Each year, when the wild winds along the west coast have blown every cloud from the sky, it's the time the "Inspecting King" --the God of Pestilence --arrives on his tour of inspection.

Under a broad sky, women slowly push small barrows or carry shoulder poles loaded with sacrificial gifts and bundle upon bundle of golden spirit money to offer in veneration of the deities and silver money for the demons. They line them up in long rows by the salt pans along the banks of the river mouth. When the sound of firecrackers drifts from the village, a murmur arises among the women: "He's coming! Come and meet the In-specting King!"

At Nan Kunshen Tai Tien Fu temple in Tainan County's Peimen Rural Townsh ip, Taiwan's most prestigious Wangyeh temple,five "princes" surnamed Li, Chih, Wu, Chu and Fan are venerated. Each of their birthday s brings an endless stream of worshippers to the temple.

An evil visitor borne by the waves:

Each year at the middle of the sixth lunar month Wen Wangyeh, the deity who resides in Yunglung Temple in Tainan, leads the local people out to receive the Inspecting King as this "high official" disembarks on his far-ranging round of inspection, followed by his retinue of abandoned souls. Neither the host Wen Wangyeh nor the other invited deities dare to treat the Inspecting King's arrival lightly, and their seven or eight palanquins bob regularly up and down like boats at a quayside.

Suddenly, Like a wild bird breaking away from the falconer's glove, the palanquin of San Taitsu stirs into dramatic movement. When the mediums indicate that the Inspecting King has arrived, everybody kneels down, and with a devout heart and rich offerings, greets the King as he comes ashore with his retinue of souls.

Just as in the popular ceremony of giving alms to the dead in the middle of the seventh month, the hosts receive this crowd of inspecting VIP's with rich presents and never leave their sides until they depart, whereupon the hosts breathe a sigh of relief. This practice of going out to meet the God of Pestilence, who is the spreader of plagues and fevers, entertaining him and seeing him off again, is the most primitive expression of belief in him.

The God of Pestilence is the deity most widely venerated in Taiwan, and has the largest number of temples dedicated to him. According to an estimate made ten years ago by the scholar Chiu Teh-tsai, there are almost 700 Wangyeh temples in Taiwan, accounting for one in nine of all the island's temples.

"Peikang has Matsu, Kunshen has Wangyeh"; Wangyeh and Matsu have the two greatest groups of followers in Taiwan, and the "Nan Kunshen Tai Tien Fu" in Peimen Rural Township in Tainan County is the granddaddy of them all, the most prestigious Wangyeh temple in Taiwan. In the ten-day periods of worship around the birthdays of the temple's five Wangyehs, the crush of people coming to burn incense backs up all the way from the temple forecourt to the North Gate two kilometers away. If there are too many spirits coming to pay their respects, then before people can enter the temple they even have to register and queue up as if waiting to see a famous doctor. On the temple forecourt, mediums from many temples are performing. It is hard to imagine that the figure so fervently worshipped by the crowds of believers is the "King of Fevers" once feared by all.

As the wild Winds rage, the faithful come with sacrificial gifts and gold and silver spirit money to receive the Inspecting King--the God of Pestilence--on his tour of inspection.

Foul is fair:

In the early days of mainland settlement on Taiwan, the island's hot, damp climate long made it a hotbed of plague, cholera, typhoid, malaria and other febrile diseases. Three hundred years ago, when settlers bringing with them images of Matsu crossed the stormy Taiwan Strait, on gaining the shore they found pestilence waiting to strike. As historical records reveal again and again, from the time of Cheng Cheng-kung (Koxinga) of the Ming Dynasty, through the Ching Dynasty to the Japanese occupation, Taiwan was hit by outbreaks of febrile diseases almost every three to five years.

Whenever an epidemic arrived, for lack of effective medicines people would drop like flies; the living dared neither to weep for their dead nor to ask after others' health. with nowhere to turn for help, they used the old method, brought with them from their homeland, of "worshipping the God of Pestilence in order to ward off disease." By seeking to win the disease-bringing demons' favor with sacrifices instead of trying to destroy them, they hoped for "peaceful coexistence" with them.

But fearing that rites and worship would not be enough to please the demons of pestilence, they went right ahead and created them "Inspectors on Behalf of Heaven," high officials charged with inspecting for and preventing febrile diseases; later they were even given the title of Gods of Medicine. Following the needs of religious belief, step by step the black god of pestilence and death has been "bleached white."

The process of transformation from foul to fair is still not complete, and in line with the needs of the age Wangyeh is striding adaptably towards the "path of righteousness." Liu Chih-wan, a former researcher at Academia Sinica's Institute of Ethnology, now retired, distinguishes six phases in the God of Pestilence's metamorphosis: "He started out as the vicious ghost of the victim of a febrile disease, then rose to become the King of Fevers, destroyer of pestilential demons; after that he became God of the Sea, protector of navigators, and then God of Medicine, master of the healing arts; finally he went on to become a righteous spirit, guardian of the country and people, and then at last an omnipotent deity.

"This transformation of an ill-starred pestilential demon into an auspicious object of worship illustrates the adaptability and tolerant nature of popular religion," says Huang Wen-po, a student of folk customs.

People honor these gods of pestilence with many names such as King of Fevers, Envoy of Disaster, Inspector on Behalf of Heaven, and even Provident Lord, Lord King, Travelling King or Prince, but the appellation most widely used among the people is "Wangyeh" (Grandfather King).

After the King of Fevers comes ashore, the local spirits escort him all along his route, and for greater protection even station heavenly soldiers and generals to stand guard at the four points of the compass.

One name for many deities:

"Not all spirits called Wangyeh are actually the God of Pestilence," clarifies Huang Wen-po. The name Wangyeh is applied to both human and demonic spirits. Apart from the group to which the God of Pestilence belongs, the Wangyehs also include figures of nature worship such as the Lord of Rocks and the King of Trees; there are the spirits of the dead represented by the Responding Lord and the Lord of Fallen Warriors; there are heroes like Cheng Cheng-kung, venerated for their meritorious deeds when living; and even some righteous ancestors and deities such as the god of opera Hsi Chin Wangyeh are called Wangyeh. One can say that the name Wangyeh may be given to any male spirit or idol.

The mainstream of Wangyeh worship in Taiwan today is this type of primitive worship of "plague demons"; most of the spirits named Wangyeh have family names but no given names, and their origin and status are obscure. Most commonly in popular Wangyeh temples, five Princes and three Wangyehs are worshipped together, although some temples have only a single idol. But exactly which five Princes and which three Wangyehs? Every temple differs somewhat. In fact, the Wangyehs are a broad church and the legends about their origins are many and varied, with some putting their numbers as high as 360.

According to one legend, they were 360 successful imperial examination candidates interred by the first Chin emperor when he burnt the books and buried the scholars alive. Another version has it that they were examination graduates sent out on tours of inspection throughout the empire, who died in shipwrecks. A common strand which runs through all the stories is that they were scholars who came to a sticky end.

If you ask local people whether the Wen Wangyeh in Yunglung Temple has anything to do with Wangyeh the God of Pestilence (the names are pronounced identically), they will assure you: "Our Wangyeh is the great Tang Dynasty general Wen Hung, not that devil-god the King of Fevers!" But in fact the histories and pedigrees traced back by these temples big and small owe rather more to misinterpretation than to real evidence, and are typical of efforts by ordinary people to bolster the "honor" of their temple with a glorious history.

Perhaps it is due to the power of legend, or maybe a kind of homespun logic, but today, when living conditions have improved and the infectious fevers all but disappeared, the God of Pestilence, far from disappearing with them, has turned from a negative to a positive figure and put down roots. The practice of "Burning the Royal Ship" which accompanies belief in Wangyeh has also evolved from a ceremony for sending the God of Pestilence on his way into one symbolic of prayers to ward off danger and attract good luck, and it is celebrated with liveliness and enjoyment.

When the Plague God arrives, everyone kneels down and holds aloft incense to show their devotion.

The ship no longer steers out to sea:

"They do say that in olden days the Dutchmen met a boat out on the sea one night, and suspecting it was a pirate ship they attacked it with their cannon, but it flitted back and forth and they could not hit it. When day dawned, they saw to their horror that the boat was full of papier-mach idols, and just a few days later over half of them were dead from a fever." The boat referred to in this episode so vividly recorded in the Chuluo County Annals is clearly a "royal ship." No one knows when the custom of royal ships first arose, but we do know that it was already quite widespread in the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644).

Perhaps the people along China's southeast coast, which was so often ravaged by the God of Pestilence, imagined that the plague demons' home must be far out in the misty ocean! For why else should it always be the coastal towns and villages at which they struck? Since the Kings of Fever arrived from the sea, then after receiving and entertaining them warmly, people would make them royal ships on which to float out onto the ocean, in the hope that they would return home and not come again. "The meaning of sending off royal ships is to send away pestilence, or in other words to drive out death," explains Huang Wen-po.

But did the departed royal ships really just return home to the sea? The answer is no. Driven by the northeasterly trade winds and marine currents, the royal ships found their final haven off to the southeast in the lonely Penghu Islands and along the southwest coast of Taiwan. The workings of nature explain why royal ship ceremonies are only common along the southwestern part of Taiwan's coast.

When the waves carried in such an ominous ship of death, people dared not approach it until it drifted onto the shore of its own accord. But then they could no longer ignore it, and had to invite the figure of Wangyeh to leave the ship, build him a temple and receive him with ceremony. Otherwise who knows what fate might befall the village?

The royal ships which came ashore on Taiwan included not only ones which had drifted across from the mainland, but also ships sent out from Penghu and from other parts of Taiwan itself. With these "prizes" forced on localities, combined with the spread of branch temples, the number of Wangyeh temples gradually increased.

Wang Ying-tseng, revisor of the Fengshan County Annals, wrote questioning this practice of foisting off on others something one does not want oneself: "How can it be right for people to look only to their own advantage, and shift disaster onto others?" He can never have guessed that one day as people's terror of pestilence faded, receiving a royal ship would actually become an "auspicious omen" of good fortune to come. The villages of Hsishu and Wanli in Tainan County once even came to blows over possession of a royal ship.

In the reigns of the Ching emperors Hsien-feng (1851-1861) and Tung-chih (1862-1874), the custom of sending royal ships out to sea started to be accompanied by their cremation, which was known as "Riding the Milky Way," and this greatly reduced the number of royal ships reaching the shores of Taiwan.

A handful of gold, a handful of silver; the gold spirit money is burnt f or the King of Fevers, the silver money is for his retinue of abandoned souls.

Go home, royal ship!

Burning a royal ship is the climactic finale of the Wangyeh festival. The ceremony symbolizes the return to the bosom of the sea of the royal ship which came from the ocean to the land.

This royal ship is a genuine, valuable wooden craft built with more care and attention than a real ship. The first step is to ask the spirits to point out the location of the tree to be used for the keel, which is cut out according to a prescribed ceremony. Then they invite a bamboo-and-paper "King Shipmaster" to oversee the royal ship's construction. After the shipwrights enter the yard, they may eat no meat, and "after two months' work, you're just skin and bone," says Wang Tsung-ming, whose family have been building royal ships for three generations.

Once the boat is finished, then at midnight on the night before it sets sail the villagers, their shadows intermingling in the pale lamplight, start to load the equipment and supplies into the royal ship's "13 holds and cabins." One by one, the Taoist priest in charge of the proceedings sings out the items on the list: "Three masts, are they there?" To which the assembled villagers reply in unison: "Yes, they're there!" From the firewood, rice, oil and salt, chickens, ducks, fish and pigs to the galley utensils: pots, stove, vegetable knife and kindling hatchet; not forgetting a rice-straw rain-cape and a broad-brimmed bamboo hat to wear, and even games such as four-colored cards, chess and mahjongg sets; in fact everything the voyager could need from food and clothing to the means to fill his leisure hours.

To fete the deity as if he were there in person was originally a sign of sincerity, and the value of the gifts was symbolic, but as appearances become more and more important, today's royal ships are even loaded up with household appliances such as televisions and refrigerators; one can only ask oneself where the electricity to use them will come from aboard ship!

When the ship is fully provisioned, it is time for the crew to take their stations. The captain, helmsman, deckhand, chaplain and cook are each placed at their posts, the king comes aboard, and everything is ready. The drums and gongs are sounded. The Taoist priest pulls a rope to "hoist the sail" and splashes water in front of the ship's bow, proclaiming "the tide is in." Then taking a hoe he marks out a furrow in front of the ship to "open a channel" to the sea, and the ship's hull almost seems to start gently rocking up and down on the waves.

Mediums from Chih Wangyeh temple in Tainan County's Madou Township come to the river mouth to send their spirit's respects far across the water to the mother temple in Fujian.

The royal ship has cast anchor amid the incense:

When the bright day dawns, it is time to say farewell. The anchors are pulled up out of their pails of water, and with the crowd pressing all around it the ship begins its journey.

At the appointed place by the shore, on a golden sea of piled-up spirit money, the flames begin to lick around the ship, then tear its wildly flapping sail asunder. Amid the raging flames the ship sails up to the Milky Way, leaving only ashes behind.

Year after year the royal ships still blaze brightly along Taiwan's southwest coast. But in some places, they neither send the royal ship out to sea nor burn it, but instead bring it indoors to stand as a permanent offering in the temple. At Bao-an Temple in Keliao Rural Township in Tainan County, they have built a Royal Ship Hall at enormous expense, in which they have set up an intricately carved and brightly painted royal ship for believers to worship at.

The ship's anchors hang in vats of water, symbolizing that it has cast anchor and tied up forever here among the smoking incense, to protect the local people. The royal ship has cast anchor and will not leave! This is yet another transformation in popular belief.

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Wangyeh or Prince are names which were once given to all plague demons, so that many of these spirits have family names but no given names.

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At Nan Kunshen Tai Tien Fu temple in Tainan County's Peimen Rural Township, Taiwan's most prestigious Wangyeh temple,five "princes" surnamed Li, Chih, Wu, Chu and Fan are venerated. Each of their birthdays brings an endless stream of worshippers to the temple.

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As the wild winds rage, the faithful come with sacrificial gifts and gold and silver spirit money to receive the Inspecting King--the God of Pestilence--on his tour of inspection.

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After the King of Fevers comes ashore, the local spirits escort him all along his route, and for greater protection even station heavenly soldiers and generals to stand guard at the four points of the compass.

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When the Plague God arrives, everyone kneels down and holds aloft incense to show their devotion.

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A handful of gold, a handful of silver; the gold spirit money is burnt for the King of Fevers, the silver money is for his retinue of abandoned souls.

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Mediums from Chih Wangyeh temple in Tainan County's Madou Township come to the river mouth to send their spirit's respects far across the water to the mother temple in Fujian.

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Amid the raging flames the royal ship sets sail for the Milky Way, marking the end of the Wangyeh festival. (photo by Wang Wei-chang)