There used to be an old man at Xinhua Park by Xiaolong Bridge, surnamed Pan and known to everyone as Pan the Immortal. Every day he set up a secondhand bookstall with many rare lianhuanhua booklets and thread-bound books. No matter which volume it was, if someone recited the text on the preceding page, Pan could recite the next page word for word without a single mistake. Everyone found it miraculous, and people often tested him on purpose. Pan would simply say that if he answered correctly, the questioner had to buy the book. No one ever stumped him. Later some people even brought books from home that were not from his stall at all, and Pan still recited them flawlessly.
In autumn, when fallen leaves carpeted Xinhua Park and elderly men practiced calligraphy on the paving stones with brushes dipped in water, Pan the Immortal often joked around with them. He would pick up a few leaves from the ground and toss them into the water bucket, and at once they would turn into koi and dart about in the water. Reach in to catch them and they turned back into leaves. Pan had another talent as well. When no one was around, he loved to climb up into the fork of a tree and rest there. But once he was up in the tree, unless he chose to move on his own, no matter how intently people searched, even if afterward they realized he had been right before their eyes, they could never actually see him there.
When he was in a good mood and really talking, Pan would tell this story: when he was young he worked as a boatman in Luzhou and met an old man who later became his master. At the time, the old man was standing on the riverbank and begged Pan to ferry him across because he had urgent business on the other side. Pan took him aboard. Midstream, seeing how frail the old man looked, Pan brought out his own lunchbox and shared his meal with him. The old man narrowed his eyes and smiled. “What is eating without wine?” he said, and pulled from his bag a little gourd no bigger than a palm, inviting Pan to drink with him. Though tiny, the gourd could never be emptied. The two of them talked joyfully all the way across. Once they reached the far bank, the old man said that Pan was kind at heart and had the bones of the Dao in him, and so took him as a disciple. From then on they traveled all over the rivers and mountains of Ba and Shu.
At the beginning of this year, Pan the Immortal received a letter. After reading it, he told everyone that his master was calling for him. Then he packed up his stall and left. From that day on he was never seen again. Judging by his face, he had to be at least seventy. One can only wonder how old his master must have been.