The History of China - 309 - Strange Tales X.1: Fateful Encounters

Episode Date: October 22, 2025

00:02:09 - "The Scholar & the Headless Ghost" True music fans come in all types. 00:05:37 - "Magical Arts" Let the buyer beware... but sometimes the non-buyer, too! 00:12:37 - "Ruby Jade" Nobody knows you when you're down & out... 00:27:00 - "Examination for the Post of Guardian Angel" The job offer of a lifetime! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

You're listening to an Airwave Media podcast. Hello and welcome to the history of China. Episode 309, Strange Tales 10.1, fateful encounters. The leaves are catching fire in autumn's chill, and the harvest moon hangs over head. Now is the time each year when the veil between worlds grows thin and could be most easily breached by the living, the dead, and the other all the same. That's right. It's time for more strange tales. Our quartet of stories today, like most folk tales from China, has no single definitive source, or even one agreed-upon version. There are as many as there have been

village storytellers to regale people around the chill evening's hearth. Yet they share many themes, both stated and implied. While they're often hapless protagonists face the supernatural, these spectres are often not their actual main foe. As with much speculative fiction, I mean, completely true and factual stories that I'm about to tell, of course, the scary monster can also function as, or highlight, the more mundane, yet just as dangerous, social, and governmental abuses that couldn't at the time be complained about directly. What is horror after all, but dark reflections of the real world we all live in? And so, with that, let's dig right in. The grave dirt's freshly turned.

Our first tale today, in the shadow of an ancient execution ground where the wind whispers of unjust blades and forgotten screams, a lone wanderer strums his liar beneath the harvest moon's unblinking gaze. He's no ordinary traveler, noble of heart, fearless of soul. But even the clearest conscience may falter when the veil parts, and a voice from beyond seeks his audience. So listen up, and listen close. For the tale of the scholar and the headless ghost.

Ji Kang was a man of noble character who liked to roam the country. Once traveling southwest of Luoyang, he came to a station named Huayang. a few dozen lee from the capital, where he put up for the night. There was no one else there that day. He was all alone. The station stood at an old execution ground, and accidents often happened to those who lodged there. But Ji Kang, who had a clear conscience, was not afraid. At around the first watch of the night, he started strumming his lyre, playing several tunes. He was an excellent player, and a voice from the emptiness called,

Bravo G-Kong stopped playing and asked Who are you? I am a dead man answered the voice I have been here for thousands of years When I heard you playing so sweetly and harmoniously on your liar

I could not help coming to listen As I used to love music too Unfortunately I was killed unjustly And my body is mutilated So I am not fit to be seen but I greatly admire your playing and would like to watch you if you have no objection. Do play some more.

Ji Kang, having played again, beat his liar with his hand and exclaimed, It is growing late. Why don't you show yourself? Why should we care about appearances? The ghost then appeared, holding its head in its hand. After hearing you play, my heart feels light, it said.

I seem to have come. to life again. So they discussed their common interest in music, and the ghost spoke most lucidly and eloquently. Finally, it asked Ji Kang, may I borrow your liar? Then Ji Kang let it play. Some of the tunes it played were common enough, but one piece called Guangling San, a very famous tune in ancient China, was quite superb.

Ji Kang learned of this from the ghost, memorizing the whole of it within a few hours, a better melody than he had ever learned before. The ghost made him swear not to teach it to others and not to disclose the ghost's name. When dawn was about to break, it said to Ji Kang, Although we have only met this night, we have formed a thousand-year friendship. The long night is over. I must reluctantly leave you. And with that, it was gone. A quick note here. G. Kong was a great poet and musician of the Three Kingdoms period, from 220 to 280-C.E. He was also the leader of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Forest School,

and one of the representatives of the metaphysitional school among his contemporaries. In the lamplit haze of the imperial capital, our second hero scoffs at a street diviner's fateful decree. You have three days. But as grim doom counts, down, and the shadows stir with unholy chorus. Who, or what, will answer that call of doom? Lend an ear to the midnight clamor, for in this tale of dark prophecy, fear not the sound of fate's bell, but the hand that rings it.

Magical Arts A certain Mr. Yu was a spirited young fellow, fond of boxing and trials of strength. He was able to take two kettles and swing them round about with the speed of the the wind. Now, during the reign of Chongcheng, went up for the final examination at the capital. His servant became seriously ill. Much trouble at this, he applied to a necromancer in the marketplace, who was skillful at determining the various leases of life allotted to men. Before he had uttered a word, the necromancer asked him, saying, Is it not about your servants, sir, that you would consult me?

Mr. Yu was startled at this and replied that it was. The sick man, continued the necromancer, will come to no harm. You, sir, are the one in danger. Mr. Yu then begged him to cast his nativity, which he proceeded to do, finally saying to Mr. You, You have but three days to live. Dreadfully frightened, he remained some time in a state of stupefaction, when the necromancer quietly observed that he possessed the power of averting this calamity by magic, and would exert it for the sum of ten ounces of silver. But Mr. Yu reflected that life and death are

already fixed, and he didn't see how magic could save him. So he refused, and was just going away whereupon the necromancer said, you grudge this trifling outlay. I hope you will not repent it. Mr. U's friends also urged him to pay the money, advising him rather to empty his purse then not secure the necromancer's compassion. Mr. You, however, would not hear of it, and, three days later, slipped quickly away. Then he sat down calmly in his inn to see what was going to happen. Nothing did happen all day,

and at night he shut his door and trimmed the lamp. Then, with a sword at his side, he awaited the approach of death. By and by, the Klepsidre showed that two hours had already gone by, without bringing him any mirror to dissolution. And he was thinking about lying down when he heard a scratching at the window, and then saw a tiny little man creep through, carrying a spear on his shoulder,

who, on reaching the ground, shot up to the ordinary height. Mr. You seized his sword and struck out at once, but only succeeded in cutting the air. His visitor instantly shrunk down again and made an attempt to escape through the crevice in the window. But Yu redoubled his blows, and at last brought him to the ground. Lighting the lamp, he found only a paper man, cut right through the middle.

This made him afraid to sleep, and he sat up watching, until in a little time he saw a horrid hobgoblin creep through the very same place. No sooner did it touch the ground than he assailed it lustily with his sword, at length cutting it in half. Seeing, however, that both halves kept on wriggling about, and fearing that it might get up again, he went on hacking at it. Every blow told, giving forth a hard sound, and when he came to examine his work, he found a clay image all knocked to pieces. Upon this, he moved his seat near the window, and kept his eye fixed upon the crack. After some time, he heard a noise like a bull

bellowing outside the window, and something pushed against the window frame with such force as to make the whole house tremble and seem about to fall. Mr. Yu, fearing that he should be buried underneath the ruins, thought that he could not do better than fight outside. So he accordingly burst open the door with a crash and rushed out. There he found a huge devil, as tall as the house, and he saw by the dim light of the moon that its face was as black as coal. Its eyes shot forth yellow fire. It had nothing either upon its shoulders or feet, but held a bow in its hand and had some arrows at its waist.

Mr. Yu was terrified, and the devil discharged an arrow at him, which he struck to the ground with his sword. On Mr. Yu preparing to strike, the devil let off another arrow, which the former avoided by jumping aside, the arrow quivering in the wall with a smart crack. The devil here got very angry, and drawing his sword, flourished it like a whirlwind, aiming a tremendous blow at Mr. You. Mr. U ducked, and the whole force of the blow fell upon the stone wall of the house, cleaving it in two.

Mr. U then ran out from between the devil's legs and began hacking at its back. Whack! Whack! The devil now became furious and roared like thunder, turning round to get another blow at his assailant. But Mr. U again ran between his legs. the devil's sword merely cutting off a piece of his coat. Once more he hacked away, whack, whack! And at length, the devil came tumbling down, flat. Mr. Yu cut at him left and right, each blow resounding like the watchman's wooden gong.

Then, bringing a light, he found it was a wooden image, about as tall as a man. The bow and arrows were still there, the ladder attached to its waist. If carved and painted features were most hideous to behold, and wherever Mr. You had struck with its sword, there was blood. Mr. Yu sat with the light in his hand till morning, when he awaked to the fact that all these devils had been sent by the necromancer in order to kill him and so evidence his own magical power. The next day, after having told the story far and wide, he went with some others to the place where the necromancer had his stall. all. But the latter, seeing them coming, vanished in the twinkling of an eye. Someone observed that the blood of a dog would reveal a person who had made himself invisible, and Mr. U immediately procured some and went back with it.

The necromancer disappeared as before, but on the spot where he had been standing, they quickly threw down the dog's blood. Upon this, they saw his head and face all smeared with the blood, his eyes glaring like a devil's. And at once seizing him, they handed him over to the authorities, by whom he was put to death. In our third story tonight, the crushing reality of poverty and official corruption take center stage. With the only respite from societies churned through its own by the callousness of others, coming from the mysterious and capricious whims of the beyond. So look out for fair maidens in the moonlight, and see if you can catch the fay glint

behind her eyes of Ruby Jade. Old Man Feng of Guangping County had a son named Xiangru. Bother and son were both scholars. Old Man Feng was nearly 60, a man of upright character, but his family often went without food or even proper clothing.

In recent years, his wife and daughter-in-law had died, leaving him to fetch water and cook. One moonlit night, Feng Xiangru sat outside when he spotted a stup running woman peering over the wall from the neighboring house to the east. He approached, and she smiled. He waved her over, but she neither came nor retreated.

After several invitations, she climbed a ladder, crossed over, and shared his bed. When Feng Shang Rue asked her name, she said, I am Hongyu, the neighbor's daughter. He was smitten and proposed a secret marriage, which she accepted. For six months, she visited him every night. One evening, old man Fung rose and heard women's laughter. Peering in, he saw Hong Yu. Enraged, he summoned his son and berated him. You rich, we're destitute, yet you shirk honest work for this debauchery.

If word spreads, your reputation is ruined. If not, it will shorten your life. Feng Shang Rui kneltz, weeping in remorse. Old Man Fung then turned on Hong Yu. A woman who forsakes her chastity defiles not only herself, but others. If this becomes known, it will shame us all. Then he stormed back to bed in fury. Hong Yu, in tears, wept,

Such words shame me utterly. Our bond ends here. Feng Shangru pleaded, While father lives, I cannot defy him. If you care for me, you must forgive this. But Hong Yu stood firm. He wept helplessly until she had. at last, relented.

We lack a matchmaker or parental consent. How can we grow old sneaking over walls? I have a match for you. Marry her. He protested to his poverty. Return tomorrow night, she said. I'll find a way. The next evening, Hongyu arrived with 40 tales of silver.

Sixty Lee from here, in Wu Village, lives the Wei family. Their 18-year-old daughter remains unmarried due to a a high bride price. Offer generously, and the match is yours. And with that, she departed. Feng Xiangru told his father that he was going on a blind date, but hid the need for a betrothal gift. Old man Feng, assuming such a match impossible without funds, refused him. Let me try, his son insisted politely. Reluctantly, the old man agreed. Feng Xiangru borrowed a horse and a servant, then rode to the way. household. Originally farmers, the Ways were impressed by the Fung's scholarly status and

Shangru's handsome bearing. Old Man Wei inwardly consented, but hesitated over the bride price. Sensing this, Feng Shangru placed all 40 tales on the table. Overjoyed, Old Manway fetched a neighboring scholar as a go-between. They drafted a marriage contract on red paper and signed it, then and there. Feng Shang Rue entered to greet the matron, but only glimpsed the daughter peaking from behind her mother in the cramped quarters. Though simply dressed, the girl nevertheless shone with a radiant beauty, filling him with a quiet joy. Old Man Wei borrowed a neighbor's home to host his prospective son-in-law. No need for you to fetch her in person. I'll repair a few garments and deliver her to you on the wedding day.

They set a date, and Feng Shang Rue returned her. home, lying once again to his father, the ways admire our scholarly respectability and demanded no dowry. Old man Fung rejoiced. On the appointed day, the ways duly brought their daughter. Frugal and gentle, she and Xiangru enjoyed a harmonious marriage. Two years later, she bore a son named Fuar.

During the Qing Ming Tomb Swiving Festival, she visited the graves of local squire Song, a former imperial censor dismissed for bribery. Idle now at home, he still wielded great influence and bullied the locals. Spotting the beautiful Wei daughter on her return, he lusted after her. Inquiring among the villagers, he learned that she was Feng Xiangru's wife. Deeming the Fung's poor, he sent intermediaries with lavish bribes to sway Shangru. Hearing this, Shangru paled with rage, but knowing he could not challenge the song,

forced to smile and informed his father. Old Fung exploded in fury, rushing out to curse the emissaries, who fled in panic. Both embarrassed and infuriated, Song retaliated, dispatching thugs to the Fung home. There they beat both father and son savagely. The way daughter, hearing the uproar, tossed Fouar onto the bed, let down her hair, and rushed out crying for help. The thugs seized her, hoisted her away, and fled. Battered and groaning, the fangs lay helpless as the child wailed alone inside. Neighbors, pitying them, carried the men to bed and tended to their wounds.

A day later, Shangru could stand, albeit with a cane. Old Fung, refusing food and drink and rage, spat out blood and later died. Shangru wailed in grief, then took his son to every local official, from county Yaman to governor and even Governor General, seeking justice, but finding none. Learning later that his wife had died resisting the abduction, his anguish only deepened. Consumed by injustice and hatred, with no recourse, he toyed with ambushing song, but feared for his son's future amid Song's many retainers. Thus he mourned sleeplessly, day and night.

One day, a thick-bearded man with a broad chin visited, a strange, danger to Shangru. Invited to sit, the man cut short inquiries about his origins. Your father murdered, your wife stolen. Have you forsaken vengeance? Suspecting a Song spy, Shangru grew wary. The visitor's eyes bulged in anger. He rose to leave. I took you for a man of honor, but you're worthless. Realizing his error, Shangru knelt and grasped his hand. I feared the song's track. Truthfully, I've endured bitterness on straw and gruel, but dread leaving my infant without heirs. Hero, will you safeguard him as Gongsun Chidyo did, the orphan of Zhao?

The man scoffed, that's woman's work, not mine. Entrust him elsewhere if you must. Or avenge yourself, and I'll aid that. Shangru kowtowed, the man departed without a backward glance. When pressed for a name, he said, If you fail, I hold no grudge. If you succeed, seek no thanks from me. He vanished.

Fearing impocation, Shangru fled with the young Fu-R. That night, as the Song household slept, an intruder scaled the high walls and slaughtered since her song, his son, wife, and even a maid-servant. The surviving songs sued. The county magistrate alarmed, suspected Feng Xiangru. officers found his home empty, sealing their conviction. Servants and constables scoured the area, reaching as far as Nan Shan by that night.

Guided by a child's cries, they captured Shangru, bound him, and dragged him away. Fuar's whales grew frantic. The captors seized the boy and then abandoned him on the roadside. Shangru seethed with resentment. Before the magistrate, he was asked, Why murder them? Injustice, he cried. Song died at night.

I fled by day, cradling a crying child. How could I scale walls to kill? If innocent, why flee? The magistrate retorted. Speechless, Shangri was jailed. My death matters little, he lamented. But what of this orphan? You slain a household, the magistrate sneered.

Why grudge your son's death too? Strip of status and tortured. Shangru yet refused to confess to the crime. That night, as he lay down, a knife thudded into the headboard. Laid frost sharp, sunk over an inch deep, now immovable. The magistrate, roused by the crash, screamed in terror. His household rushed in, lanterns revealing the weapon. Horrified, he ordered a search, but no intruder was found.

Though secretly unnerved, and with Song dead no further threat, he reported fully to superiors, exonerating and at last releasing Shangru. Shangru returned to an empty home and meager stores. Neighbors sustained him with scraps, but survival was bare. Reflecting on vengeance, he smiled. On his near extinction, he wept. On lifelong poverty and childlessness, he sobbed in solitude. Half a year later, with the case closed, he petitioned for his wife's remains, buried them. then contemplated suicide in grief.

Restless one night, a knock sounded at his door. Listening closely, he heard a woman outside whispering to a child. Peering out, he opened the door. My great wrong is avenged. Are you well? The familiar voice eluded him until lantern light revealed Hong Yu, cradling a boy who smiled up at her. Overjoyed, Shangru embraced them both.

together dissolving in tears. After a time and upon regaining composure, Hongyu nudged the child. Recognize your father? Fuar clung to her skirt, eyes wide on Shang Ru. Stunned, he asked through sobs, Where did you find him? Truthfully, she confessed, I lied about being the neighbor's daughter.

I am a fox spirit. One night I heard a child's cries at the valley mouth, took him to Shan Shi and raised him myself. Hearing your troubles ended, I brought him home. Shangru dried his tears and gratitude. Fuar, treating Hong Yu as mother, ignored his true father. Before dawn, Hongyu rose to leave. Shangru, nude, knelt weeping at the bed's head.

Smiling, she teased, with our new family, we rise early, retire late. She weeded, swept, and toiled like a man. Shangru fretted over their poverty, but she urged, Study hard, ignore gains and losses. We shan't starve by the road. He bought spinning tools, rented fields, and hired laborers. Hong Yu labored tirelessly, weeding, patching the roof, winning villagers' aid through her virtue.

In six months' time, the fangs prospered like gentry. Shangru said, You saved us, rebuilding us from ruin. but one matter lingers. When she asked what, he replied, Exams near, yet my scholar status is revoked. Hong Yu smiled. I sent four ingots to the academic intendant.

It's restored. Had you delayed, it'd be too late by now. Awed by her foresight, Shangru took the exams and passed as Juren at 36. Their fields and times sprawled ever vaster, their home deep and grand. Hongyu, lithe as if wind-borne, outworked any peasant wife. Winter left her hands soft and pale.

She claimed 38, yet appeared only 20. The Ishii She records, The fung son was virtuous, as his father virtuous. Heaven sent them chivalrous aid. Not only humans prove chivalrous. Foxes can do that, too. But a strange tale. Yet the magistrate.

its errors, appall. That flying knife, thudding into the headboard, why not a half-foot nearer? Had Song's Su Xun Qing read this, he'd have drained a goblet, sighing, what a pity. It missed. Commentary. This tale brims with romance and legend. Scholar Feng Xiangru, aided by the fox spirit Hong Yu's devotion, marries, father's a son, and later sees the boy rescued from peril and the family fortunes restored. A chivalrous stranger avenges his father's murder and wife's abduction, punishing the corrupt official. Strip away the fantastical fox and hero, and the grim reality emerges. Shangru's desperate straits, the brutal slaying of his father, the seizure of his wife, and his family near ruin, with no legal redress.

As scholars, father and son petitioned relentlessly, from county Yaman all the way up to governor, filing suits repeatedly, and yet justice remained elusive. Imagine an ordinary peasant in their place. The helplessness and injustice would be unbearable. No wonder, Pusangling railed in the Isha-she-she. Such official arrogance chills the blood. In our final tale today, a diligent scholar is seemingly rewarded with an unexpected promotion,

but he'll soon come to find that it comes with certain strings attached and a fully unbreakable contract. So, oh yay, oh yay, all rise, for this telling of examination for the post of a guardian angel. My eldest sister's husband's grandfather, named Songdao, was a graduate. One day, while lying down from indisposition, an official messenger arrived, bringing the usual notification in his hand

and leading a horse with a white forehead to summon him to the examination for his master. Mr. Song here remarked that the grand examiner had not yet come and asked why there should be this hurry. The messenger did not reply to this, but pressed so earnestly that at length Mr. Song roused himself and getting upon the horse rode with him. The way seemed strange, and by and by, they reached a city which resembled the capital of a prince. They then entered the prefects yaman, the apartments of which were beautifully decorated. And there they found some ten officials sitting at the upper end, all strangers to Mr. Song,

with the exception of one whom he recognized to be the god of war. In the veranda, there were two tables and two stools, and at the end of one of the former, a candidate was already seated, so Mr. Song sat down alongside him. On the table were writing materials for each, and suddenly down flew a piece of paper with a theme on it, consisting of the following eight words. One man, two men, by intention, without intention. When Mr. Song had finished his essay, he took it into the hall. It contained the following passage.

Those who are virtuous by intention, though virtuous, shall not be rewarded. Those who are wicked without intention, though wicked, shall receive no punishment. The presiding deities praised this sentiment very much, and calling Mr. Song to come forward, said to him, A guardian angel is wanted in Harnan. Go you and take up the appointment. Mr. Song no sooner heard this than he bowed his head and wept, saying, Unworthy though I am of the honor you have conferred upon me, I should not venture to decline it, but that my aged mother has reached her seventh decade, and there was no one now to take care of

her. I pray you let me wait until she has fulfilled her destiny, when I will hold myself at your disposal. Thereupon, one of the deities, who seemed to be the chief, gave instructions to search out his mother's term of life, and a long-bearded attendant forthwith brought in the book of fate. On turning it over, he declared that she still had nine years to live, and then a consultation was held among the deities, in the middle of which the god of war said, very well, let Mr. Graduate Chang take the post, and be relieved in nine years' time. Then, turning to Mr. Song, he continued, You ought to proceed without delay to your post.

But as a reward for your filial piety, you are granted a furlough of nine years. At the expiration of that time, you will receive another summons. He addressed a few kind words to Mr. Chang, and the two candidates, having made their kowtow, went away together. grasping Mr. Song's hand, his companion, who gave Chang Qi of Changshan as his name and address, accompanied him beyond the city walls, and gave him a stanza of poetry at parting. I cannot recollect at all, but in it occurred this couplet. With wine and flowers we chase the hours in one eternal spring. No moon, no light to cheer the night, thyself that ray must bring.

Mr. Song left him here and rode on, and before very long reached his own home. Here, he awakened as if from a dream, and found that he'd been dead three days. When his mother, hearing a groan in the coffin, ran to it and helped him out. It was some time before he could speak, and then he at once inquired about Chang Shan, where, as it turned out, a graduate named Chang had died that very day. Nine years afterwards, Mr. Song's mother, in accordance with fate, passed from this life. And when the funeral obsequies were over, her son, having first purified himself, entered into his chamber and died also. Now his wife's family lived within the city near the western gate, and all of a sudden they beheld Mr. Song,

accompanied by numerous chariots and horses with carved trappings and red-tasseled bits, enter into the hall, make an obeisance. and depart. They were very much disconcerted at this, not knowing that he had become a spirit, and rushed out into the village to make inquiries, when they'd heard he was already dead. Mr. Song had an account of his adventure written by himself, but unfortunately, after the insurrection, it was not to be found. This is only a bare outline of the whole story. That concludes our spooky and spooky and...

and supernatural tales for today. Hope you enjoyed it. Happy autumn. See you next time. And as always, thanks for listening.