The Fall of Daji

T he capital had fallen. King Zhou, beaten back from his own gates and bleeding from a lord's whip, had retreated into the palace, and there was nothing left of the Shang to defend but its three women — and they were not women. Daji, the favorite, who had worn a borrowed face for thirty years; and beside her two more, a creature that had once been a nine-headed pheasant and a thing that had once been a jade lute. That night the three of them gathered their powers and rode the wind down against the Zhou camp, meaning to end the siege in the dark. But Yang Jian and the disciples of Jiang Ziya were waiting, and the raid broke against them, and the three demons fled back the way they had come. Looking at one another in the ruin of everything, they understood at last that the dynasty was lost, and spoke quietly of going home to the old fox-den at Xuanyuan's tomb, where this had all begun. The capital was taken. King Zhou, driven back and struck by Lord Jiang Wenhuan's whip, withdrew into the palace in despair. That night the three demon-consorts — Daji, the pheasant-spirit, and the lute-spirit — raised the wind by sorcery and fell upon the Zhou camp, but Yang Jian and the others intercepted them and forced them to flee back to the palace. Knowing the Shang was lost, the three discussed returning to their old dwelling at Xuanyuan's tomb.

Jiang Ziya, the old strategist who had come down off Kunlun mountain to see the Shang ended and a new heaven of gods assembled out of the war's dead, knew the three would run. He set out an incense table, threw his golden divining coins, and went pale. So that is it, he said. A little longer and the three of them would have slipped away. He cut his orders on the spot and handed each to a disciple. Yang Jian was to bring back the nine-headed pheasant. Lei Zhenzi was to bring back the nine-tailed fox. Wei Hu was to bring back the jade-lute spirit. The three warriors took their slips of paper and went out after the demons as the demons ran for the open country, and the chase strung itself across the land. Jiang Ziya set out an incense table, made his divination, and was alarmed: "So that is how it stands. A little more delay and the three demons would have escaped." He gave orders at once, handing a written warrant to each disciple: Yang Jian to capture the nine-headed pheasant spirit, Lei Zhenzi the nine-tailed fox, Wei Hu the jade-lute spirit. The three took their warrants and pursued the fleeing demon-consorts.

Yang Jian ran the pheasant down first. When he had nearly closed the gap he loosed the Howling Celestial Dog into the air above her — a hound cultivated into a spirit, that bites where it is sent — and it tore one of her nine heads. It was not enough; she shook free and kept running, and he rode his earth-travel charm hard after her. Lei Zhenzi was on the fox. Wei Hu was on the lute. The three demons could not outrun three immortal warriors, and one by one they were overtaken and bound and driven back toward the camps — until the road ahead of them filled with light, and a goddess on a blue phoenix came down across their path, and the three of them stopped dead in the air and fell to the ground on their faces, because the one thing a fox spirit cannot run from is the goddess who made it. Yang Jian pursued the nine-headed pheasant, and as he gained on her he sent the Howling Celestial Dog up into the air — a dog cultivated into a spirit-creature — and it wounded one of her heads; but she broke away and fled again, so he urged his earth-travel after her. Lei Zhenzi pursued the fox, Wei Hu the lute-spirit, pressing close and never letting go. Then Nüwa came riding her blue phoenix and barred the three demons' road. They dared not go on, lowered their demon-light, and prostrated themselves on the ground.

“She was so beautiful, bound and condemned and waiting to die, that the men who had come to kill her could not.”

Nüwa did not free them. I sent you to bring down the house of Shang, she said, because the count of heaven had run out on it — that much was ordained. But I never told you to do what you did. You bred cruelty for its own sake. You butchered the living, tortured the loyal and the brave, made horror into entertainment, and in all of it you spat in the face of heaven's love of life. Your crimes are full to the brim. The law is owed its due. And she gave the three of them to the warriors to be taken to the camp, and rode her phoenix back into the sky, leaving them bound on the ground — the agents of a divine sentence, condemned by the hand that had pronounced it, for the manner in which they had carried it out. Nüwa said: "I sent you to bring an end to the Shang under Shou — that was in accord with the count of heaven. But I never meant for you to commit such evil without cause: to slaughter the living, to torture the loyal and good, to be monstrous beyond measure, utterly violating heaven's love of life. Today your crimes are full to overflowing, and by right you should face the law." She delivered them up to be taken away.

They brought the fox to Jiang Ziya in the form of the woman the whole empire had feared and desired. And Daji, even now, even bound, did what she had always done. She wept. She was only Su Hu's daughter, she said, a tribute-girl carried to the palace against her will; whatever the king had done, the sin was his and not hers. The words came out soft and lovely. Jiang Ziya had read the heaven-count and the divining coins and was not moved. You call yourself Su Hu's daughter, he said, and you spin this pretty speech to fog the ears of everyone listening. You are a thousand-year fox. You are caught. Death is too small to pay what you owe — and still you angle for the net's one hole with your flowering tongue. Take her out the gate, he ordered. Strike off the head and post it. They brought Daji before Jiang Ziya, and though caught she pleaded that she was only the daughter of Lord Su, a girl brought to the palace, and not the cause of the king's crimes. Jiang Ziya said: "You say you are Lord Su's daughter, and with this clever speech you would deceive all who hear. You are a thousand-year-old fox. Now that you are taken, death is not enough to exhaust your guilt — and yet you still hope, with flowering words, to slip through the net." He commanded his men: "Drag her out the gate, behead her, and display the head."

And here the executioners failed. They marched her out, and they looked at her, and she was so beautiful that something in them simply gave way. She called to them in a small trembling voice — General, oh General — and the few words undid them. Their bones went soft, their tendons came loose, their mouths fell open and their eyes glazed, and they sank down in a useless heap on the ground, unable to lift a blade. She was bound and condemned and a heartbeat from death, and she was still the most beautiful thing any of them had ever seen, and they could not do it. A second crew was sent. The same thing happened to them. The fox had no power left, no sorcery, no escape — only a face, and the face alone was enough to stop the swords of an army. But when the soldiers saw how beautiful Daji was, they already pitied her; and when she called out softly several times — "General, oh General" — those few soldiers were so undone that their bones went soft and their tendons slack, their mouths agape and their eyes fixed, and they sank down in a limp useless heap, unable to bring down the blade. A second group was sent and fared no better.

It fell to Jiang Ziya himself. This thing is a thousand-year fox, he told them. No mortal hand will manage it. He went out to the gate, and he took out the gourd that the immortal Lu Ya had given him long before, and set it on the table, and lifted the lid. A single thread of white light rose out of it and stood in the air, and at its tip turned a small thing that caught the sun. He spoke the word, and it turned — once, twice, a third time — and on the third turn Daji's head was lying in the dust, and the blood ran out across the ground, and the most famous beauty in the world was a dead fox at the foot of a wall. Whatever it was that had looked out of those eyes for thirty years, it did not look out of anything anymore. Jiang Ziya said to them: "This demon is a thousand-year-old fox; I will go out myself and behead the evil creature." He took out the gourd given him by Lu Ya, set it on the table, and lifted the cover. A shaft of white light rose up, and the treasure at its tip turned two or three times — and then Daji's head fell in the dust, the blood spattering over the ground.

In the palace, King Zhou was shown the three heads where the Zhou had hung them up, and he understood that it was over. He climbed the Star-Watching Tower alone. He had built it high to read the stars; now a foul wind came up off the ground and wrapped around it, and out of the wind came the dead. They came from the Bronze Toasting-Pit and the snake pit, ragged and naked and stinking of old blood, all the people he had burned and flayed and fed to vipers across a long reign of invented cruelties. Lady Jiang, whose eyes he had put out, seized hold of him. Lady Huang, whom he had thrown from a tower, took hold of him. Lady Jia, whom he had driven to her death, came up cursing him to his face. He stood among them on the height he had built and had no answer for any of it. King Zhou was shown the three demons' severed heads displayed at the Zhou camp, and knew his defeat was complete. He ascended the Star-Watching Tower. A strange wind rose from the ground and coiled upward, and from the Bronze Pit came choking sobs and weeping — countless ghosts, hair wild and bodies bare, reeking of blood. Lady Jiang seized hold of King Zhou; Lady Huang came forward and took hold of him; Lady Jia came forward cursing him aloud.

He had nowhere to go and would not be taken alive. I should have listened to my ministers, he said, into the wind, to no one. I let the slanderers blind me, and now there is no road left. If I kill myself and this body is left lying in the world, men will make sport of it. Better to burn — it comes out cleaner. He called for the officer Zhu Sheng and told him to heap firewood under the tower. Zhu Sheng wept and begged him not to, and the king said only that the diviners had foretold this end long ago, and put on his finest robes, the full regalia of the Son of Heaven, as if for court. Then the fire was lit. The wind took the flame and the flame rode the wind, and in a little while the four sides of the tower were one red wall and the smoke shut out the sky, and the king of Shang burned at the top of the tower he had raised to touch the stars. Zhu Sheng walked into the fire after his master and did not come out. So the house of Shang ended, in ash, by its own hand, exactly on schedule. King Zhou said: "I repent that I did not heed my ministers, and was led astray by slanderers... Were I to take my own life and leave this body in the world, it would only become others' plaything; better to burn myself — it is cleaner." He ordered Zhu Sheng: "Take firewood and pile it beneath the tower; I will be consumed together with it." Though Zhu Sheng wept and protested, the king insisted this fate had been foretold, and put on his imperial regalia. The fire, driven by the wind and feeding the wind, in a moment turned all four sides red and the smoke blotted out the sky. Zhu Sheng followed his lord into the flames.