Fox Stone

 　　I think all the gains and losses in this world are predestined, so when Zhao Yuan was showing off it, I asked for it, and he had no choice but to give it to me. Zhao Yuan said, "I've kept it for seven years, never letting it out of my sight for a single day." Perhaps that's true, I said, but I waited for it for seven years.

　　Seven years is not a short time.

　　It was in the countryside, during a winter snowfall, when a trail of plum blossom-shaped footprints appeared at the foot of a cliff. The landlord said a fox had walked by that night. From that moment on, I desperately wanted to know the fox; the desire was so strong. I even chased after plum blossoms to find it, only to find it in my dreams. In my dreams, the fox was a fiery red, so its hoofprints were plum blossoms. After that, I read "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio" day and night, wanting to be the pale-faced scholar who secluded himself to study before the imperial examinations. The result was that I was over forty, my career was ruined, my finances were ruined, I was plagued by worries and illnesses, and my wife left me. I tried to adapt to everything, but I couldn't adapt to anything. I was supposed to be free from confusion, but how could I not be confused about everything? I didn't know what kind of fate this was. It was during a time of solitude, in the snowy winter, that Zhao Yuan brought it to me. Only then did I realize why I had impulsively divorced, and why I had so desperately abandoned fame and fortune—it was all because it was meant to be.

　　How grateful I was to Zhao Yuan! He had come from afar, inquiring in this city for days. My former classmate had become an envoy.

　　I held it in my hands, standing in the sunlight by the window, looking at it again and again. It was indeed very small, only the size of a fingertip, rectangular in shape, the kind of smooth, clean gray plaster. In the lower right corner of one side, the fox knelt. The fox was still a red fox, lean and slender, with a small head, ears, a pointed snout, and a slightly yellowish eye visible from the side. Its expression seemed to be listening to something, or perhaps simultaneously alert to some movement, or perhaps a strange contemplation after a long run. Its two slender yet sturdy forelegs, one supporting its weight on the ground so it could sit upright and spring into flight, the other held high in front of its chest, its body forming an inverted triangle, almost brittle at the apex, yet gracefully revealing a plump rump. Beneath the rump were two kneeling hind legs, and a bushy tail curled softly from back to front in an arc. The entire fox was a blood-red hue, almost leaping off the stone. I went to a gem shop and had someone carve a small hole in the upper left corner of the stone, and tied a thin rope around its neck. The fox stayed with me day and night.

　　Surprisingly, its appearance was remarkably similar to the fox I had imagined seven years ago. This fox was definitely there to bewitch me. But it knew that it was a beast, and I was a human; humans and beasts could not meet, for to meet would inevitably lead to slaughter. So many fox fur products in the world—how many beloved creatures must have been unjustly killed? But it must have cultivated itself diligently for seven years to see me, finally becoming a spirit and inhabiting this small stone to meet me.

　　This realization filled me with joy, and I spent my days gazing at the fox stone, lost in daydreams, calling out to it again and again, hoping it would have a story from "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio," a legend that would endure forever. I was almost going crazy. A man in his thirties, who had never known love, now suffered from it, thinking of it all day long. How could I not think of it?! My body grew thinner, and I became increasingly sickly and melancholic, suspecting I was bewitched by the fox spirit. I didn't care. If this fox was born from my essence, and I had a part of it in that beautiful life, then I was beautiful too; if I was devoured by the fox, wouldn't its belly be a good final resting place for me? I tried to think this way, but I was still me, and the fox stone was still just a stone. A stone isn't an egg; it can't be cooked. I even had a fleeting thought that there probably wasn't a red fox on this stone; its appearance was entirely due to my imagination, like the shadow stone on the Bodhidharma wall.

　　It was during that snowy winter that day that I went to the garden to admire a plum tree, reciting, "Plum blossoms resemble snow, snow resembles people, both without a speck of dust," when five women nearby shouted, "Fox! Fox!" followed by a burst of laughter. It turned out that one of them, with long legs and a wasp waist, had one hand cupping her cheekbone and the other pulling down her nose, her face narrow and distorted, her eyebrows and eyes sharply angled upwards, resembling a fox. I was almost stunned by the scene, and blurted out something inappropriate. The laughter stopped abruptly. The five women should have been embarrassed, but I grabbed the plum tree to escape, bumping into it and scattering petals all over myself.

　　This time, my true nature as a villager was exposed, but in my dreams that night, I became acquainted with that woman. She was truly a person of profound spirituality, beautiful without being seductive, elegant without being alluring, possessing a refined demeanor, multifaceted, able to see and hear, with a graceful figure and a unique, serene charm. Although somewhat wild, this untamed energy ignited my boundless imagination and creativity.

　　One day, I think, I will tie the fox stone around her neck and say: "My beloved, you have transformed into my form, so be my new wife."