earth, And well discerns the feelings of ghosts and spirits. The whole array of the zodiac set out before him, His belly full of the stars marshaled in order. Truly, of things to come and things long past, He sees them as in mirror or moon; Which houses shall rise and which shall fall, He judges like a god. He knows the ill, fixes the lucky, Declares the dead and speaks them alive. His talk opens, swift as wind and rain; His brush descends, and gods and demons start. On his signboard, characters write out his name: The Master of Divine Divination, Yuan Shoucheng.
And who was this man? He was the uncle of Yuan Tiangang, the Director of the Imperial Astronomy Bureau at the present court—Yuan Shoucheng by name. The gentleman was indeed of extraordinary appearance, fine and handsome, famed throughout the great state, his art foremost in all Chang'an.
The Dragon King entered, greeted the gentleman, and when the courtesies were done, was invited to sit in the place of honor while a boy served tea.
"What matter does the gentleman come to ask about?" inquired the master.
"I beg a divination of the weather to come—clear or cloudy in the sky above," said the Dragon King.
The master passed a divination from his sleeve and pronounced: "Clouds will shroud the hilltops; mists will veil the treetops. If you ask for rain, it will surely come tomorrow."
"At what hour tomorrow will it rain?" asked the dragon, "and how much, in feet and inches?"
"Tomorrow," said the master, "clouds will gather in the hour of the dragon, thunder will sound in the hour of the snake, rain will fall in the hour of the horse, and the rain will be complete in the hour of the goat—in all, three feet three inches and forty-eight drops of water."
The Dragon King laughed: "These words are not to be trifled with. If tomorrow there is rain, at the hours and in the measure you have fixed, I shall present you fifty taels of silver in thanks. But if there is no rain, or the hours and measure do not hold, I tell you plainly: I will smash in your front, tear your signboard to bits, and drive you straight out of Chang'an—you shall not be suffered to bewitch the crowds here!"
The master answered cheerfully: "That is entirely as you please. Farewell, farewell. After the rain tomorrow, we shall meet again."
The Dragon King took his leave, left Chang'an, and returned to the water palace.
The water spirits great and small received him, asking: "How went Your Majesty's visit to the fortune-teller?"
"He exists, he exists, he exists!" said the Dragon King. "A glib-tongued gentleman who scrapes a living by talk. I asked him when it would rain, and he said tomorrow. I asked at what hour and in what measure, and he said: clouds in the dragon hour, thunder in the snake hour, rain in the horse hour, rain complete in the goat hour, three feet three inches and forty-eight drops. I made a wager with him: if it falls exactly as he says, I send him fifty taels of thanks; if it misses by so little, I smash his front and drive him away—he shall not bewitch the crowds in Chang'an."
The water folk all laughed: "Your Majesty is Lord High Governor of the Eight Rivers, the great dragon divinity in charge of rain. Whether there is rain or none, only Your Majesty knows. How dare he babble so? The fortune-teller has surely lost! Surely lost!"
While the dragon sons and grandsons and the fish, perch, and crab officers were still laughing over this, there came a voice from midair: "Dragon King of the Jing River, receive the decree!" All looked up: a strength-athlete in golden robes, bearing the Jade Emperor's edict in his hands, was descending straight upon the water palace. In alarm the Dragon King straightened his robes, stood solemnly, burned incense, and received the edict.
The golden-robed athlete returned to the sky.
The Dragon King gave thanks, broke the seal, and read: "By imperial command to the Governor of the Eight Rivers: drive the thunder and speed the lightning; tomorrow shed the rain's bounty, and bring relief universal to the city of Chang'an."
The hours and measures on the decree differed by a hair from what the gentleman had divined, and the Dragon King was frightened out of his wits.
After a while he came to himself and said to the assembled water folk: "That such a numinous man should exist in the dusty world! Truly he penetrates heaven and reaches earth—there's no outdoing him!"
The shad strategist memorialized: "Your Majesty, rest easy. What difficulty in beating him? Your servant has a little plan that shall surely seal that fellow's mouth." The Dragon King asked for the plan. "Alter the hours of the rainfall," said the strategist, "and shave a little from the number of drops. Then it is he whose divination proved false—how can you fail to win? Then smash his signboard and drive him off—what difficulty in that?"
The Dragon King followed his advice and worried no more.
The next day he mustered the Earl of Wind, the Duke of Thunder, the Cloud Boy, and the Mother of Lightning, and rose straight to the ninth heaven above Chang'an. He stalled until the hour of the snake to spread the clouds, the hour of the horse to sound the thunder, the hour of the goat for the rain to fall, and the hour of the monkey for the rain to stop—yet he gathered only three feet and forty drops. He had shifted the rain by one hour and clipped away three inches and eight drops. When the rain was done he dismissed his captains and withdrew the host.
Then he pressed down his cloud, changed again into the white-robed scholar, came to the West Gate street, barged into Yuan Shoucheng's divination shop, and—no argument brooked—smashed his signboard, brushes, inkstone, and all to pieces together. The gentleman sat in his chair, utterly unmoved.
The Dragon King heaved up a door-plank to beat him, cursing: "You wizard who prates of fortune and calamity, you good-for-nothing who bewitches the people's hearts! Your divination is worthless and your words wild and false! The hours and measures of today's rain did not match at all, and still you sit there lofty! Get out at once, and I'll spare your life!"
Shoucheng remained utterly unafraid, even by a hair. Lifting his face to the sky, he laughed coldly: "I fear nothing! I fear nothing! I bear no capital crime—I fear rather it is you who bear one! Others may be deceived, but me you cannot deceive. I know you: you are no scholar—you are the Dragon King of the Jing River. You violated the Jade Emperor's edict, altered the hours, clipped the number of drops, and so have broken Heaven's code. Upon the Dragon-Slicing Terrace, I fear you will scarcely escape the blade—and still you stand here cursing me?"
At these words the Dragon King's heart froze and his gall trembled, his hair stood on end. He dropped the door-plank in haste, straightened his robes, bowed low, and knelt before the gentleman: "Master, forgive me. My earlier words were in jest—who knew the jest would turn to truth, that I truly had violated Heaven's code! What am I to do? I beg the master to save me—else I shall not release you even in death!"
"I cannot save you," said Shoucheng. "I can only point you a road of life, for you to flee to, and that is all."
"I beg your instruction," said the dragon.
"Tomorrow at the third quarter of the horse hour," said the gentleman, "you are due at the Human Bureau official Wei Zheng, there to hear your sentence of execution. If you would keep your life, you must go quickly and plead with the present Tang sovereign, Emperor Taizong—that is your only way. That Wei Zheng is prime minister at the Tang king's court; if you can obtain from him a favor, you may yet be safe." Hearing this, the Dragon King bowed his tearful farewell and departed.
Unnoticed the red sun sank in the west and the Great Yin star rose, and this was the scene:
Mist congeals, the hills turn purple, homing crows grow weary; Far-road travelers seek their inns. At the ferry, new geese settle on the sandbanks; The Silver River appears. The watch-tallies hasten the hours; In the lone village, lamp flames gutter low. Wind curls the censer smoke in the quiet temple; In the butterfly dream, the man is seen no more. The moon shifts the flowers' shadows up the balustrade; Starlight scatters. The water-clock changes its tone— Unnoticed, deep in night, it is already half past.
The Dragon King of the Jing River did not return to his water palace. He waited in the sky until about the hour of the rat, gathered in his cloud-head, folded away his mists, and came straight to the gate of the imperial palace. Now the Tang sovereign was dreaming he had walked out beyond the palace gates, strolling in the flower shade beneath the moon, when suddenly the Dragon King, changed to human form, came forward, knelt, and bowed, crying: "Your Majesty, save me! Save me!"
"Who are you," said Taizong, "that I should save you?"
"Your Majesty is a true dragon; your servant is a sinful dragon," said the Dragon King. "Your servant has violated Heaven's code and is sentenced to die by the blade of your worthy minister, the Human Bureau official Wei Zheng. Therefore I come to beg you—I pray Your Majesty save me!"
"If it is Wei Zheng who is to execute you, I can save you," said Taizong. "Go now, and set your heart at rest." The Dragon King rejoiced, kowtowed his thanks, and departed.
Now when Taizong woke from his dream, the matter stayed in his thoughts. By the third point of the fifth drum he had held court, gathering the two ranks of civil and military officials. Behold:
Mist swathing the phoenix towers, Fragrant haze upon the dragon halls, Light swaying the crimson screen, Clouds brushing the kingfisher banners. Sovereign and ministers in accord, like Yao and Shun; Rites, music, majesty, near to Han and Zhou. Attendants' lanterns, palace ladies' fans, Pair upon pair reflecting colors; Peacock screens, unicorn halls, Everywhere light afloat. Mountains of cries, "Ten thousand years!" Splendid wishes, "A thousand autumns!" The silence-whip cracks thrice, And capped and gowned they bow before the crowned and beaded. Palace flowers brilliant, heavenly fragrance wafting; Dike willows tender, imperial music singing. Pearl curtains, kingfisher curtains, Their golden hooks drawn high; Dragon-flags, mountain-and-river fans, The precious carriage pausing. Civil ministers elegant, Warlords vigorous. The imperial way divides high from low; The crimson steps array the ranks. Gold seals and purple ribbons ride the three-elephant state— Long as earth, long as heaven, ten thousand times ten thousand autumns.
When the officials' homage was done, they took their stations in order. The Tang sovereign flashed his phoenix eyes and dragon gaze, surveying them one by one from the first. Among the civil officials were Fang Xuanling, Du Ruhui, Xu Shiji, Xu Jingzong, and Wang Gui; among the military, Ma Sanbao, Duan Zhixian, Yin Kaishan, Cheng Yaojin, Liu Hongji, Hu Jingde, and Qin Shubao—each one stately and solemn. But nowhere was Prime Minister Wei Zheng to be seen.
The Tang sovereign summoned Xu Shiji up to the hall: "Last night I had a strange dream. I dreamed a man bowed before me in audience, saying he was the Dragon King of the Jing River, who had violated Heaven's code and was condemned to die at the hands of the Human Bureau official Wei Zheng; he begged me to save him, and I promised. Yet today, in the ranks before me, Wei Zheng alone is missing. Why?"
"The dream has proven true," replied Shiji. "When Wei Zheng comes to court presently, Your Majesty must not let him leave the palace. If you can keep him through this one day, the dragon of the dream may be saved."
The Tang sovereign rejoiced and at once issued a decree, ordering the chamberlain to summon Wei Zheng to court.
Now Prime Minister Wei Zheng in his mansion had been watching the signs of the heavens by night. Just as he lit the precious incense, he heard cranes crying in the ninth heaven: it was Heaven dispatching an immortal envoy, bearing a golden decree of the Jade Emperor, commanding him at the third quarter of the horse hour to behead the old dragon of the Jing River in a dream. The prime minister gave thanks for the heavenly grace, fasted and bathed, and in his mansion tested the sword of wisdom and deployed his primal spirit; therefore he had not gone to court.
The moment the chamberlain arrived bearing the decree summoning him, he was overcome with awe; yet he dared not delay a sovereign's command. He hurriedly straightened his robes and girdle, accompanied the decree to court, and knocked his head before the throne begging pardon for his fault.
"The minister is pardoned," said the Tang sovereign. By then the ministers had not yet withdrawn from court; the sovereign commanded the curtains rolled and court dismissed. He detained Wei Zheng alone, summoning him up past the Hall of Golden Bells into the private hall, where they first discoursed on policies to secure the state and plans to stabilize the realm.
As the hour neared the end of the snake and the beginning of the horse, the sovereign bade the palace attendants bring the great chess set. "Let me play a game with you, worthy minister."
The palace ladies brought the chessboard and laid it upon the imperial table. Wei Zheng gave thanks and played against the Tang sovereign. Move for move, they deployed their formations—just as the Classic of the Rotten Axe says:
The way of chess lies above all in rigor. The strong player holds the center, the weak player the edges, the middling player the corners—this is the standing rule of the masters.
The law says: "Better lose one stone than lose the initiative. When you strike left, watch right; when you attack behind, look ahead. There is first-that-becomes-last, and last-that-becomes-first. When both groups live, do not cut; when both breathe, do not join. Spaciousness must not be too sparse, density not too cramped. Better to abandon stones and win than cling to them for life; better to reinforce and mend your own than to wander alone without cause. When they are many and you are few, first plan to live; when you are many and they are few, be sure to stretch your shape. The master of victory does not contend; the master of formations does not fight; the master of fighting is not defeated; the master of defeat does not fall into disorder. Chess begins with meeting on the square and ends with victory by surprise. When the enemy mends himself without cause, he means to invade and cut you off; when he abandons the small and does not save it, he harbors designs on the great; who plays at random is a man without counsel; who answers without thinking walks the road to defeat. The Odes say: 'Trembling, careful, as if approaching the deep valley.' This is what they mean."
In verse:
The board is earth, the stones are heaven, Their colors by yin and yang, creation complete. Play to the point where mystery turns to change— And smile, boasting of the Rotten-Axe immortal of old.
Sovereign and minister played this game until the third quarter of the horse hour, the endgame still unfinished, when Wei Zheng suddenly slumped over the table's edge, snoring in sleep. Taizong smiled: "Truly, worthy minister, your heart is wearied propping up the state, your strength worn out founding the realm—no wonder you drop off to sleep without knowing it." Taizong let him sleep on and did not call him.
Before long Wei Zheng awoke and fell prostrate upon the floor: "Your servant deserves ten thousand deaths! Ten thousand deaths! Just now I grew dizzy and drowsy and know not what I did. I beg Your Majesty pardon my crime of slowness before my sovereign!"
"What crime of slowness have you, minister?" said Taizong. "Rise, sweep away the unfinished game, and we shall begin the contest anew." Wei Zheng gave thanks and had just picked up a stone in his fingers when, outside the palace gates, there arose a great shouting and crying.
It was Qin Shubao, Xu Maogong, and the others, carrying a dripping, bloody dragon's head, which they cast before the throne, memorializing: "Your Majesty, we have seen seas run shallow and rivers run dry—but never before have we heard of such a marvel as this!"
Taizong and Wei Zheng rose. "Whence comes this thing?"
"South of the Thousand-Step Corridor, at the crossing of streets," said Shubao and Maogong, "this dragon's head fell out of the clouds. Your servants dared not fail to report it."
The Tang sovereign asked Wei Zheng in alarm: "What say you to this?"
Wei Zheng turned, knocked his head, and said: "It was your servant who, just now, beheaded it in a dream."
Hearing this, the Tang sovereign was greatly startled: "Worthy minister, while you dozed, we saw you neither rise nor move, and you had neither blade nor sword—how then did you behead this dragon?"
Wei Zheng memorialized: "My lord, though your servant's body was before Your Majesty, my dream left your side. My body before Your Majesty faced the endgame, eyes half-closed in a doze; my dream left Your Majesty, mounted auspicious clouds, my spirit shaken wide awake. That dragon, upon the Dragon-Slicing Terrace, was bound fast by the heavenly soldiers and generals. Your servant declared: 'You have violated Heaven's code; the death sentence is your due. I bear Heaven's mandate to behead your remnant life.' The dragon heard it and cried piteously; your servant shook out his spirit. The dragon heard it, folded his claws, drew in his scales, and meekly took his death; your servant shook out his spirit, tucked up his robes, strode forward, and raised the frost-white blade. With one crack of the blade's passage, the dragon's head fell away into the void."
Hearing this, the Tang sovereign's heart held both gladness and grief. His gladness: that Wei Zheng was such a worthy minister—with such a hero at court, what fear that the realm should be unstable? His grief: that in his dream he had promised to save the dragon, and had not expected it to come to execution after all. He could only rally his spirit and issue a decree, ordering Shubao to hang the dragon's head in the marketplace as notice to the common folk of Chang'an; meanwhile he rewarded Wei Zheng, and the officials dispersed.
That evening he returned to his palace, but his heart stayed heavy. He thought of the dragon in his dream, howling and pleading for life—who knew that impermanence would not spare it this calamity? After long brooding, his spirit grew weary, his body unwell. At the second watch of the night he heard, outside the palace gates, the sound of wailing, and Taizong's terror grew.
As he drifted into a doze, he saw again the Dragon King of the Jing River, holding a dripping, bloody head in his hand, crying in a great voice: "Tang Taizong! Give me back my life! Give me back my life! Last night you promised me full well to save me—why then, come morning, did you summon the Human Bureau official to behead me? Come out! Come out! Come with me to the Court of Yama and argue it out!"
He seized hold of Taizong and raged and clamored, refusing to let go. Taizong's mouth was pinched shut, powerless to speak; he struggled until sweat streamed over his whole body. Just as they stood locked in that tangle, there appeared in the due south a swirl of fragrant clouds and drifting colored mists, and a true woman of the Way came forward, waved her willow branch once with her hand—and the headless dragon, wailing piteously, made straight away toward the northwest.
This was, in fact, the Bodhisattva Guanyin, who, bearing the Buddha's decree, was on her way to the Eastern Land to find the scripture-seeker. Lodging in the earth-god's shrine of the city of Chang'an, she had heard in the night ghosts weeping and spirits howling, and had come specially to shout back the sinful dragon and deliver the emperor. The dragon went straight to the courts of the underworld to lodge his accusation—but of that we say no more.
We tell instead how Taizong came to himself again, crying only, "A ghost! A ghost!"—frightening the empresses of the three palaces, the consorts of the six courts, and the attending eunuchs into trembling, sleepless through the whole night. Unnoticed the third point of the fifth watch arrived, and the whole court of civil and military officials waited outside the palace gates for audience. They waited until daybreak, and still the sovereign did not appear—each of them alarmed and anxious.
By the time the sun stood three rods high, a decree finally came forth: "Our heart is unwell; let the officials be excused from court."
Unnoticed, five or seven days passed. The officials, grieving and anxious, were just on the point of beating upon the gates to greet the sovereign and inquire after his health, when the Empress Dowager issued a decree summoning the medical officers into the palace to administer medicine. All waited at the palace gates for news. Presently the medical officers came out, and the officials asked what the illness was.
"His Majesty's pulse is irregular," said the physicians, "weak and yet rapid; he raves, seeing ghosts. We have further diagnosed 'ten beats and one lapse' [Translator's note: a grave pulse pattern in traditional Chinese medicine, ten beats followed by a pause]; the five organs are without breath. I fear the unspeakable will come within seven days."
Hearing this, all the officials turned pale with shock.
In the midst of their grief and panic came yet another decree from the Empress Dowager, summoning Xu Maogong, the Duke who Protects the State, and the Duke of Wei to wait upon the sovereign. The three dukes received the decree and hastened in to the Tower of Parting Palaces.
After the bows, Taizong summoned a stern countenance and forced himself to speak: "Worthy ministers, at nineteen I took up arms, campaigning south and conquering north, blocking east and sweeping west, through bitter years of hardship, and never once saw the least demonic thing—yet today I see ghosts!"
"You founded the realm and slew men without number," said the Duke of Wei. "What ghost is there to fear?"
"You do not believe it," said Taizong. "Outside the gate of my bedchamber, as soon as night falls, bricks and tiles come flying; demons howl and cry—truly hard to bear. By day it is tolerable; at dusk and in the night it is past enduring."
"Your Majesty, set your heart at ease," said Shubao. "Tonight your servant and Jingde will guard the palace gates, and let us see what demon dares show itself." Taizong approved, and Maogong gave thanks and withdrew.
That evening the two donned their armor. Both fully armed in helm and corslet, grasping golden melons and battle-axes, they stood guard outside the palace gates. What generals! See how they were clad:
Golden helms gleaming on their heads, Scale armor of dragon hide upon their bodies. The heart-protecting mirrors flash auspicious clouds, The lion-belts drawn tight, The embroidered sashes fresh as colored dawn. This one, phoenix eyes lifted to the sky, would make the very stars afraid; That one, round eyes flashing lightning, moonlight floating on them. They were heroes and champions, veterans of the founding— And they became for a thousand years the Wardens of the Door, For ten thousand ages the Guardians of the Gate.
The two generals stood at attendance beside the gate, and through the whole night not the least demonic shadow appeared.
That night the sovereign slept in his palace without incident. At dawn he summoned the two generals and rewarded them richly: "Since falling ill, for days I could not sleep; last night, upheld by the two generals' awe-inspiring might, I was quite at peace. Pray go now and rest, and guard me once more when evening comes."
The two generals gave thanks and withdrew. Thus for two or three nights the guard was kept, and all was well—only the imperial appetite diminished, and the sickness grew heavier.
Taizong could not bear to weary the two generals further, and again summoned Shubao, Jingde, and the lords Du and Fang into the palace, instructing them: "These two days, though I have been at ease, it has been hard on Generals Qin and Hu, keeping watch the whole night through. I would summon a deft painter to make their true portraits and paste them upon the doors, sparing them the labor. What say you?"
The ministers obeyed the decree. They chose two skilled portraitists, had the two lords don their armor as before, painted their likenesses exactly, and pasted them upon the doors; through that night also there was no disturbance.
So it went for two or three days more. Then they heard, behind the North Palace Gate, bricks and tiles clattering and crashing. At dawn the sovereign hastily summoned his ministers: "Lately the front gate has happily been quiet; last night the back gate again resounded—this frightens me nearly to death!"
Maogong stepped forward and memorialized: "When the front gate was troubled, it was Jingde and Shubao who guarded it; now that the back gate is troubled, it should be Wei Zheng who guards it." Taizong approved, and again summoned Wei Zheng to keep watch that night over the back gate. Wei Zheng received the decree, equipped himself in order that night, and holding the dragon-slaying precious sword, stood in attendance before the North Palace Gate—truly a hero!
See how he was clad: a dark silk scarf wound about his brow, a brocade robe with jade belt hanging at his waist, his storm-defying cloak and sleeves drifting like frost, his bearing surpassing even the door-gods. Black boots upon his feet, a keen blade in his fierce and daring hand, both eyes wide open surveying the four quarters—what demonic spirit would dare approach?
All night he kept his vigil, and no ghost appeared. Though front and back gates were now at peace, the sovereign's body grew daily weaker. One day the Empress Dowager again issued a decree, summoning the ministers to deliberate on the rites of burial and the affairs after death. Taizong also summoned Xu Maogong and instructed him on the great affairs of state, charging him, after the manner of Liu Bei of Shu entrusting his orphan son. His words done, he bathed, changed his garments, and awaited the hour.
But Wei Zheng stepped from beside him, took hold of the dragon robe, and memorialized: "Your Majesty, rest easy. Your servant has one means to guarantee Your Majesty long life."
"The sickness has entered the vital regions; my life is near its peril," said Taizong. "How could you guarantee it?"
"Your servant has a letter," said Wei Zheng, "which I submit to Your Majesty, to be carried down to the courts of the dead, addressed to Cui Jue, the judge of Fengdu." Who is Cui Jue?" asked Taizong.
"Cui Jue was a minister under your imperial grandsire the late emperor," said Wei Zheng. "He first served as magistrate of Ci prefecture, later rose to Vice Minister of Rites. In his lifetime he and your servant swore eight-bow brotherhood, and we knew each other most intimately. He is now dead, and serves in the underworld as the Fengdu judge who holds the registers of life and death; in dreams he often meets with your servant. If this letter is delivered to him, he will think on your humble servant's small share of friendship and will surely release Your Majesty to return. I guarantee your soul shall come back to the world of the living, and the dragon countenance return to the imperial capital."
Hearing this, Taizong received the letter in his hands, tucked it into his sleeve, closed his eyes—and died.
The three palaces and six courts, the empress and consorts, the crown prince and all, and the two ranks of civil and military officials, all raised the cry of mourning and put on mourning garb; and in the Hall of the White Tiger the coffin was laid in state—but of that we say no more.
If you would know how Taizong returned to life, listen to the explanation in the next chapter.