Recited in the Hucheng Government Hall, Buddhist Monk Mituo

During the Great Harmony Era, the deputy of Wenxiang County Registrar Shen Gongli was an officer from Hucheng. A person called Li Zhongyi, from the Jianghuai region, was a servant of his. (The deputy) died while they were traveling, and (Zhongyi) had to beg and implore for even a single meal, and twice that for just a small cap (i.e., a scrap of clothing). When respectful courtesy permitted it, Zhongyi told them, “In this hall dwell many people who are not peaceful—there’s this one woman, age possibly 17 or 18, known by the name Buddhist Monk Mituo, who comes irregularly, and who simply cannot take part in conversation.” A short while later a woman came, smiling slightly and gazing all around, who put herself forward in spite of respectful courtesy. The woman recited this poem, again in spite of respectful courtesy, hesitated, and then departed. Afterwards, as he returned to Wenxiang, she (appeared) also the night before his arrival, and (again) for over a year, tending to gradually get fainter, so in the end she could no longer be troublesome.

The time the Yellow Emperor rose to Heaven—
The era of mortal emperors is now—
The two and seventy jade women have
Transformed into the golden ganodermas.

湖城㕔吟
作者：宻陀僧
〈大和中，阌乡主簿沈恭礼摄湖城尉，有人自称李忠义，江淮人，佣于此，客死，丐祈一食，兼一小帽。恭礼许之，忠义曰：“此厅人居多不安，有一女子，年可十七八，名曰密陀僧，来参，甚不可与交言。”少间，果有一女子来，微笑转盼自荐，恭礼不顾。女吟此诗，恭礼又不顾，逡巡而去。在湖城，每夜辄来。后归阌乡，亦隔夜至，一年馀，方渐稀，然终不能为患也。〉
黄帝上天时，
鼎湖元在兹。
七十二玉女，
化作黄金芝。


A new ghost trope—one I’m familiar with in Western lore but hadn’t met in these stories: the ghost on cyclic autopilot, doing their cryptic thing without regard for circumstances, over and over.

But wait, I can all but hear you say, what’s with this regnal era? Aren’t you translating those into Common Era years? Or at least giving us a range? Well, comma, it turns out there were two Great Harmony Eras in the Tang-plus period, 827-835 and 929-935. So this is either around 831 or around 932, but we don’t know which. Am I amused? I am greatly amused. Historiography: not easy.

Wenxiang is a former county, recently merged into Lingbao County, western Henan, which was formerly (until 742) known as Hucheng County—so nearby neighbors. Jianghuai, however, is the region between the Yangzi and Huai Rivers, encompassing much of Anhui and Jiangsu—a right foreigner who probably talks funny, as far as locals are concerned, and too suspicious to help out. The Registrar was the local official in charge of registering births, marriages, and deaths of anyone who’s a member of a family based in his county. The first three sentences is one of those hard-to-grasp passages, and I’m not at all sure I’m reading it correctly (nor interpolating the right material over the gaps).

A second female ghost who claims the title of what traditionally is strictly a male role—僧 (sēng) always means “Buddhist monk,” while a “nun” is 尼 (ní). Unlike the Linzi County Magistrate, where the meaning of this isn’t clear, given how transgressive Mituo behaves, I’m pretty sure here it’s also a transgressive gesture. (Could it be transgender-y as well? Maybe. I don’t know enough to tell.)

The poem itself is completely whack—I’ve no clue what it means, and I suspect no one who heard it did either. My hunch is that, despite Mituo’s Buddhism, Daoist esoterica is partly to blame: golden ganoderma is a legendary fungus used in potions of miraculous healing.

(Do I remember fondly the days when my translation notes were no more than a sentence or three? Yes—yes, I do.)

—L.