The Ancient Mirror

I n the last years of the Sui, there lived at Fenyin a scholar named Hou Sheng, the most remarkable man of his age, and a young man named Wang Du studied under him as a disciple. When the old master was dying, he gave Wang Du an ancient bronze mirror. "Keep this by you," he said, "and every evil thing will stay away." The mirror was eight inches across. A unicorn crouched at its center for the handle-knob; around it, set to the four quarters, ran the tortoise, the dragon, the phoenix, and the tiger; beyond them the eight trigrams; beyond those the twelve branches with their beasts; and around the very rim, twenty-four strange characters in a script that belonged to no book on earth. Strike it once and it gave a clear, slow note that did not die away until nightfall. Hou Sheng had told him the Yellow Emperor cast fifteen mirrors like it at the dawn of the world, each an inch smaller than the one before, and that this was the eighth. In Sui times there lived Hou Sheng of Fenyin, the most extraordinary man of his age. Wang Du served him as a teacher. When Hou Sheng was dying, he gave Du an ancient mirror, saying, "Keep this, and every evil thing will keep its distance." Du took it and treasured it. The mirror was eight inches across. At its center, for the knob, crouched a unicorn; around the knob were set, by their quarters, the tortoise, dragon, phoenix, and tiger; beyond them the eight trigrams; beyond those the twelve earthly branches with their animals; and beyond those, twenty-four characters ringing the rim, in a script like the clerkly hand but found in no book. Struck, it gave a clear note that drew out slowly and did not fade until the day was done. Hou Sheng had said the Yellow Emperor cast fifteen such mirrors, each an inch smaller than the last, and that this was the eighth.

That summer Wang Du came back to Chang'an, and at Changle Slope he stayed the night in the house of a man named Cheng Xiong. Cheng had recently been left a servant-girl to look after — a lovely creature called Parrot. Wang Du unsaddled his horse, and as he was straightening his cap and shoes he raised the mirror to look at himself. Parrot saw it from across the room and flung herself down, knocking her forehead on the floor until it bled, sobbing that she could not stay in the house. Wang Du called his host and asked what ailed her. Two months ago, Cheng said, a traveler had brought the girl from the east; she had fallen badly ill on the road, and the man had left her here, promising to collect her when he passed back through. He never returned, and no one knew where she had come from. In the sixth month Du returned to Chang'an. At Changle Slope he lodged in the house of his host Cheng Xiong, who had lately been left a servant-girl in his keeping, very comely, named Parrot. When Du had unhitched his horse and was setting his cap and shoes straight, he lifted the mirror to look at himself. Parrot, seeing it from across the room, at once knocked her head on the ground until it bled, crying that she dared not stay. Du called the host and asked why. Cheng Xiong said that two months before, a traveler had brought the girl from the east; she had fallen gravely ill, and the man had left her, saying he would fetch her on his return — but he had never come back, and Cheng knew nothing of her origins.

Wang Du guessed what she was, and held the mirror close upon her. At once she begged for her life, and her shape began to run like wax. He turned the mirror away. "Tell me your story first," he said. "Then take your true form, and I will let you live." She bowed twice and told it. "I am a fox, a thousand years old, from under the tall pine before the shrine of the Lord of Mount Hua. I worked a great deal of mischief and bewitchment, and for that I earned death; the Lord's officers hunted me, and I fled into the land between the Yellow River and the Wei. A man of Xiagui named Chen Sigong took me in as a foster-daughter and was good to me, and gave me in marriage to a townsman. My husband and I did not suit, and I ran away eastward — and was caught by a rough traveler who dragged me about the roads for years, until yesterday he left me here. And now, to my sorrow, I have met the mirror of Heaven, and there is nowhere left for me to hide." Suspecting a spirit, Du brought the mirror close upon her. At once she cried for mercy and began to change shape. Du covered the mirror and said, "Tell your story first; then take your true form, and I will spare your life." Bowing twice, she confessed: "I am a thousand-year-old fox from beneath the tall pine before the shrine of the Lord of Mount Hua. I worked much bewitchment, and my crimes deserved death, so the Lord's men hunted me, and I fled to the country between the Yellow River and the Wei. There a man of Xiagui, Chen Sigong, took me in as an adopted daughter and used me kindly, and married me to a townsman, Chai Hua. But Chai Hua and I did not suit, and I ran away east. I was seized by a traveler, Li Wu'ao, a coarse man, who carried me wandering for years, and yesterday came here. Now suddenly I am left behind — and to my misfortune I have met the Heaven-mirror, and there is no way left to hide."

“A divine thing of this world will never stay long among men.”

"Would you have me spare you?" Wang Du asked. "You are kind," she said, "but once the mirror of Heaven has looked on me, I cannot hold this shape. And I have been a woman so long now that I am ashamed to crawl back into the old one. Shut the mirror in its case, and let me drink my fill, and be done." So Wang Du closed the mirror in its box, sent for wine, and called in all the neighbors for a feast. Before long the girl was drunk. She shook out her sleeves and rose and danced, and this was her song: "Mirror, bright mirror — alas for my life! / Since I left my own shape, how many names I have worn. / Living was sweet enough, and dying is no wrong — / why cling here, why linger, guarding this one small place?" When the song ended she bowed twice, turned into an old fox, and died. The whole room sat in silence, astonished. Du said, "Would you have me spare you?" Parrot answered, "You are kind, but once the Heaven-mirror has shone on me I cannot keep this shape. I have worn a human body so long that I am ashamed to go back to my old one. Shut the mirror in its case and let me drink my fill and make an end." Du then put the mirror in its box, brought wine, and called in all Cheng Xiong's neighbors for a feast. Soon the girl was very drunk; she shook out her sleeves, rose to dance, and sang: "Mirror, O mirror — alas for my life! Since I left my form, how many names I have borne. Living was a joy, dying is no wrong — why cling on, guarding this one small corner of the world?" The song done, she bowed twice, changed into an old fox, and died. The whole room sat astonished.

In the fourth month of the next year the sun was eclipsed. Wang Du was at his office, and as the light failed and his clerks told him the eclipse was near total, he took out the mirror — and found it darkened too, its face gone dull and lightless. He was still marveling at this when the sun began to return, and stroke for stroke, as the daylight came back, the mirror brightened until it shone clear as before. Ever after, whenever the sun or the moon was eaten by shadow, the mirror went dark along with it. On the first day of the fourth month of the eighth year of Daye, the sun was eclipsed. Du was at his office; as the daylight dimmed, the clerks told him the eclipse was deep. He drew out the mirror — and it too had gone dark and lightless. He wondered at it. Presently the sun's brightness returned, and as it came back the mirror grew clear and bright as before. From then on, whenever the sun or moon was eclipsed, the mirror darkened with it.

That autumn Wang Du was appointed magistrate of Ruicheng. In front of the courthouse stood an ancient jujube tree, some yards around and centuries old, and every magistrate before him had made sacrifice to it — for it was said that whoever failed to was struck by disaster on the spot. Wang Du believed that such things live on exactly the worship people feed them, and that the cult ought to be ended; but his clerks knelt and begged, so he made one offering. Privately, though, he was sure some spirit lodged in the tree and that the sacrifices only fattened its power. So one night he hung the mirror secretly among the branches. Around the second watch a crash like thunder broke out before the courthouse. He went to look: wind and black rain had wrapped the tree, and lightning ran up and down its trunk. By first light a great serpent lay dead beneath it — purple-scaled, red-tailed, green-headed, white-horned, the character for king on its brow, and its body covered in wounds. Wang Du took down the mirror, had the snake dragged out and burned at the county gate, and ordered the tree dug up. At its core was a hollow, and the coil-marks where the thing had lived. They filled it in, and the hauntings stopped. That autumn Du was made magistrate of Ruicheng. Before the courthouse stood an old jujube tree, several spans around and hundreds of years old; every magistrate before him had sacrificed to it, for it was said that otherwise disaster fell at once. Du held that such monsters live off the worship men give them and that the cult should be stopped — yet the clerks begged him, kowtowing, so he made one offering. But privately he thought some spirit must lodge in the tree, and that the sacrifices only fed its power. So he secretly hung the mirror among its branches. About the second watch that night he heard a crashing before the courthouse like thunder. He rose and looked: wind and rain had blackened the sky and were coiling about the tree, lightning flashing up and down it. By dawn a great serpent lay dead beneath — purple-scaled, red-tailed, green-headed, white-horned, with the character for "king" on its brow — covered in wounds. Du took down the mirror, had the clerks drag the snake out and burn it at the county gate, and dug up the tree: at its heart was a hollow, and the marks where a huge snake had coiled. He filled it in, and the hauntings ceased.

That winter, holding authority as censor and magistrate, Wang Du was sent to open the granaries and relieve the starving. The whole realm was in chaos, and sickness lay everywhere; between Pu and Shan the plague was worst of all. A clerk of his, Zhang Longju, had a household of some dozens who all fell ill at once. Wang Du pitied them and sent the mirror to the house, telling Longju to carry it by night and shine it on the sick. Every one of them started up and said the same thing: they had seen Longju holding a bright moon to light them, and where its cold radiance fell, like ice laid against the skin, it went straight through to the vitals — and the fever broke on the instant. By evening they had all recovered. Since it cost the mirror nothing and saved so many, Wang Du sent Longju carrying it in secret through the whole district. That night the mirror rang softly in its case of its own accord, a thin far-carrying sound that took a long while to fade. In the morning Longju came to him. "Last night I dreamed of a man with a dragon's head and a serpent's body, in a red cap and a purple robe," he said. "He told me: I am the spirit of this mirror, and my name is Zizhen. I have long been good to your house, so I come to ask a favor. Tell Lord Wang that this sickness is a punishment sent down by Heaven — how can he force me to fight Heaven to save people from it? In any case the plague will ease of itself by next month. Let him not press me so hard." And by the next month the sickness faded, exactly as the mirror had foretold. That winter, still censor and magistrate, Du was sent with authority to open the granaries and relieve the country. The realm was in great turmoil, and sickness everywhere; the plague was worst between Pu and Shan. A clerk under Du, Zhang Longju of Hebei, had a household of some dozens who all fell ill at once. Pitying them, Du sent the mirror into the house and had Longju carry it by night to shine on the sick. Each, seeing it, started up and said they had seen Longju carrying a moon to shine on them, and that where its cold light touched, like ice laid on the body, it pierced to the vitals — and at once the fever settled; by evening all were well. Since it did the mirror no harm and saved so many, Du had Longju carry it secretly through the whole district. That night the mirror rang faintly in its case of itself, a sound that carried far and only slowly ceased. Next morning Longju told him: "In the night I dreamed of a man with a dragon's head and a serpent's body, in a red cap and purple robe, who said: I am the spirit of the mirror; my name is Zizhen. I have long done kindness to your house, and so I come to ask this of you. Say to Lord Wang: the people's sickness is a punishment sent by Heaven — how can he make me turn against Heaven to save them? Besides, by next month the plague will pass of itself. Do not trouble me so." And by the next month the sickness did fade, as it had said.

In time Wang Du's younger brother, Wang Ji, gave up his post and came home, set now on wandering through every mountain and river and never coming back. Wang Du tried to talk him out of it, but his brother wept and said his mind was made up. At their parting Wang Ji said, "There is one thing I would ask of you. That mirror you treasure is no ordinary thing of the dusty world. I mean to give my heart to the cloud-roads and make my bed among the mist — lend it to me for the road." "How could I grudge it to you?" said Wang Du, and gave it into his hands. Wang Ji took the mirror and left, telling no one where he was going. He was gone for years. Only when he returned at last to Chang'an did he give the mirror back to his brother and tell him everything it had done along the way. In the tenth year of Daye, Du's younger brother Wang Ji gave up his post as aide at Liuhe and came home, meaning now to wander through all the mountains and rivers and never return. Du tried to stop him, but Ji wept and said his mind was made up. At parting Ji said, "I have one thing to ask. That mirror you treasure is no common thing of the dusty world; I mean to set my heart on the cloud-roads and lodge among mist and haze — give it to me for the journey." "How should I grudge it to you?" said Du, and handed it over. Ji took the mirror and set off, telling no one where he was bound; and not until the sixth month of the thirteenth year of Daye did he come back to Chang'an. Returning the mirror, he said to Du, "This is a true treasure," and told what it had done.

He went first to Mount Song, to the Shaoshi peak, and there found a stone chamber in the cliff face and made it his shelter. One moonlit night, past the second watch, two men appeared. One was gaunt and strange-featured, with white brows, and called himself the Old Man of the Hills; the other was broad-faced and squat, and called himself Master Mao. They sat and talked with Wang Ji, and their conversation kept sliding toward things no ordinary man would know. Suspecting what they were, he slid a hand behind his back, eased open the case, and drew out the mirror. The moment its light leapt free, the two cried out and fell flat on the ground — the squat one turned into a tortoise, the strange one into an ape. He hung the mirror above them, and by daybreak both lay dead: the tortoise furred over in green, the ape in white. First Ji went to Mount Song, to Shaoshi, and found a stone chamber in the cliffs where he sheltered. On a moonlit night, after the second watch, two men came — one gaunt and foreign-looking, with white brows, who called himself Old Man of the Hills; the other broad-faced and short, who called himself Master Mao. They sat and talked with Ji, and their talk kept turning to things beyond ordinary knowledge. Suspecting spirits, Ji slipped his hand behind him, opened the case, and took out the mirror. As its light sprang out, the two cried aloud and fell prostrate: the short one became a tortoise, the foreign one an ape. He hung the mirror up, and by dawn both lay dead — the tortoise furred with green, the ape with white.

Traveling on to Yuzhang, Wang Ji fell in with a Daoist named Xu Cangmi, who told him of the granary-keeper of Fengcheng, a man named Li Jingshen whose three daughters had been seized by demons that no one could name. Every evening at dusk, the man said, the three girls would paint their faces and dress in their finest, and after dark shut themselves into their inner room, put out the lamps, and lie there whispering and laughing with someone unseen; and day by day they wasted away, and any attempt to stop them drove them toward the well or the noose. Wang Ji went by daylight and quietly cut through the window-lattice, propping it back in place. After dark, once the girls had shut themselves in, he broke the lattice open, carried the mirror inside, and turned it on them. The three screamed together, "You have killed our husbands!" At first there was nothing to see. But he hung the mirror up, and by morning, before the holes in the wall, lay a rat — over a foot long, without hair or teeth — and a gecko as large as a man's hand, scaled and blazing with five colors, two small horns on its head. Both were dead, and from that day the daughters were well. Wandering on to Yuzhang, Ji met the Daoist Xu Cangmi, who told him that the storehouse-keeper of Fengcheng county, Li Jingshen, had three daughters afflicted by demons no one could identify. The three shared an inner chamber; every day at dusk they would paint and dress themselves finely, and after nightfall shut themselves in, put out the lamps, and could be heard whispering and laughing with someone. They wasted away day by day, and if kept from dressing would try to hang or drown themselves. By daylight Ji cut through the window-lattice and propped it back. After dark, when the girls had shut themselves in, he broke the lattice open, carried the mirror in, and shone it on them. The three screamed, "You have killed our husbands!" At first nothing was seen; but he hung the mirror up, and by morning there lay before the wall-holes a rat — head and all a foot and more long, hairless and toothless — and a gecko as big as a man's hand, scaled and blazing with five colors, two horns on its head; both dead. From then the daughters recovered.

Traveling in the south, Wang Ji came to cross the Yangzi at Guangling. All at once black clouds smothered the water, a dark wind came up, and the waves stood on end; the boatmen went pale, certain the boat would founder. Wang Ji brought the mirror up onto the deck and shone it a few paces out across the river. The water lit clear to its bed, the wind and cloud pulled back on every side, the waves lay down — and in a moment they were across the great barrier of the river. Traveling in the south, as Ji was about to cross the Yangzi at Guangling, black clouds suddenly covered the water, a dark wind rose, and the waves surged up; the boatmen lost their color, fearing the boat would go under. Ji carried the mirror onto the deck and shone it a few paces out over the river: the water lit clear to the bottom, the wind and clouds drew off on every side, the waves went down, and in a moment they crossed the great barrier-river.

Later, seeking out the true Way, Wang Ji climbed Mount Lu, through country thick with tigers and leopards and wolves running in packs; but he had only to lift the mirror and every beast fled and hid itself. On the mountain lived a recluse named Su Bin, a man of rare insight, who said to him: "A divine thing of this world will never stay long among men. The whole realm is sliding into ruin now, and no far country will keep you safe — while this mirror is still with you to guard you, go home." Wang Ji saw that he was right and turned north at once. As he was passing through Hebei, one night the mirror came to him in a dream and spoke: "I have had your brother's great kindness; now I must leave the world of men and go far off. I wanted to say goodbye to you — go quickly back to Chang'an." He woke with a heavy heart, and knew in his bones that the mirror would not be his brother's much longer. Some months later he came home to Hedong. Later, seeking the true Way, Ji came to Mount Lu, where tigers and leopards and wolves ran in packs — but he had only to raise the mirror and every one of them fled and hid. On Lu there lived a recluse, Su Bin, a man of rare discernment, who said to him: "A divine thing of the world will never dwell long among men. Now the whole realm is falling into ruin, and other lands may give you no safe rest; while this mirror is still with you to guard you, hurry home." Ji thought him right and turned north at once. Wandering in Hebei, one night he dreamed the mirror spoke to him: "I have received your brother's generous care; now I must leave the human world and go far away. I wished to take my leave of you — go quickly back to Chang'an." He feared the divine thing was no longer his brother's to keep. Some months later he returned to Hedong.

On the fifteenth day of the seventh month, in the thirteenth year of Daye, a grieving cry rose from inside the case. It began faint and far off, then swelled and swelled until it was like the roar of a dragon and the howl of a tiger, and only after a long time fell silent. When they opened the case to look, the mirror was gone. On the fifteenth day of the seventh month of the thirteenth year of Daye, a mournful cry came from within the case — a sound faint and far, that grew and grew until it was like a dragon's roar and a tiger's howl, and only after a long while grew still. They opened the case to look: the mirror was gone.

古鏡 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

隋汾陰侯生,天下奇士也。王度常以師禮事之。臨終贈度以古鏡曰:「持此則百邪遠人。」

Opening lines, classical Chinese · 傳奇 · Tang chuanqi, via 太平廣記 Taiping Guangji