Great was the Tang sovereign who sent down his sealed decree; by imperial commission Xuanzang would inquire into the Chan school's truth.
With steadfast heart, honed and polished, he seeks the dragon's lair; with fixed intent, cultivating discipline, he climbs toward Vulture Peak.
Beyond the frontier he journeys far, through how many kingdoms; cloud-wreathed mountains, crossed in a former age, rise fold on fold, ten thousand thousandfold.
From this day, setting his carriage apart, he casts himself westward; upholding the Teaching and its observances, he awakens to the Great Void.
Now Sanzang, on the third day before the full moon of the ninth month in the thirteenth year of the Zhenguan reign, had been seen out beyond the passes of Chang'an by the Tang king and his many officers. For a day or two his horse never stayed its hooves, and he came early to the Temple of the Dharma Gate. The abbot of the upper hall, at the head of more than five hundred monks, drew up his community in two ranks, received him within, and after the exchange of greetings offered tea. When the tea was done they went in to the vegetarian meal; and when the meal was over, evening had come before they knew it. It was just like this:
Shadows stir, and the River of Stars draws near; the moon shines bright, without a single mote of dust.
Wild geese cry out against the far sky; the note of the fulling-block sounds from the neighbour to the west.
Homing birds roost in the withered trees; the Chan monks expound the Brahmā-sounds.
On the rush cushion, upon a single couch, he sits until the night is about to divide.
By lamplight the monks fell to discussing the settled aims of the Buddha's gate, and the reasons for going to the Western Heaven to fetch the scriptures. Some spoke of waters far and mountains high; some of roads thick with tigers and leopards; some of steep ranges and sheer cliffs hard to cross; some of venomous fiends and evil monsters hard to subdue. Sanzang held his tongue and said nothing, but pointed with his hand to his own heart and nodded several times. The monks could not fathom his meaning, and with palms joined they asked him: “Master, what do you mean, pointing to your heart and nodding your head?” Sanzang answered: “When the mind arises, all manner of demons arise; when the mind is extinguished, all manner of demons are extinguished. This disciple has already sworn a great and solemn vow before the Buddha at the Temple of Transformation-Birth, and I cannot but exhaust this resolve of mine. This one journey I am determined to make, until I reach the Western Heaven, behold the Buddha, and seek the scriptures — that our Wheel of the Dharma may turn again, and that the sage sovereign's imperial design may stand secure forever.” Hearing these words, the monks admired him one and all; every one of them proclaimed his praise, and together they cried out: “A Master of loyal heart and crimson gall, great expounder of the Dharma!” Their praise was without end, and they invited the Master to his couch to rest.
Soon enough the bamboo tapped as the waning moon went down, and the cock crowed as the dawn clouds formed. The monks rose and set out tea-water and the early meal. Xuanzang then donned his cassock, went up to the main hall, and before the Buddha made his obeisance, saying: “Your disciple Chen Xuanzang goes to the Western Heaven to fetch the scriptures; but these fleshly eyes are dull and deluded, and cannot know the living Buddha's true form. Today I vow: on the road, wherever I come upon a shrine I shall burn incense; wherever I meet a Buddha I shall bow to the Buddha; wherever I meet a stūpa I shall sweep the stūpa. I only pray that our Buddha in his mercy will soon reveal his golden body of one zhàng six chǐ, and bestow the true scriptures, to be handed down in the Eastern Land.” His prayer done, he returned to the abbot's quarters and took the meal. When it was finished, his two attendants made ready the saddle-horse and urged the journey on. Sanzang came out of the mountain gate and took his leave of the monks; the monks could not bear to part from him, and escorted him a full ten lǐ before they turned back, their eyes brimming. Sanzang then went straight on toward the west. It was just that late-autumn weather, and this was the sight:
About a few villages the trees are bare, the reed-flowers shattered; on a scattering of maples and poplars, red leaves come tumbling down.
On the road, through mist and rain, old friends grow few; the yellow chrysanthemums are lovely, the mountains' bones are spare, the waters cold, the lotus broken, and the traveller worn and wan.
White duckweed and red knotweed lie like snow beneath the frosty sky; the sinking glow and a lone wild duck fall through the vast heavens.
Faint and dim, the wild clouds fly; the swallows depart, the guest-geese arrive, and their clamouring, plaintive cries shiver the night.
Master and disciples travelled several days and came to the city of Gongzhou, where the assembled officials and functionaries of Gongzhou came out to meet them and bring them into the city. They rested a night, and set out again from the city early the next day. All along the way they ate when hungry and drank when thirsty, lodging by night and travelling by dawn; and after two or three days they came once more to the garrison of Hezhou. This was the very border of the mountains and rivers of the Great Tang. The garrison-commander of the marches, together with the monks and Daoists of the place, having heard that it was the imperially commissioned Imperial Younger Brother, the Master of the Law, going to the Western Region to behold the Buddha, were reverent one and all. They received him within and provided for him, and had the monk-registrar invite him to lodge at the Fuyuan Temple. The monks of the temple came, one and all, to pay their respects, and set out the evening meal. When the meal was done, the Master charged his two attendants to feed the horse well, that they might set off before daybreak.
As soon as the cock had crowed he roused his attendants; but he startled the temple's monks as well, who set about preparing tea and the vegetarian fare. When the meal was done they left the border behind. This elder's heart was in haste, and he had set out far too early. It happened that the season was deep autumn, when the cocks crow early, and it was only about the fourth watch. The party of three, with the horse a fourth, went on facing the clear frost and watching the bright moon; they had gone some tens of lǐ when they came upon a mountain range, and had no choice but to part the grass and search out a path. The ruggedness of the going was more than words can tell, and they feared, besides, that they had missed the way. In the very midst of their misgiving they suddenly lost their footing, and all three, horse and all, tumbled into a pit. Sanzang's heart quailed, and his attendants trembled with fear. Scarcely had they recovered from their fright when they heard, from within, a roaring and a loud shouting: “Seize them! Bring them here!” Then a fierce wind came rolling out, and fifty or sixty fiends surged forth and hauled Sanzang and his attendants up. The trembling Master stole a glance, and saw that the Monster King seated above was ferocious beyond measure. This was the very sight of him:
In martial might his frame is awesome; in savage temper his mien is grand.
His lightning eyes flash a darting brilliance; his thunder-voice shakes all four quarters.
Saw-like teeth thrust out past his lips; chisel-fangs show beside his jaws.
Brocade wraps about his body; patterned stripes enfold his spine.
Steel whiskers, with scarce a glimpse of flesh; hooked claws as keen as frost.
The Yellow Duke of the Eastern Sea would quail before him — the white-browed king of the Southern Mountains.
Sanzang was frightened out of his wits, and his two attendants went limp with terror. The Monster King gave the order to bind them, and the whole pack of fiends together lashed the three men with ropes and cords. Just as they were about to make ready to devour them, there came a clamour from outside, and someone came in to announce: “The Mountain Lord Xiong and the Recluse Te, the two of them, have arrived.” Hearing this, Sanzang raised his head and looked, and saw that the one walking in front was a swarthy fellow. This was his manner and form:
Bold and fierce, of ample courage; nimble and strong, of burly frame.
Fording streams by sheer brute force; coursing the woods, he flaunts his raging might.
Long has he answered to auspicious dreams; now, alone, he shows his gallant form.
Green trees he can climb and break; knowing the cold, he reads the turning seasons well.
Truly a spirit at the sacred places, and so he is styled the Mountain Lord.
Then he saw that the one coming behind was a portly fellow. This was his manner and form:
Craggy and high, a crown of twin horns; grave and erect, with shoulders reared and back.
By nature settled in his coat of grey; his hoofed gait for the most part slow and dragging.
In his line the sire is called a bull; and from of old the dam is named a cow.
Able to do the work of the man who tills the field, and so he is named the Recluse Te.
These two came swaggering and swaying in, and the Monster King, in a flurry, rushed out to receive them. The Mountain Lord Xiong said: “General Yin has been in fine fettle all this while — my congratulations, my congratulations.” The Recluse Te said: “General Yin's bearing surpasses its wont — how delightful, how delightful.” The Monster King said: “And how have my two lords fared these several days?” The Mountain Lord said: “I keep to my plain ways, no more.” The Recluse said: “I follow the seasons, no more.” Their greetings done, they each took a seat and fell to talking and laughing.
Now the attendants, bound so tightly that it cut them to the quick, were weeping piteously. The swarthy fellow asked: “Where did these three come from?” The Monster King said: “They delivered themselves to my very door.” The Recluse said with a laugh: “Might they serve to entertain your guests?” The Monster King said: “By all means, by all means.” The Mountain Lord said: “Do not use them all up. Eat two, and it will do to keep the one.” The Monster King assented, and at once called to his underlings to disembowel the two attendants and cut out their hearts, and to hack their carcasses to pieces. The heads and the hearts and livers he offered up to his two guests; the four limbs he ate himself; and the rest of the flesh and bone he shared out among the several fiends. There came only a sound of crunching and gnawing, truly as of tigers devouring lambs — and in a moment they were eaten clean away. The elder was very nearly frightened to death. This, then, was the first ordeal of his setting-out from Chang'an. In the midst of his terror and dismay, little by little the east grew light. The two monsters, when the day at last dawned, dispersed, saying together: “We have imposed grievously on you today; another day we shall repay your kindness in full.” And with that they withdrew in a body.
Before long the red sun rose high, and Sanzang, dazed and reeling, could not tell east from west or south from north. Just at that point, when his life seemed past all saving, he suddenly saw an old man coming toward him, staff in hand. The old man walked up, gave a wave of his hand, and the ropes and cords all snapped apart; he breathed a breath upon his face, and Sanzang came to himself, knelt and bowed to the ground, and said: “My deep thanks, aged sir, for saving this poor monk's life.” Returning the courtesy, the old man said: “Rise. Have you perhaps lost anything of yours?” Sanzang said: “The men who attended me have already been eaten by the fiends. I only do not know where my baggage and my horse may be.” The old man pointed with his staff and said: “Is that not a horse and two bundles over yonder?” Sanzang turned his head to look, and it was indeed his own belongings, nothing lost at all; and only then did his heart set down a little of its burden.
He asked the old man: “Aged sir, what place is this? And how does it come that you are here?” The old man said: “This is Twin-Fork Ridge, a lair of tigers and wolves. How did you come to fall into it?” Sanzang said: “At cockcrow this poor monk left the border of the Hezhou garrison; but not looking to have started too early, I braved the frost and brushed through the dew, and suddenly fell into this place. I met a Monster King, savage and brutal beyond all measure, who bound this poor monk and his two attendants. Then came a swarthy fellow, who called himself the Mountain Lord Xiong, and a portly fellow, who called himself the Recluse Te; and when they came in, they called the Monster King General Yin. The three of them ate my two attendants, and only at daybreak did they disperse. What great karmic affinity and lot can I possess, that I should be favoured with your coming here to save me?” The old man said: “The Recluse is a wild-ox spirit; the Mountain Lord is a bear spirit; and General Yin is an old-tiger spirit. The fiends to either side are one and all mountain-sprites and tree-goblins, monstrous beasts and grey wolves. It is only because your own true nature is fundamentally enlightened that they could not eat you. Come with me, and I will set you on your road.”
Overcome with gratitude, Sanzang bound his bundle upon the horse, took the halter in hand, and, following the old man, went straight out of the pit and up onto the high road. He had just tethered the horse to a clump of grass by the wayside and turned to bow his thanks to the aged sir, when the aged sir changed all at once into a puff of clear wind, mounted a white crane with a vermilion crown, and rose away into the sky. Then he saw, drifting down on the wind, a single slip of paper, and written upon it were four lines of a gāthā. The gāthā ran:
I am the Star of Great White of the Western Heaven, come on purpose to deliver your living soul.
On the road ahead there will be divine disciples to help you; do not, for the hardships, come to resent the scriptures.
When Sanzang had read it, he bowed in worship toward Heaven and said: “My thanks to the Gold Star for delivering me from this calamity.” His worship done, he led his horse forward and, all alone and forlorn, pressed bitterly on.
Upon this ridge, the sight was truly this:
Cold and soughing, the wind through the rain-swept woods; loud and rushing, the water down the ravine.
Fragrant and heavy, the wild flowers in bloom; dense and clustered, the tumbled rocks in heaps.
Clamouring and noisy, the deer and the apes; in troop upon troop, the river-deer and the roe.
Clashing and jumbled, the many voices of birds; still and hushed, no trace of the doings of men.
That elder — trembling and fearful, his heart ill at ease;
this horse of his — its strength failing and timid, its hooves scarce to be lifted.
Sanzang, staking his very life, climbed up among those steep ranges. He had journeyed half a day, yet still saw not a single hearth-smoke or hamlet. For one thing, his belly was hungry; for another, the road was rough. Just at this moment of peril, he saw ahead of him two fierce tigers roaring, and behind him several long snakes coiling; on the left were venomous insects, on the right monstrous beasts. Sanzang, alone and at his wits' end, could only lay down all thought of himself and submit to the will of Heaven. And there was no help for it, for his horse, its loins gone weak and its hooves buckling, knelt down at once and lay prostrate on the ground: beat it as he might, it would not rise; pull it as he might, it would not stir. The poor Master had not an inch of ground to set himself, and in truth was in the bitterest of straits, having already given himself up for dead, past all remedy.
Now although he had his calamity, he had his rescue as well. Just at that point when his life seemed past all saving, he suddenly saw the venomous insects scurry away, the monstrous beasts take flight, the fierce tigers slink into hiding, and the long snakes withdraw from sight. When Sanzang raised his head to look, he saw a single man, a steel trident in his grasp and bow and arrows at his waist, coming out from before the mountain slope — a stalwart fellow indeed. See him now:
On his head he wore a mottled leopard-skin cap patterned like mugwort leaves; on his body a robe of figured brocade woven from lamb's-wool; about his waist a belt clasped with a lion-and-barbarian device; and on his feet a pair of boots of muntjac hide.
Ring-round eyes and staring pupils, like a mourner come to call; a curling beard in wild disorder, like the star-spirit of the River Kui.
Slung with a quiver of poisoned arrows and bow; gripping a great trident of tempered steel.
His thunderous voice would burst the gall of the mountain vermin; his fierce valour would shake the very souls of the wild pheasants.
Seeing him come gradually nearer, Sanzang knelt by the roadside, pressed his palms together, and cried aloud: “Great King, spare my life! Great King, spare my life!” The fellow came up before him, set down his trident, raised him with his hand, and said: “Have no fear, elder. I am no evildoer; I am a hunter of these mountains. My surname is Liu, my name Boqin, and my style is Guardian of the Mountain. I have just come out looking for a couple of mountain beasts to eat; I did not expect to meet you, and I have given you a great fright.” Sanzang said: “This poor monk is a priest sent by imperial commission under the Tang court, on his way to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Coming just now to this place, I met with wolves and tigers, snakes and vermin, that hemmed me in on all four sides so that I could go no farther. Then all at once the Guardian appeared, and every beast fled and my poor life was saved. My thanks, my thanks.”
Boqin said: “I make my living here among men, relying wholly on striking down wolves and tigers, and catching snakes and vermin to keep myself — that is why the beasts feared me and fled. Since you have come from the land of Tang, we are countrymen. This is still within the borders of Great Tang, and I too am a subject of the Tang court; you and I drink the same waters and eat of the same soil of our sovereign — truly we are men of one country. Have no fear; come with me, and lodge your horse at my cottage, and tomorrow I will see you on your way.” Hearing this, Sanzang was filled with joy; he thanked Boqin, and, leading his horse, went along with him.
When they had crossed the slope, they heard once more a whistling of wind. Boqin said: “Stay where you are, elder, and sit here a while. Where the wind whistles, a mountain-cat is coming; let me take him home to make you a meal.” At these words Sanzang's heart quailed again, and he dared not stir a step. The Guardian gripped his steel trident, strode forward, and went to meet it. There, face to face, he came upon a striped tiger, which, catching sight of Boqin, turned its head at once to flee. But the Guardian, with a crash like a thunderclap, bellowed: “Where are you off to, cursed beast!” The tiger, seeing itself hard pressed, wheeled about, brandished its claws, and sprang. The Guardian raised his three-pronged trident to meet the attack. Sanzang was so frightened he went limp and slumped down on the grass. This monk, since first he left his mother's womb, had never seen so perilous a business. The Guardian and the tiger, below that mountain slope, man and beast grappling together — it was truly a fine fight. Behold:
Wrath in billows; wild wind in surges.
Wrath in billows: the Guardian, his hair bristling at his cap, of mighty thews;
wild wind in surges: the striped tiger, flaunting its force, spewing the red dust.
That one bares its fangs and flails its claws; this one shifts his footing and turns his body.
The three-pronged trident lifts to heaven and dazzles the sun; the many-flowered tail stirs the mist and sends the clouds flying.
This one thrusts wildly at the breast; that one comes face-on to devour.
Who dodges clear is born again into the world of men; who takes the blow will surely meet King Yama.
One heard only the striped tiger's roaring, and the Guardian's savage shout.
The striped tiger's roar rent the hills and streams and startled the birds and beasts;
the Guardian's shout split open the courts of Heaven and laid bare the stars.
That one, its golden eyes bulging with fury; this one, his stout heart swelling with wrath.
Admirable, the Guardian Liu of the Mountain; worthy of praise, the ground-holding lord of the beasts.
Man and tiger, each greedy of life, contend for victory; let there be the slightest slackening, and one loses his three souls.
The two of them had fought for the space of an hour when the tiger's claws slackened and its loins grew slack, and the Guardian, raising his trident, ran it straight through its breast and felled it. Alas for the beast — the steel prongs pierced clean through its heart and liver, and in an instant its blood ran out and covered the ground. He seized it by the ears and dragged it up onto the path. A fine fellow: his breath came without panting, and his colour never changed, as he said to Sanzang: “What luck, what luck! This mountain-cat will keep the elder in food for a whole day.” Sanzang praised him without end, saying: “The Guardian is a very mountain-god!” Boqin said: “What skill have I, that I should merit such praise? This is the elder's own good fortune. Come, let us skin it early and boil some of the meat to make you a meal.”
With one hand gripping his trident and the other dragging the tiger, he led the way in front, and Sanzang, leading his horse, came along behind. Winding on across the mountain slope, they suddenly caught sight of a farmstead. Before its gate, the sight was truly this:
Ancient trees that pierce the sky; wild vines that overrun the path.
In ten thousand ravines the wind-blown dust is cold; on a thousand cliffs the aspect is strange and rare.
Along one path the wild flowers' fragrance clings to the body; a few stems of secluded bamboo hang green and lush.
A thatched gate-tower, a wattle-fenced yard — fit to be sketched, fit to be painted;
a flagstone bridge, whitewashed earthen walls — truly delightful, truly rare.
The face of autumn is bleak and desolate; the crisp air stands lofty and alone.
By the road the yellow leaves are falling; over the ridge the white clouds drift.
Within the sparse woods the mountain birds go clamouring; outside the farmstead gate the little dogs go yapping.
When Boqin reached his gate, he flung down the dead tiger and called out: “Where are you lads?” Out came three or four house-servants, all of them of grotesque form and evil aspect, who came forward, hauling and tugging, and carried the tiger off inside. Boqin gave orders that it be skinned early and made ready to serve to the guest. Then he turned back to usher Sanzang within, and when they had greeted one another, Sanzang once again bowed his thanks for Boqin's great kindness and mercy in saving his life. Boqin said: “We are men of the same district — what need is there of thanks?” When they had sat down and taken tea, an old woman appeared, leading a young wife, and they made their salutations to Sanzang.
Boqin said: “This is my mother, and my humble wife.” Sanzang said: “Pray let your honoured mother take the high seat, and let this poor monk pay his respects.” The old woman said: “Elder, you are a traveller from afar; let each of us stand on no ceremony, and spare yourself the bow.” Boqin said: “Mother, he is a man sent under the Tang king to go to the Western Heaven to see the Buddha and seek scriptures. Just now, on the ridge-top, he met your son, and your son, mindful that we are men of one country, has asked him home to rest his horse, and tomorrow will see him on his way.” Hearing this, the old woman was filled with joy and said: “Good, good, good. Even had we sought for it, we could not have hit on so apt a time. Tomorrow is your father's death-anniversary; pray prevail on the elder to do some good works and read a scroll of scripture, and the day after, we can send him off.” Now this Liu Boqin, though a slayer of tigers and Guardian of the Mountain, had for all that something of a filial heart; and hearing his mother's words, he set about at once to prepare the incense and paper, and kept Sanzang there.
As they were talking, evening came on before they knew it. The servants set out table and benches and brought several dishes of well-cooked tiger meat, steaming hot, and laid them above. Boqin invited Sanzang to take some for the present, saying he would have other food prepared. Sanzang, pressing his palms together at his breast, said: “Bless you! I will not deceive the Guardian: from the time I left my mother's womb I have been a monk, and have never so much as known how to eat flesh.” Hearing this, Boqin pondered a good while and said: “Elder, in my house, for generations back, we have not known how to eat vegetarian fare. We have a little bamboo shoot, and gather some wood-ears, and look out some dried greens, and make a little bean-curd — but they are all fried in the fat of roe and deer, of tiger and leopard, so there is hardly anything vegetarian about them. Even our two cooking-pots and their stoves are soaked through with grease. What is to be done? It turns out I have done wrong in inviting the elder at all.”
Sanzang said: “The Guardian need not trouble himself — pray take your own meal. Even were I this poor monk to go three or five days without eating, I could bear the hunger; only I dare not break my vow of abstinence.” Boqin said: “But what if you should starve to death?” Sanzang said: “By the Guardian's Heaven-sent grace I have been saved out of the very thicket of tigers and wolves; and even were I to starve to death, it would be better than being fed to a tiger.”
Boqin's mother, hearing this, called out: “Child, do not go on wrangling with the elder; I have vegetarian things of my own, with which we can entertain him.” Boqin said: “Where would vegetarian things come from?” His mother said: “Never you mind; I have my own vegetarian fare.” She bade the wife take down the small pot, burn off its grease with fire, and scour it and scour it again, and wash it and wash it again, and then set it back on the stove. First she boiled half a pot of water for another use; then she took some leaves of mountain burnet and steeped them in water to make a tea; after that she took some yellow millet and glutinous grain and cooked up a meal, and boiled some dried greens as well. She dished up two bowls of it and brought it out and set it on the table. The old mother said to Sanzang: “Elder, pray take your meal. This is a little plain, clean fare, which I and my son's wife have prepared with our own hands.” Sanzang came down and thanked her, and only then took his seat.
Boqin, for his part, set out a separate place, and spread it with tiger meat unsalted and unsauced, and fragrant roe-deer meat, python meat, fox meat, hare meat, and minced strips of dried venison — whole platters and bowls of it — to keep Sanzang company at his meal. He had just sat down and was about to lift his chopsticks when he saw Sanzang press his palms together and chant a sutra; and so startled was he that he dared not touch his own chopsticks, but rose hastily and stood to one side. Sanzang, when he had recited but a few lines, then bade him take his meal. Boqin said: “You are a monk who says a short-headed sort of sutra, then?” Sanzang said: “This was no sutra, but a single scroll of grace before meat.” Boqin said: “You monks who have left home — what a deal of fuss you make, mumbling and murmuring even over a bowl of rice.”
When they had eaten their vegetarian meal and cleared away the bowls and platters, it gradually grew late. Boqin led Sanzang out of the central hall to stroll about the back. They passed through a covered passage and came to a thatched pavilion; pushing open its door, they went inside. There Sanzang saw, hung on the four walls, several strong bows and stiff crossbows, and quivers of arrows stuck up here and there; over the beams were slung two reeking tiger-skins; against the foot of the wall were planted a great many spears and knives, tridents and staves; and in the very middle stood two seats. Boqin invited Sanzang to sit a while; but Sanzang, seeing how savage and gory a place it was, dared not stay long, and so came out of the thatched pavilion.
Going on further to the back, they came to a great garden, where one could not take in all the clump on clump of chrysanthemum-buds heaped in yellow, and the tree on tree of maple and poplar hung with crimson. Then, with a sudden rushing sound, out sprang a dozen or so fat deer and a great herd of yellow river-deer, which, at the sight of men, only gazed foolishly and showed no fear at all. Sanzang said: “I suppose the Guardian keeps these deer as a household stock?” Boqin said: “Just as in your city of Chang'an the well-to-do lay up treasure, and the landed lay up stores of grain, so we hunters can only rear a few wild beasts, to provide against the days of foul weather.” The two of them talked and strolled, and before they knew it dusk had come, and they turned back to the front hall to rest.
Early the next morning the whole household, old and young, rose and set about a vegetarian feast to entertain the elder, and asked him to begin reciting the scriptures. The elder washed his hands, and together with the Guardian burned incense before the family shrine and made his obeisances to it. Then Sanzang sounded the wooden fish, and first recited the True Words for cleansing the mouth of its karma, and next the divine spell for purifying body and mind, and after that opened the Sutra for the Deliverance of the Dead, a single scroll. When he had finished chanting, Boqin asked him further to write out a memorial petition for the departed, and then to begin reciting the Diamond Sutra and the Guanyin Sutra, all in a clear, ringing voice. When these were done, they took their midday meal, and then he recited the Lotus Sutra and the Amitabha Sutra, several scrolls of each, and one scroll of the Peacock Sutra as well, and told the story of how the bhikṣu washed away his karma; and soon it was evening again. When they had presented every kind of incense and offering, burned the paper horses for the host of spirits, and burned the memorial petition for the departed, the Buddhist rites were complete, and each of them went again to rest.
Now the soul of Boqin's father, delivered by the merit of the service from its sunk estate, came betimes as a ghost to his own house, and appeared in a dream to the whole household, old and young, saying: “In the shadow-world my sufferings were hard to escape, and for long I could not win rebirth. Now, by the good fortune of the holy monk's reciting the scriptures, my burden of sin has been dissolved, and King Yama has sent men to escort me up to the rich land of the Middle Flower, there to be reborn into the house of a man of substance. See that you thank and speed the elder well, and be in no way remiss, be in no way remiss. I am going now.” And this was the very thing:
The myriad dharmas in their solemn splendour have their purpose indeed: they deliver the dead from their woe and lift them out of the depths.
When that whole household woke from the dream, the sun was already up in the east. Boqin's wife said: “Husband, tonight I dreamed our father came home, and said that in the shadow-world his sufferings were hard to escape, and that for long he could not win rebirth; but now, by the good fortune of the holy monk's reciting the scriptures, his burden of sin has been dissolved, and King Yama has sent men to escort him up to the rich land of the Middle Flower, to be reborn into the house of a man of substance. He bade us thank the elder well and not be remiss with him. When he had spoken, he went straight out of the door and wandered off; we called him but he would not answer, and could not keep him. Then I woke, and it was a dream.” Boqin said: “I too had just such a dream, the same as yours. Let us get up and go tell my mother.”
The two of them were just about to go and tell her when the old mother called out: “Boqin, my child, come here; I have something to say to you.” When the two came before her, the old mother, seated on her bed, said: “Son, tonight I had a happy dream: I dreamed your father came home, and said that thanks to the elder's deliverance his burden of sin was already dissolved, and that he was going up to the rich land of the Middle Flower, to be reborn into a house of substance.” Husband and wife both laughed aloud and said: “We two, and your daughter-in-law, all had this dream, and were just coming to report it; who would have thought that mother should call us, and it is the same dream.” So they called the whole household, high and low, to rise and make ready their thanks, and to see to the pilgrim's horse; and all came before him and bowed their thanks, saying: “Our deep thanks to the elder for delivering our dead father out of his ordeal and into rebirth — more than we can ever repay.” Sanzang said: “What power has this poor monk, that he should merit such thanks?”
Boqin related the whole of the three dreams to Sanzang, and Sanzang too was glad. Early they set out a vegetarian meal, and further offered a tael of silver in thanks; but Sanzang would not take a single cash of it. When the whole family earnestly and repeatedly pressed and entreated him, Sanzang, in the end, took not a single cash, saying only: “That you are willing to show mercy and see me a stage on my way is enough, and I am deeply moved by your kindness.” Boqin and his mother and wife, at a loss what to do, hastily made up some coarse-flour griddle-cakes for dry provisions, and bade Boqin see him far on his road. Sanzang gladly accepted these. The Guardian, having received his mother's command, called two or three of the house-servants besides, each with his hunting gear, and they set out together on the high road; and they could not take in all the wild scenes of the mountains and the light on the ridges.
They had journeyed half a day when, on the side opposite, they saw a great mountain, one that truly reached up to touch the blue empyrean, towering and steep and sheer. In no long time Sanzang came up before it. The Guardian climbed this mountain as though walking on level ground; but when they had come to the middle of the range, Boqin turned about and stood at the foot of the path, saying: “Elder, pray go forward on your own; I must here take my leave.” Hearing this, Sanzang tumbled from his saddle and said: “I beg and implore the Guardian to see me one stage further.” Boqin said: “Elder, you do not know. This mountain is called the Mountain of Two Boundaries; its eastern half belongs to the governance of our Great Tang, but its western half is the territory of the Tatars. The wolves and tigers over yonder do not submit to my subduing, and I for my part may not cross the boundary; you must go on by yourself.” Sanzang was stricken with fear; he flung out his hands and clung to Boqin's clothes and sleeves, his tears falling, loath to part. And just at this moment of earnest leave-taking, there came from the foot of the mountain a shout like thunder, crying: “My master is come! My master is come!” It frightened Sanzang out of his wits, and left Boqin dumbstruck.
There is no telling, in the end, who it was that shouted; and for that, you must listen to the explanation in the next chapter.