With a Stupid Plan the Dragon King Breaks the Laws of Heaven

Minister Wei Sends a Letter to an Officer of Hell

We shall not discuss how Chen Guangrui performed his duties or Xuanzang cultivated his conduct; instead we shall talk about two wise men who lived beside the banks of the River Jing outside the city of Chang’an. One was an old fisherman called Zhang Shao and the other was a woodcutter called Li Ding. They were both advanced scholars who had never taken the official examination, lettered men of the mountains. One day, when Li Ding had sold his load of firewood and Zhang Shao had sold his basketful of carp in Chang’an city, they went into a tavern, drank till they were half tipsy, and strolled slowly home along the banks of the Jing, each holding a bottle in his hand.

“Brother Li,” said Zhang Shao, “it seems to me that people who struggle for fame kill themselves for it; those who compete for profit die for it; those who accept honors sleep with a tiger in their arms; and those who receive imperial favours walk around with snakes in their sleeves. Taking all in all, we are much better off living free among our clear waters and blue hills: we delight in our poverty and follow our destinies.”

“You are right, Brother Zhang,” said Li Ding, “but your clear waters have nothing on my blue hills.”

“Your blue hills are not a patch on my clear waters,” retorted Zhang Shao, “and here is a lyric to the tune of The Butterfly Loves the Flowers to prove it:

The skiff is tiny amid the misty expanse of waves;

Calmly I lean against the single sail,

Listening to the voice of Xishi the beauty.

My thoughts and mind are cleared; I have no wealth or fame

As I toy with the waterweed and the rushes.

“To count a few gulls makes the journey happy.

In the reedy bend, under the willow bank,

My wife and children smile with me.

The moment I fall asleep, wind and waves are quiet;

No glory, no disgrace, and not a single worry.”

“Your clear waters are no match for my blue hills,” said Li Ding, “and there is another lyric to the same tune to prove it. It goes:

The cloudy woods are covered with pine blossom.

Hush! Hear the oriole sing,

As if it played a pipe with its cunning tongue.

With touches of red and ample green the spring is warm;

Suddenly the summer’s here as the seasons turn.

“When autumn comes the look of things is changed;

The scented chrysanthemum

Is enough for my pleasure.

Soon the cruel winter plucks all off.

I am free through four seasons, at nobody’s beck and call.”

“You don’t enjoy the good things in your blue hills that I do on my clear waters,” replied the fisherman, “and I can prove it with another lyric to the tune of The Partridge Heaven:

In this magic land we live off the cloudy waters;

With a sweep of the oar the boat becomes a home.

We cut open the live fish and fry the green turtle

As steam coils from the purple crab and the red shrimps bubble.

Green reed shoots,

Sprouts of water-lilies,

Better still, water chestnuts and the gorgon fruit,

Delicate louts roots and seeds, tender celery,

Arrowhead, reed-hearts and bird-glory blossom.”

“Your clear waters cannot compare with my blue hills when it comes to the good things they provide,” said the woodcutter, and I can cite another lyric to the tune The Partridge Heaven as evidence:

Mighty crags and towering peaks reach to the sky;

A grass hut or a thatched cottage is my home.

Pickled chicken and duck are better than turtles or crabs,

Roebuck, boar, venison, and hare beat fish and shrimps.

The leaves of the tree of heaven,

Yellow chinaberry sprouts,

And, even better, bamboo shoots and wild tea,

Purple plums and red peaches, ripe gages, and apricots,

Sweet pears, sharp jujubes, and osmanthus blossom.”

“Your blue hills are really nothing on my clear waters,” replied the fisherman, “and there is another lyric to the tune Heavenly Immortal:

In my little boat I can stay where I like,

Having no fear of the many misty waves.

Drop the hook, cast wide the net, to catch fresh fish:

Even without fat or sauce,

They taste delicious

As the whole family eats its meal together.

“When there are fish to spare I sell them in Chang’an market

To buy good liquor and get a little drunk.

Covered with my grass cloak I sleep on the autumn river,

Snoring soundly

Without a care,

Not giving a damn for honour and glory.”

“Your clear waters still aren’t as good as my blue mountains,” came back the woodcutter, “and I too have a Heavenly Immortal lyric to prove it:

Where I build a little thatched hut under the hill

The bamboo, orchid, plum, and pine are wonderful.

As I cross forests and mountains to look for dry firewood

Nobody asks awkward questions,

And I can sell

As much or as little as the world wants.

I spend the money on wine and I’m happy,

Content with my earthenware bowl and china jug.

When I’ve drunk myself blotto I lie in the shade of the pine.

No worries,

No books to balance;

What do I care about success or failure?”

“Brother Li,” said the fisherman, “you don’t make as easy a living in the hills as I do on the water, and I can prove it with a lyric to the tune The Moon on the West River:

The smartweed’s flowers are picked out by the moon

While the tangled leaves of rushes sway in the wind.

Clear and distant the azure sky, empty the Chu river:

Stir up the water, and the stars dance.

Big fish swim into the net in shoals;

Little ones swallow the hooks in swarms;

Boiled or fried they taste wonderful—

I laugh at the roaring river and lake.”

“Brother Zhang,” replied the woodcutter, “the living I make in the hills is much easier than yours on the water, and I can prove it with another Moon on the West River lyric:

Withered and leafless rattan fills the paths,

Old bamboo with broken tips covers the hillside.

Where vines and creepers tangle and climb

I pull some off to tie my bundles.

Elms and willows hollow with decay,

Pines and cedars cracked by the wind—

I stack them up against the winter cold,

And whether they’re sold for wine or money is up to me.”

“Although you don’t do too badly in your hills, your life is not as elegant as mine on the water,” said the fisherman, “as I can show with some lines to the tune The Immortal by the River.

As the tide turns my solitary boat departs;

I sing in the night, resting from the oars.

From under a straw cape the waning moon is peaceful.

The sleeping gulls are not disturbed

As the clouds part at the end of the sky.

Tired, I lie on the isle of rushes with nothing to do,

And when the sun is high I’m lying there still.

I arrange everything to suit myself:

How can the court official compare with my ease

As he waits in the cold for an audience at dawn?”

“Your life on the water may be elegant, but it’s nothing compared with mine,” replied the woodcutter, “and I have some lines to the same tune to demonstrate the point:

On an autumn day I carry my axe along the greeny path

Bringing the load back in the cool of evening,

Putting wild flowers in my hair, just to be different,

I push aside the clouds to find my way home,

And the moon is up when I tell them to open the door.

Rustic wife and innocent son greet me with smiles,

And I recline on my bed of grass and wooden pillow.

Steamed millet and pear are spread before me,

While the new wine is warm in the pot: This is really civilized.”

“All this is about our living and the ways we provide for ourselves,” said the fisherman. “I can prove to you that your leisure is nowhere near as good as mine with a poem that goes:

Idly I watch the white cranes as they cross the sky;

As I Moor the boat at the river’s bank, a blue door gives me shade.

Leaning on the sail I teach my son to twist a fishing line,

When rowing’s done I dry the nets out with my wife.

A settled nature can really know the calm of the waves;

A still body feels the lightness of the breeze.

Always to wear a green straw cape and a blue straw hat

Is better than the purple robes of the court.”

“Your leisure doesn’t come up to mine,” replied the woodcutter, “as this poem I shall now recite demonstrates:

With a lazy eye on the white clouds in the distance,

I sit alone in a thatched but, then close the bamboo door.

When there’s nothing to do I teach my son to read;

Sometimes a visitor comes and we play a game of chess.

When I’m happy I take my stick and walk singing along the paths,

Or carry my lute up the emerald hills.

Grass shoes with hempen thongs, a cloak of coarsest cloth,

A mind relaxed: better than wearing silk.”

“Li Ding,” said the other, “how truly it can be said of us that ‘by reciting some verses we become close friends: What need for golden winecups and a sandalwood table?’ But there is nothing remarkable in just reciting verses; what would you say if we made couplets in which we each contributed a line about our lives as fisherman and woodcutter?”

“Brother Zhang,” said Li Ding, “that is an excellent suggestion. Please be the one to start.” Here are their couplets:

My boat is moored in the green waters amid the misty waves;

My home is in the wilds, deep in the mountains.

How well I like the swollen stream under the bridge in spring;

My delight is a mountain peak swathed in clouds at dawn.

Dragon-sized fresh carp cooked at any time;

Dry, rotten, firewood always keeps one warm.

A full array of hooks and nets to support my old age;

Carrying wood and making twine will keep me till I die.

Lying back in a tiny boat watching the flying geese;

Reclining beside the grassy path and hearing the wild swans call.

I have no stall in the marketplace of tongues;

I’ve left no trace in the sea of disputation.

The nets hung to dry beside the brook are like brocade;

An axe well honed on rock is sharper than a spear.

Under the shining autumn moon I often fish alone;

I meet nobody on the solitary mountain in spring.

I trade my surplus fish for wine and drink it with my wife;

When I’ve wood to spare I buy a bottle and share it with my sons.

Singing and musing to myself I’m as wild as I care to be;

Long songs, long sighs, I can let myself be crazy.

I invite my brothers and cousins and fellow boatmen;

Leading my friends by the hand I meet the old man of the wilds.

As we play guess-fingers the cups fly fast;

When we make riddles the goblets slowly circulate.

Saute or boiled crab is a delight every morning;

Plenty of fried duck and chicken cooked in ashes every day.

As my simple wife brews tea, my spirits are untrammelled;

While my mountain spouse cooks supper, my mind is at ease.

At the coming of dawn I wash my stick in the ripples;

When the sun rises I carry firewood across the road.

After the rain I put on my cloak to catch live carp;

I wield my axe before the wind to fell a withered pine.

I cover my tracks and hide from the world, acting the imbecile;

I change my name and pretend to be deaf and dumb.

“Brother Li,” said Zhang Shao. “I unfairly took the first lines just now, so now it’s your turn to compose the first lines while I follow you.” Thus they continued:

The man of the mountains acting mad under wind and moon;

The haughty and unwanted dotard of the river.

With his share of idleness, and able to be quite free;

No sound from his voice as he revels in his peace.

On moonlit nights he sleeps secure in a cottage of thatch;

He lightly covers himself at dusk with clothes of reed.

His passion spent, he befriends the pine and the plum;

He is happy to be the companion of cormorant and gull.

Fame and profit count for nothing in his mind;

His ears have never heard the clash of arms.

One is always pouring out fresh rice-wine,

The other has wild vegetable soup with every meal.

One makes a living with two bundles of firewood;

The other supports himself with rod and line.

One idly tells his innocent son to sharpen the axe of steel;

The other quietly bids his slow-witted child to mend the nets.

In spring one likes to see the willows turning green;

When the seasons change the other enjoys the rushes’ blue.

Avoiding the summer heat, one trims the new bamboo;

The other gathers water-chestnuts on cool July evenings.

When frost begins, plump chickens are killed each day;

In mid-autumn the crabs are at their best and always in the pot.

When the sun rises in winter, the one is still asleep;

The other keeps cool in the dog days of summer.

Throughout the year one does as he pleases in the hills;

In all four seasons the other is happy on the lake.

By gathering firewood you can become an Immortal;

There is nothing worldly about fishing.

Sweet smell the wild flowers growing outside my door;

Smooth are the green waves lapping at my boat.

A contented man never speaks of high honors;

A settled nature is stronger than a city wall.

Higher than a city wall for resisting enemy armies;

More illustrious than holding high office and listening to imperial decrees.

Those who are happy with mountains and rivers are few indeed;

Thank Heaven, thank Earth, and thank the spirits.

When the two of them had recited their verses and matched couplets they came to the place where their ways parted and bowed to each other to take their leave. “Brother Li,” said Zhang Shao, “look after yourself on your way home and keep a sharp look-out for tigers up in the hills. If you met with an accident then ‘an old friend would be missing on the road tomorrow.’” This made Li Ding angry.

“You scoundrel,” he said, “I’m your friend; I’d die for you. How could you put such a curse on me? If I’m killed by a tiger, you’ll be capsized by a wave.”

“I’ll never be capsized!” retorted Zhang Shao.

”‘In nature there are unexpected storms and in life unpredictable vicissitudes,’” quoted Li Ding, “so how can you be sure you’ll never have an accident?”

“Brother Zhang,” replied the fisherman, “despite what you just said, it’s your life that’s insecure, whereas my life is certain: I’m sure that I shan’t have an accident.”

“Your life on the water is very dangerous and insecure,” said the woodcutter, “so how can you be so certain?”

“There’s something you don’t know,” said Zhang Shao. “Every day I give a golden carp to a fortune-teller on the West Gate Street in Chang’an, and he passes a slip into my sleeve telling me I’ll catch something every time provided I go to the right place. I went to buy a forecast from him today, and he told me that if I cast my nets to the East of the bend in the Jing River and lowered my lines on the Western bank, I would be bound to get a full load of fish and shrimps to take home. Tomorrow I shall go into town to sell them to buy wine, and we can continue our talk then, brother.” With this they parted.

How true it is that if you talk on the road there will be someone listening in the grass. A patrolling yaksha from the Jing River Palace overheard Zhang Shao’s remark about always catching fish and rushed straight back to the palace of crystal to make an urgent report of disaster to the dragon king.

“What disaster?” asked the dragon king, and the yaksha replied, “Your subject was patrolling in the water by the river’s edge when I heard a fisherman and a woodcutter talking. Just when they were parting they sounded very dangerous. The fisherman said that there is a soothsayer on West Gate Street in Chang’an city whose predictions are very accurate. The fisherman gives him a golden carp every day, and he hands the fisherman a slip saying that he’ll catch fish at every attempt. If his calculations are so accurate, won’t all we water folk be wiped out? Shall we fortify the water palace, or shall we make some leaping waves to strengthen Your Majesty’s prestige?”

The dragon king seized his sword in a great rage, intending to go straight to Chang’an city and destroy this fortune-teller, but then his dragon sons and grandsons, shrimp officials, crab soldiers, shad generals, mandarin-fish ministers, and carp premier submitted a joint memorial that read: “We beg Your Majesty not to act in anger. As the saying goes, ‘words overheard are not to be trusted.’ If Your Majesty were to go now you would have to be accompanied by clouds and helped by rain; and if this frightens the common people of Chang’an, Heaven may take offence. Your Majesty is capable of making all sorts of transformations, and of appearing and vanishing unexpectedly; so you should change into a scholar for this visit to Chang’an. If you find that it is true, you will be able to punish him at your leisure; and if it turns out to be false, you will avoid killing an innocent man.” Taking their advice, the dragon king put aside his sword, and without raising clouds or rain he climbed out on the back, shook himself, and turned into a scholar dressed in white. He was

Handsome and noble,

Towering into the clouds.

His step was stately

And he observed the rules of conduct.

In his speech he showed his respect for Confucius and Mencius,

His manners were those of the Duke of Zhou and King Wen.

He wore a gown of jade-green silk,

A cloth wrapped casually round his head.

Once on the road he strode straight to West Gate Street in Chang’an city, where he saw a crowd of people pushing and shouting. One of them was proclaiming grandiloquently, “He who was born under the Dragon will clash with the one who belongs to the Tiger. Although the cyclical characters are supposed to be in concordance, I’m afraid that the Year Planet may be offended by the Sun.” As soon as he heard this the dragon king knew that this was the place where fortunes were told, so he pushed through the crowds to look inside. He saw:

Four walls covered with pearls,

A room full of silken embroideries,

Incense ever rising from a burner,

Clear water in a porcelain pot.

On either side were paintings by Wang Wei;

High above the seat hung a picture of the Devil Valley Hermit.

An inkstone from Duanxi County,

“Golden smoke” ink,

On which leant a large brush of finest hairs;

A forest of fiery pearls,

The prediction of Guo Pu,

As he diligently compared them to the Tai Zheng Xin Jing.

He was deeply versed in the six lines of the diagrams,

A great expert on the Eight Trigrams.

He understood the principles of Heaven and Earth,

And saw into the feelings of gods and devils.

He knew all about the cyclical numbers,

And had a clear picture of the constellations.

He saw the events of the future,

The events of the past,

As if in a mirror.

Which house would rise,

Which house would fall,

He could tell with divine perception.

He knew when good and bad was coming,

Could predict death and survival.

His words hastened wind and rain;

When he wielded his writing-brush, gods and devils trembled.

His name was written on a signboard:

Master of Divination Yuan Shoucheng.

Who was he? He was Yuan Shoucheng, the uncle of Yuan Tiangang the Imperial Astrologer. He was famous throughout the country, and the leading member of his profession in Chang’an. The dragon king went in to see him, and when they had greeted each other he asked the dragon king to sit down, while a servant brought tea.

“What have you come to ask about, sir?” asked the soothsayer, and the dragon king replied, “I beg you to uncover the secrets of the sky for me.” The soothsayer passed him a slip of paper from his sleeve and said, “Clouds obscure the mountain peak, mist covers the tree tops. If there is to be rain, it will certainly come tomorrow.”

“When will it rain tomorrow,” asked the dragon king, “and how many inches of rain will fall?”

“Tomorrow the clouds will gather at mid-morning; late in the morning there will be thunder; at noon it will start to rain; and in the early afternoon the rain will finish, after 3 feet 3.48 inches have fallen,” replied the soothsayer.

“I trust that you are not fooling,” said the dragon king. “If it rains tomorrow at the time and to the depth you have predicted I shall pay you a fee of fifty pieces of gold. If it does not rain, or if it does not rain at the time and to the depth you say it will, then I’m telling you straight that I’ll smash up your shopfront, tear down your sign and run you out of Chang’an so that you won’t be able to deceive the people a moment longer.”

“That is entirely up to you,” replied the other cheerfully. “We shall meet again tomorrow after the rain.”

The dragon king took his leave and went back to his watery palace from Chang’an. The greater and lesser water spirits greeted him with the question, “How did Your Majesty’s visit to the soothsayer go?”

“It was all right,” he replied, “but he was a smooth-tongued fortune-teller. When I asked him when it would rain, he said tomorrow. When I asked what time of day it would be and how much would fall, he said that at mid-morning the clouds would gather, late in the morning it would thunder, at noon it would start to rain, and early in the afternoon it would stop raining. He also said that 3 feet 3.48 inches of rain would fall. I made a wager with him that if his prediction turned out to be true, I’d give him fifty ounces of gold; but if he got it at all wrong, I’d smash up his shopfront id drive him out, so that he wouldn’t be able to deceive the public any longer. The watery tribe laughed and said, “Your Majesty is the General Superintendent of the Eight Rivers and the Great Dragon God of the Rain, so only you can know whether there will be rain. How dare he talk such nonsense? That fortune-teller is bound to lose, absolutely bound to.”

Just as all the dragon sons and grandsons were laughing and talking about this with the fish ministers and crab soldiers a shout was heard from the sky: “Dragon King of the Jing River, prepare to receive an Imperial Decree.” They all looked up and saw a warrior in golden clothes coming towards the watery palace with a decree from the Jade Emperor in his hands. This alarmed the dragon king, who straightened his clothes, stood up solemnly, burnt incense and received the decree. The gold-clad warrior returned to the sky. Giving thanks for the imperial grace the dragon king opened the letter and read:

“We order the Superintendent of the Eight Rivers to travel with thunder and lightning and succor the city of Chang’an with rain.”

The time and the amount on the decree were exactly the same as those foretold by the soothsayer, which so startled the dragon king that he passed out. When he came round a moment later he said to the watery tribe, “How can there be a man of such powers in the mortal world? He is really someone who knows everything about Heaven and Earth—I’m bound to be beaten by him.”

“Your Majesty should not worry,” submitted General Shad in a memorial. “There will be no difficulty about beating him. Your subject has a humble plan that I can guarantee will shut that scoundrel’s mouth.” When the dragon king asked what the plan was, the general replied, “Make it rain at the wrong time and not quite enough, so that his predictions are wrong, and then you will surely beat him. There will be nothing to stop you smashing his sign to smithereens and running him out of town.” The dragon king accepted his advice and stopped worrying.

The next day he ordered Viscount Wind, Duke Thunder, the Cloud Youth and Mother Lightning to go to the sky above the city of Chang’an. He waited till late in the morning before spreading the clouds, unleashed the thunder at noon, started the rain in the early afternoon, and stopped it in the late afternoon, when only three feet and 0.4 inches had fallen. He had thus changed the times by two hours and reduced the amount of rain by .08 inches. After the rain he dismissed his generals and his hosts and put away his clouds; then he changed back into a white-clad scholar and charged into Yuan Shoucheng’s fortune-telling stall on West Gate Street. Without even asking for an explanation he smashed up Yuan’s sign, his brush, his inkstone, and everything else, while the fortune-teller remained calmly in his chair without moving.

The dragon king brandished the door in the air, ready to hit him with it, and began to pour abuse on him: “You evil man, with all your reckless talk about blessings and disasters; you stinking deceiver of the masses. Your predictions are false, and you talk nonsense. You got the time and the amount of today’s rain quite wrong, but you still sit there so high and mighty. Get out at once if you want me to spare your life.” Yuan Shoucheng, who was as calm and unfrightened as ever, looked up to the sky with a mocking smile.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, “I’m not afraid. I’ve committed no capital offence, but I fear that you have. You may be able to fool other people, but you can’t fool me. I know who you are. You’re no scholar; you’re the Dragon King of the River Jing. You flouted a decree of the Jade Emperor by changing the time of the rain and cutting down the amount, which is a crime against the laws of Heaven. I’m afraid that you’re for the executioner’s blade on the Dragon-slicing Scaffold. Are you going to keep up that abuse of me?”

On hearing this the dragon king trembled from fear and his hair stood on end. Dropping the door at once he straightened his clothes and made gestures of submission, kneeling to the soothsayer and saying, “Please do not be angry with me, sir; I was only joking. I never thought that it would be taken seriously. Whatever am I to do if I have broken the laws of Heaven? I beg you to save me, sir. If you don’t I shall haunt you after my death.”

“I can’t save you,” replied Yuan Shoucheng, “but I can suggest one way by which you may be able to save your skin.”

“I beg you to tell me,” implored the dragon king.

“Tomorrow afternoon at half past one you will have to go to the office of the official in charge of personnel, Wei Zheng, to be beheaded. If you want to stay alive you must report at once to the present Tang Emperor, Taizong, as Wei Zheng is a minister of his; and if you can get him to speak for you, you will be all right.” The dragon king took his leave of the soothsayer with tears in his eyes and went away. The sun was setting in the West, and the moon and stars were coming out.

As clouds settle round the mountains the crows fly back to roost,

The travelers on long journeys find inns for the night.

The returning geese sleep on a sandbank by the ford,

As the Milky Way appears.

While the hours push on

A lamp in the lonely village burns with barely a flame.

Pure is the monastery as the reed smoke curls in the breeze;

Men disappear in the butterfly dream.

As the moon sinks, flower shadows climb the rails,

The stars are a jumble of light.

The hours are called,

The night is already half way through.

The Dragon King of the River Jing did not return to his watery palace but stayed in the sky until the small hours of the morning, when he put away his cloud and his mist horn, and went straight to the gate of the Imperial Palace. At this very moment the Tang Emperor dreamt that he went out of the palace gate to stroll among the flowers in the moonlight. The dragon king at once took human form, went up to him and knelt and bowed before him, crying, “Save me, Your Majesty, save me.”

“Who are you, that we should save you?” asked Taizong.

“Your Majesty is a true dragon,” replied the dragon king, “and I am a wicked dragon. As I have offended against the laws of Heaven, I am due to be beheaded by Your Majesty’s illustrious minister Wei Zheng, the official in charge of personnel, so I have come to beg you to save me.”

“If you are supposed to be beheaded by Wei Zheng, we can save you, so set your mind at rest and go along now,” said the Tang Emperor. The dragon king, who was extremely happy, kowtowed in thanks and went away.

Taizong remembered his dream when he woke up. It was now half past four in the morning, so Taizong held court before the assembled civil and military officials.

Mist wreathed the palace gates,

Incense rose to the dragon towers.

In the shimmering light the silken screen moves,

As the clouds shake the imperial glory spreads.

Monarch and subject as faithful as Yao and Shun,

Imposing music and ritual rivaling Zhou and Han.

Pages hold lanterns,

Palace women hold fans,

In brilliant pairs.

Pheasant screens,

Unicorn halls,

Shimmering everywhere.

As the call “Long Live the Emperor” goes up,

The Empress is wished a thousand autumns.

When the Rod of Silence descends three times,

The uniformed officials bow to the emperor.

The brightly coloured palace flowers have a heavenly scent;

The delicate willows on the bank sing royal songs.

Pearl curtains,

Jade curtains,

Are hung high from golden hooks;

Dragon and phoenix fans,

Landscape fans,

Rest by the royal chariot.

Elegant are the civil officials,

Vigorous the generals.

By the Imperial Way high and low are divided;

They stand by rank beneath the palace steps.

The ministers with their purple corded seals ride three elephants.

May the Emperor live as long as Heaven and Earth!

When the officials had all done homage they divided into their groups. The Tang Emperor looked at them one by one with his dragon and phoenix eyes. Among the civil officials he observed Fang Xuanling, Du Ruhui, Xu Shiji, Xu Jingzong, Wang Gui and others; and among the military officers he saw Ma Sanbao, Duan Zhixian, Yin Kaishan, Cheng Yaojin, Liu Hongji, Hu Jingde, and Qin Shubao among others. Every one of them was standing there solemnly and with dignity, but he could not see Minister Wei Zheng among them.

He summoned Xu Shiji into the palace hall and said to him, “We had a strange dream last night in which a man came and bowed to us, claiming that he was the Dragon King of the River Jing. He had broken the laws of Heaven, and was due to be beheaded by the official in the personnel department, Wei Zheng. He begged us to save him, and we agreed. Why is it that the only official missing at court today is Wei Zheng?”

“If this dream is true,” replied Xu Shiji, “Wei Zheng must be summoned to the palace, and Your Majesty must not let him out of doors. Once today is over the Dragon King will be saved.” The Tang Emperor was overjoyed and he sent a personal aide with a decree summoning Wei Zheng to court.

That night the minister Wei Zheng had been reading the stars in his residence and was just burning some precious incense when he