Another Night

**Lanruo Temple Night-Watch Log · Ninth Month, Sixteenth Day · Night** (Night. One lamp. The door-bar in place.) I sit before the lamp, and have sat a long while. Last evening at dusk I heard, from the direction of the white poplar behind the temple, a sound of digging, once, once, without stopping. I sat listening all night; the sound came and went, and only toward the last watches of the night ceased. This morning I went to look; the mound was smooth and level, no trace of disturbance—the earth had been smoothed over again.

I came back, sat at the window, and thought all day.

Whom does that grave hold? The old monk said, "buried ones, do not ask." Yan Chixia said, "this temple is unclean." Beneath the white poplar, that ring of footprints, deep prints facing the temple gate. Last night someone left gold beneath my window, the base engraved "payment for last night's seeing." The gold was taken away, its steps going toward the white poplar.

These things, strung together, draw tight like a rope. At night, wind rose. The window paper rattled a few times. I sit, and do not move. The lamp flame leaps. Outside it is very still—no footsteps, no wind, only the wind slapping the window paper. I listen, and of a sudden hear, outside the door—someone knocking. Tok. Tok. Tok. Three times, not hurried, not slow, as if the one who came had stood a while outside the door before knocking. I do not answer. Last night, this door was knocked at. I sit; the lamp flame leaps. The voice outside the door sounds again, three times:

Tok. Tok. Tok. "Master Ning." The one outside the door says, "It is I." That voice, I know it. The one who came into my room last night—Xiaoqian. She stands outside the door, her voice not loud, with a touch of cold in it: "Master, open the door. I have something to say to you."

I sit, and do not move. Last night she came in, and I refused her. Tonight she comes again—should I open this door? Outside, it is still again for a while. She says: "If the master will not open the door, I will stand here and say it." I sit, looking at the door. The bar is in place, of copper, cold. I reach out, draw the bar, and pull the door open. She stands outside. In the moonlight she wears white clothes, her hair loose, as last night. She stands outside the door, three paces from it, and does not come in. She looks at me, and looks a good while, then says: "Last night the master threw the gold out of the window, saying, 'a thing not of right, it defiles my pouch.'" I say: "Yes." She says: "That ingot of gold—I put it there." I say nothing. She stands in the moonlight, head bowed, and after a moment raises it again: "Master, I have come tonight to say one thing to you—I deceived you. Last night I said 'I wish to be your wife'; that was a lie. The gold, too, was a lie. I deceived you, because—"

She stops. The moonlight falls on her face, white, without color.

"Because I am not my own." **(Night record. The lamp still burns. I am listening to her.)** She spoke a long while. She said she is surnamed Nie, named Xiaoqian, once the daughter of an official house, eighteen years of age, dead of illness, buried beside this temple, beneath the white poplar. She said that after her death her soul was taken up by a demon, kept and driven by it. She said the thing the demon set her to do was, night by night, to tempt men with her beauty—tempt the solitary man, draw near him, take his heart and liver, to feed the demon. She said that last night she came into the room by command; and the ingot of gold, too, by command—she set the gold down, and waited for me to pick it up; had I picked it up and stirred to greed, the demon could have come near me by means of the gold.

She said: "But the master did not pick it up."

"The master threw the gold out, saying 'a thing not of right.' The master sat before the lamp, and did not stir all night. The demon watched from outside the window half the night, and had no way in."

She said it, and her voice sank low: "In this temple I have tempted more than the master alone. The greed in those men's hearts—some coveted beauty, some coveted gold, some coveted the two words 'a chance meeting.' What the demon wants is that one thought. When the thought rises, it can come in. Last night the master sat steady; that one thought did not rise—it could not come in."

I sit before the lamp, listening, and do not cut her off. When she has finished, she pauses a moment, then says: "Does the master know how the first man it made me tempt died?" She does not wait for my answer, but says it herself: "That man lodged in the east wing, also alone, also heard knocking by night. He opened the door, saw me, and the thought rose. When day came, he did not leave the temple. The next day, the monks drew his clothes up out of the well. The clothes were whole; the man was gone—when the demon takes a man, not even the bones remain; only a suit of clothes."

She says it calmly. The lamp flame jumps once; her shadow on the wall wavers.

I say: "You watched them die?"

She is silent a long while. "I watched," she says. "I watched them open the door, watched the thought rise in them, watched them not leave the temple when day came. I watched, and could do nothing. I urged one man to shut his door, not to open it. He would not listen. After he died, the demon punished me—three nights running, I was not allowed to close my eyes."

When she has said it, she raises her head, and looks at me: "Master, in this temple you are the first who did not open the door." I sit before the lamp, and say nothing. She spoke calmly, calmly as if telling another's story. But when she said "I am not my own," in the moonlight her eyes brightened once—very bright, and at once went dark.

I ask: "That grave—is it yours?" She nods: "The one beneath the white poplar. Beneath the new earth, I am buried." I say: "Old grass grows on the grave."

She looks at me, and after a long while says: "Yes. That grave has held me many years. The earth is new, because someone—" she stops, "because the demon mounds new earth over the grave every year. The old grass is not cleared; the new earth is laid over it. It fears the grave will be forgotten, and fears the grave will be seen."

When she has said it, she rises, and draws back to the door. She stands at the door; moonlight comes in from outside, falling at her feet. She looks at me, and says: "Master, I have said these things tonight to repay your words of last night, 'a thing not of right.' You sat steady; I will not deceive you. But—"

She pauses.

"The demon knows I came tonight. If it knows I have told you these things, it will not let you go." I say: "You want me to leave?" She does not answer. She stands at the door, looking at the moonlight, and after a long while says: "Master, tomorrow do not go again to the white poplar." "Why?" She does not answer. She draws back one step, out of the door, and stands in the moonlight. Her white clothes, in the moonlight, are white as paper. She looks at me, and says: "That tree is watching you." When she has said it, she turns, and goes toward the gallery. She walks very lightly, without sound. The moonlight falls on her; her shadow lies on the ground, long—and suddenly the shadow stops. She stops too. She stands in the gallery, turns her head, and looks at me from afar, once.

That look is very complicated. I sit before the lamp; I cannot make out what is in her face.

Then she goes. Her steps are light, and gradually are heard no more.

**(Night record. Ninth month, sixteenth day. The lamp is nearly spent.)** I sit before the lamp, thinking over her words. Xiaoqian. Daughter of an official house. Dead of illness. Buried beneath the white poplar. A demon keeps her soul, and night by night she tempts men with her beauty, to take their hearts and livers. That grave has held her many years; new earth over old grass, mounded once a year. She came tonight and said these things—to repay my words, "a thing not of right."

She said the demon knows I came tonight, and will not let me go.

She said, tomorrow do not go to the white poplar. She said, that tree is watching you. I sit; the lamp flame leaps, nearly spent. Outside the window, the moonlight is very white. I listen for the movements of the temple—no sound. Toward the white poplar, too, no sound of digging. Very still. Her words—how much do I believe? Her story, I believe. That she is buried by the temple, I believe—that new grave beneath the white poplar, the earth damp, old grass on the mound, as if buried long ago. That "a demon keeps me"—I believe seven parts. But "master, tomorrow do not go to the white poplar"—in these words, I feel, there is something she has not said to the end.

The lamp goes out. I sit in the dark. Outside the window, the moonlight, blank and white, falls on the window paper. It comes to me that the moonlight is like a hand, pressing on the window paper, waiting for something.

I lie down, eyes open, and listen all night for the movements. The temple is still, all night.