The Daoist of Láoshān

Adapted from Pu Songling’s (1640-1715) "Liaozhai Zhiyi"

In the old days there lived a young man known as Wang, seventh son of a respectable family. Since boyhood he longed for the Dào and had heard that the remote peaks of Láoshān were home to immortals. Carrying only his books and a traveler’s pack, he journeyed east to seek a teacher.

High on one summit he found a quiet old temple. Inside, a Daoist priest with long white hair sat on a reed cushion, his eyes bright and spirited. Wang bowed and begged to be accepted as a disciple.

“The Way is arduous,” the Daoist warned. “You may not endure the hardship.” “I can,” Wang insisted.

By dusk the priest’s many disciples returned. Wang joined them in respectful bows and stayed the night. At dawn, the Daoist handed him an axe. “Go cut firewood with the others.”

Wang obeyed. Days turned into weeks, then months. His hands blistered, his feet grew callused, and still he learned no secret arts. Discouragement crept into his heart.

One evening he returned to the temple to find the master drinking with two guests. The sky was dark, yet no lamp burned. Instead, the Dàoist cut a round of paper and pasted it to the wall. At once it shone with brilliant moonlight, illuminating every corner of the room.

The guests laughed with delight. One poured wine for the disciples from a single small jug—yet no matter how much they drank, the jug never emptied. Wang marveled. Another guest flicked a chopstick toward the glowing “moon.” A slender woman stepped forth from the light, first no larger than a hand, then tall as any person—elegant, slender, and graceful. She danced the ethereal Rainbow Skirt and sang with a voice like flutes and pipes:

“O immortal one—must I return? Must I dwell again in the cold palace of the moon?”

Her song lingered like frost on jade. Before Wang could blink, she leapt back toward the paper moon and became a chopstick once more.

The three guests roared with laughter. “What a night! Escort us to the Moon Palace!” They slid their mats closer to the glowing circle and vanished inside. The disciples peered at the paper moon and saw the three men sitting within as clearly as reflections in a mirror.

After some time the light faded. When the disciples brought candles, only the Daoist remained. The “moon” was no more than a round of paper stuck to the wall.

The master sent them to bed. Wang’s doubts melted; his longing to learn deepened. But after another month of chopping wood from dawn to dusk, he could endure no more. He approached the priest. “Master, I have come hundreds of miles. Even if I do not gain immortality, surely I might learn a small technique. Yet these months have brought nothing but labor.”

The Daoist laughed gently. “Did I not warn you? Very well. What skill do you wish to learn?”
Wang replied, “Master walks through walls without obstruction. If I could learn just this, I would be satisfied.”

The Daoist agreed and taught him a simple incantation. “When you finish the spell, run straight in. Do not hesitate.”

Wang chanted, faced the wall, and froze. The Dàoist urged him again. Wang backed up, ran forward, and—passing through the wall as though it were smoke—found himself outside. Elated, he thanked the master.

“Keep your body clean and your mind steady,” the Daoist warned. “Otherwise the technique will fail.”

Wang went home full of pride. His wife doubted his story, so he prepared to demonstrate. He stepped back several paces, recited the charm, ran forward—and crashed headfirst into the wall. The room shook. His wife found him sprawled on the floor, a lump swelling on his forehead like a great egg. She laughed; Wang cursed the Dàoist for misleading him.

But by then, the master was far away, the moonlight tricks forgotten, and the Way (as always) beyond the grasp of the impatient.