Chapter Fourteen. Begging for Food for the Fox in the Mountain Village, Divine Grace Bestowed in Gratitude for Kindness

Liaochen had flown only halfway through the sky before he was forced to stop again. The little fox inside his sleeve was tossing and turning, its cries pitiful and plaintive. When Liaochen took the fox into his hands and saw its shrunken little belly, he could only smile wryly. “How could I have forgotten to feed the little thing?”

There was no helping it. Where could he find milk for a fox cub in the middle of the night? All he could do was build a fire in the woods and brew some meat broth to fill its belly, telling himself he’d think of something better come morning.

But the little fox didn’t appreciate his efforts. It only deigned to take a few sips of the carefully prepared broth before refusing any more, resuming its pitiful struggle—whining, tugging at Liaochen’s sleeve, and rolling about on him. Liaochen was at a loss; the cub was so small, its eyes not yet open. How could he, with any conscience, be harsh to an orphaned creature?

All he could do was try every trick he could think of to coax the fox into drinking a bit more, at least enough to stave off hunger. The fox was stubborn, though, and kept up its resistance. After much cajoling, it finally drank a few more reluctant sips, only to spit one out in disgust, splattering Liaochen’s sleeve.

Resigned, Liaochen picked up the cub and gave it a firm shake. With its belly now sloshing with liquid, the fox could only retch helplessly on the ground. Liaochen, feeling rather pleased with himself, pulled out the last of his monkey wine and took a drink. He was mid-sip when something tugged at the hem of his trousers—it was the little fox, drawn by the scent of the wine.

His curiosity piqued, Liaochen dipped a leaf into the wine and offered it to the cub. Oblivious to the trick, the fox lapped it up eagerly, only to start coughing violently. Liaochen quickly patted its back until the fit subsided, then watched as the fox, undeterred, scurried back to his feet for more wine. Liaochen was left speechless.

He took another sip himself, occasionally letting the fox have a taste as well. Soon, the cub was thoroughly drunk, a faint red glow shimmering beneath its snowy fur. Liaochen tucked the fox back inside his sleeve, and, beside the fire, settled into meditation for the night.

When Liaochen was roused by the cub, he realized dawn had already broken. He set out towards a small village a few miles away, the fox cradled in his arms. The little one would need milk if it was to grow strong.

Liaochen hoped to find a nursing dog or sheep to foster the cub, but while there were plenty of sheep in the village, not a single bitch had recently given birth. He searched the entire village to no avail. Instead, a group of curious children gathered around, fascinated by the fox. The cub, in turn, was so alarmed by their hungry stares that it burrowed into Liaochen’s arms and refused to come out.

Just as he was about to leave in disappointment, Liaochen noticed a thatched hut on the outskirts of the village, with a pen beside it where sheep grazed. His spirits lifted, he made for the hut, but halfway there, a few kindly villagers intercepted him. “Are you heading to the Blind Granny’s place, Taoist? Best not to. There’s leprosy there. Pity her, really. She was always a good woman, but fate was cruel. Married her son off to a woman who brought leprosy with her; both the wife and son died soon after, as did her husband. Now it’s just her and her grandson, who’s nearly blind himself. The village let her move farther out and forbade contact, though we still farm her fields and give her a share of the grain each year. She keeps a few sheep and manages to get by, but what kind of life is that? She can only hold out hope her grandson recovers.”

Liaochen smiled. “I do not fear such things. I know a little of medicine and the arts of healing. It will be fine.” Seeing they could not dissuade him, the villagers let him go but watched from a distance.

At the hut, Liaochen saw several sheep, including some lambs bleating around their mothers.

“Is anyone home?” he called out.

A wrinkled old woman appeared, her face etched with sorrow and despair, as if hope had long since left her.

“Good woman, I am a wandering Taoist. By chance, I rescued a fox cub whose mother is gone. I’m afraid it will starve unless I can beg some sheep’s milk for it.”

“A Taoist, is it?” the old woman answered, her voice slow to register. Though everyone called her Blind Granny, she was not truly blind—her vision blurred from years of weeping. “Come in, come in,” she said eagerly, for visitors were rare.

“Oh, wait,” she added suddenly, “my grandson is ill. I fear he might infect you. Let me fetch a chair for you to sit in the courtyard instead.”

Liaochen swept the hut with his spiritual sense and saw a tightly wrapped child of seven or eight inside, likely her grandson. He agreed and sat in the courtyard. The old woman brought him a cup of brown sugar water, a precious gift from a poor household, which he accepted without protest.

After a moment, she fetched a large earthen jar and went to the sheep pen. Soon, she returned with it filled to the brim. “My sheep are fine animals. That ewe over there birthed eight lambs at once! I had to sell a few, but there’s still plenty of milk left over. The lambs couldn’t possibly finish it all. Here, use this old bowl.”

Liaochen poured the milk into the bowl. The scent drew the fox cub out of his sleeve, its fears forgotten. It scrambled up and, following its nose, plunged nearly headfirst into the bowl, drinking eagerly. Liaochen was reminded of an old advertisement from his previous life: “Hurry, get into the bowl!” And so the little fox did.

Relieved to see the cub drinking, Liaochen struck up a conversation with the old woman. Her maiden name was Zhang, her married name Li. Life had once been decent with two sons. The elder was conscripted and never heard from again; the younger remained at home and once saved a girl from drowning, whom he later married. Though the old woman had reservations, she gave her blessing. The daughter-in-law bore a grandson, and for a time, life seemed hopeful. Then, tragedy struck—the daughter-in-law contracted leprosy. The old couple, too kind to drive her away, nursed her until she died. The son, infected, soon followed. Her husband, heartbroken, died in turn, leaving her and her grandson alone. She had thought of following her husband, but could not abandon the boy. Now, it seemed, even the boy would not survive, and she was utterly desolate. With this, she broke down in hopeless sobs.

When her tears finally abated, Liaochen studied her face and sensed she was not fated to die without descendants—her elder son must still be alive. He calculated quietly and then said, “Good woman, I know a little of physiognomy. Judging by your features, your eldest son is alive and will soon return.”

“My eldest is alive? Truly?” she asked, incredulous, before her grief returned. “But I’ll never live to see him, and even if he returns, won’t he catch this sickness too?”

“Let me examine your grandson,” Liaochen said gently.

She shook her head. “There’s no cure. I won’t risk you catching it. I’m only waiting for the poor boy to go, and then I’ll follow.”

Liaochen did not argue. He asked for a bowl of water, and when it arrived, he dipped his fingers in and murmured a spell over it, then handed it to her. “Take this inside. Drink a sip yourself, then give the rest to your grandson. He will recover. You must wait for your eldest son to return in glory.”

Unable to refuse, she took the bowl inside. She tasted a little herself—it was sweet—and fed the rest to her grandson. As the boy finished, she felt a strange itch in her eyes and rubbed them. When she opened them again, her vision was suddenly clear. Surprised, she turned to her grandson, who groaned softly, and saw that the sores at the corners of his eyes had vanished. She hurriedly unwrapped the cloth from his body and found no trace of leprosy at all. “Grandma,” the boy called, and in that moment, life returned to the old woman. Remembering the immortal outside, she rushed out with her grandson to thank him, but Liaochen had already departed, taking even the earthen jar she’d given him for milk. The old woman knelt with her grandson in the courtyard and bowed deeply toward the empty road. “Immortal, thank you!”

Meanwhile, Liaochen was already soaring above the clouds, lecturing the little fox. The cub, unsatisfied with a bowl of sheep’s milk, had waited for Liaochen’s attention to waver before crawling headfirst into the jar, following the scent. If Liaochen hadn’t noticed in time, the fox would have drowned or gorged itself to death. Now, having been rescued, the cub protested loudly, wriggling in his grasp. At first, Liaochen tried reason; when that failed, he resorted to a more forceful approach.

News of the old woman and her grandson’s miraculous cure spread through the village, causing a sensation. The villagers who had met Liaochen that day beat their chests in regret, lamenting their lost chance at a blessing. Months later, the old woman’s son returned in fine clothes, his wife and children in tow. Hearing his mother’s tale, he built a shrine on the site of her old hut in gratitude, naming it the Shrine of the Immortal’s Grace. At the top, a statue depicted a Taoist in green robes, a tiny fox cradled in his arms—none other than Liaochen himself.