Chapter 16: Zhuangzi Dreams of a Butterfly
Only then did they awaken from their dreamlike encounter, recalling the celestial sage and the mountain deity beside him. Every gesture was majestic and extraordinary; he was clearly the rightful lord of these mountains, rivers, and lakes.
Ordinary people spend their lives seeking immortals and the Way.
To meet a divine being in person is a rare blessing.
Let alone to have such a fated connection as they did.
The reminder stirred their awareness, and instantly all eyes turned toward the desk. Wang Anlan rose hastily, brushing away the servant’s hand that sought to support him, and approached.
He bowed deeply, then knelt and saluted with joined palms.
“Thank you, immortal…”
“No need for that,” Jiang She replied.
“But one must... I must thank the immortal…” The words suddenly caught in his throat, as if a tight knot blocked his voice. The phrase “immortal” simply could not be uttered.
Wang Er broke into a cold sweat.
He suddenly realized that this figure was unlike any wandering mystic he had encountered.
This was a true celestial being.
If an immortal dislikes something, then it is genuine dislike.
This one clearly did not appreciate being called “immortal.” Such a narrow view meant it was best not to say so.
“Ahem... how should I address you, venerable sir?” After a brief silence, Wang Anlan finally found his voice, exhaling deeply with ever greater respect.
“I am Jiang She. You may call me by name, or simply ‘sir.’”
“Mr. Jiang!” they exclaimed.
Jiang She smiled.
He had intended to tell them not to be so formal and reverent. If they continued to lift him up like this, would they soon build a shrine and worship him? Endlessly bowing and kneeling—what fun would that be?
Stone idols could endure such treatment; a living man could not.
Yet seeing their nervous sweat and trembling, he refrained from correcting them further.
“No thanks necessary.”
He glanced at the crowd in the courtyard—eyes filled with awe and longing, the three swindlers shrinking like quails under his gaze—and smiled gently.
Jiang She asked, “What have you all gained today?”
“We are eager to hear your refined insights.”
Meeting his gaze, they recalled their dreamlike experiences.
Some had found wealth and honor; others held office to protect their lands; some guarded temples and upheld the Way for decades; others had married well or traded in the marketplaces.
Meng Haoran and Yuan Danqiu had met him earlier, bonded by a spring rain on the mountain.
They were better acquainted.
Yuan Danqiu blurted out, “I shall never serve as an official again.”
In that ancient nation of Sophora, he had been an official for forty years, managing agriculture and urging grain cultivation. Forty years of tedious calculations had left his head aching, and he never had time to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
In the end, an errant arrow pierced him, and he died drinking feather wine.
Jiang She could not help but smile.
Meng Haoran sat cross-legged on the ground, pondering deeply.
---
After a long reflection, he sighed and asked, “The people and affairs of Sophora seem so real, yet serving as an official for forty years was but a dream... Mr. Jiang, may I ask you something?”
“Does the ancient Sophora truly exist in this world?”
Jiang She answered, “It does.”
Hearing this, all were astonished.
“Really?” County Magistrate Cheng Zhi, standing nearby, instinctively inquired.
Jiang She smiled.
The Lu family had planted several sophora trees—two before their house, another in Lu Da’s courtyard. Perhaps others grew elsewhere. Over many years, these trees had lived a long time, their trunks somewhat hollowed and withered, yet their branches remained lush and verdant.
He led the crowd to see the trees.
Beneath them, countless insects and ants scurried amid the soil grains.
“This is the ancient Sophora.”
After ten years of wandering the world without aging, the traveler spoke thus.
Yuan Danqiu and the young apprentice peered closely, seeing only busy ants crawling over the earth, bustling about their tasks. The others looked around and stared at the sophora tree, but could discern no difference from others.
“Ah, I see.”
“Sophora tree, ancient Sophora,” Doctor Luo muttered repeatedly to himself, as if enlightened.
Wang Er and Wang Anlan stared wide-eyed at the tree, noting the hollows gnawed within, exposing roots and stems in a strange pattern.
“Could it be that...”
“Were we just now living a lifetime under the domain of this tree’s insect kingdom?” The guests, setting aside their reverence for the immortal, asked instinctively.
Meng Haoran studied long, still finding it incredible.
“Marvelous.”
“Is this not... Zhuangzi’s dream of the butterfly?”
Li Bai gazed at the anthills, watching the ants busily carrying crumbs from their recent meal, enjoying their harvest.
He had never imagined that the ancient Sophora where he stayed for seven days was but an anthill beneath this tree.
He watched those ants hauling crumbs and fell into deep thought, sighing:
“Busy little ants—are they not like the bustling mortals of the world?”
Each person surveyed the place where they had spent forty years of spring and autumn, emotions mingling deeply.
Lu Sheng saw this tree that had grown in his home for countless years. He had learned to walk beneath it, read books under its shade. For thirty years, the sophora had witnessed his babbling infancy, his wedding, his failures, and even selling off family possessions.
His heart was filled with complex emotions, indescribable in words.
Only after everyone— even the magistrate’s attendants and guards—had curiously examined the tree did Jiang She turn to the three swindlers.
He scrutinized them carefully.
After a few moments, he said, “Zhang Zhenmei, come here.”
The county magistrate glanced aside and quietly asked his cousin’s husband, learning that the man whom the sage esteemed was Zhang Zhenmei—the very charlatan Lu Dacheng had been complaining about. A fraud with two younger accomplices forming a troupe, they had swindled six or seven families out of considerable sums.
---
Zhang Zhenmei’s heart trembled. He had no time to change clothes and still appeared as an old Daoist.
He nervously stepped forward, his voice faint as he whispered:
“Mr. Jiang.”
Jiang She sat before the desk, lifting his hand to pour tea for himself, as well as for the Old Deer Mountain deity and Li Bai. The boiling water swirled over the tea leaves; unlike the current fashion, he did not add salt or spices. Jiang She sipped the brew, washing away the strange taste left by the seven days’ infusion, relaxing his brows.
He leisurely asked, “What do you think...”
“You have deceived five households, gaining vast wealth.”
“How will you repay this?”
Before the true immortal, his voice was calm and collected.
Yet Zhang Zhenmei and his two young apprentices trembled, as if plunged into an icy abyss in the late spring of April.
“I...” he stammered, words failing to form.
To speak lightly might anger the immortal; to speak harshly might endanger his future. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he bowed his head, unable to speak further.
Finally, he prostrated himself on the ground.
“I know my guilt, and accept punishment. I beg the noble to mete out justice.”
At this, some of the pride once shown when Lu Sheng regarded him as a master returned.
Jiang She lifted his tea cup.
Surveying the “old man” prostrate before him, then the two youths behind, he did not yet speak of their punishment nor the fate of the stolen wealth.
Instead, he asked one question.
“You three practiced the Way in ancient Sophora for forty years. What did you gain?”
After a dozen breaths, the young apprentice Wang Shan, usually quick-witted, boldly replied, “This is my first time practicing in a temple. Learning the Way from master and senior brothers—I find it interesting.”
Jiang She turned to the other.
The other apprentice, Song Baike, styled “Jade Green,” a year older, mustered courage: “I think the same.”
Jiang She sipped his tea, swallowing the bitter leaves with dignity before all.
He asked with ease:
“Is it more interesting to close the doors and collect incense money, or to truly learn the Way?”
Before the immortal, the two apprentices dared not retort with their usual sharp words or act rashly.
“Speak honestly from your hearts,” Jiang She urged.
After a hesitant pause, their voices barely audible, and fearing the immortal might see through their thoughts, they confessed:
“…Both are quite interesting.”