The Buddha is nothing but mind, and mind is nothing but Buddha; yet mind and Buddha, from of old, have each been taken for a thing.
If you know there is no thing, and no mind either, that is the true mind — the Buddha of the Dharma-body.
The Dharma-body Buddha has no shape or likeness: a single orb of perfect light that holds the myriad images within.
The substance of what has no substance is the true substance; the form of what has no form is the very Real Form.
Neither matter nor emptiness, nor yet not-empty; neither coming nor going forth, nor turning-back-in-merit.
No difference, no sameness, neither being nor non-being; hard to let go, hard to take hold of, hard to hear or to behold.
The numinous light, within and without, is everywhere the same; one whole Buddha-land lies within a single grain of sand.
A single grain of sand holds the Great Thousandfold World; one body-and-mind is one with all ten thousand dharmas.
To know this you must master the secret of no-mind: unstained, unhindered — this is the pure work of enlightenment.
With good and evil in their thousand forms, cling to nothing done — and this is to say: Homage to Śākyamuni.
We now tell how Liu Boqin and the Tang Master Sanzang, in all their fright and confusion, once more heard a voice cry out, “The master has come!” The household servants said, “That call must be the old ape in the stone chest at the foot of the mountain.”
“It is he,” said the Grand Guardian. “It is he.”
“What manner of old ape is this?” Sanzang asked.
“This mountain was once called the Mountain of Five Phases,” said the Guardian, “but because our great Tang sovereign marched west and secured the realm, it was renamed the Mountain of the Two Frontiers. In years past I heard the old folk tell that when Wang Mang usurped the Han, this mountain came down from Heaven, and beneath it a divine monkey was pressed — one who fears neither cold nor heat and takes neither food nor drink, for a local earth-spirit keeps guard over him and, when he hungers, feeds him iron pellets, and when he thirsts, gives him molten copper to drink. From of old until now he has died of neither frost nor famine. That cry is surely his. Do not be afraid, elder; let us go down and take a look.”
Sanzang could only comply; leading the horse, he went down the mountain. They had not gone a few li when they saw, within the stone chest, that there was indeed a monkey — his head thrust out, his hands stretched forth, waving wildly as he called:
“Master, why do you come only now? You have come at a good time — a good time indeed! Rescue me, and I will guard you all the way to the Western Heaven!”
The elder drew near to look; and this was the creature's aspect:
A pointed snout and sunken cheeks; eyes of gold with fiery pupils.
On his head moss and lichen lay heaped; within his ears the fig-vine grew.
By his temples, few hairs and much green grass; beneath his chin, no beard but green sedge.
Earth in the furrow of his brow, mud in the hollow of his nose — a sorry, wretched sight.
Thick fingertips, calloused palms, and grime to spare.
Yet, happily, his eyes could still turn and roll, and his throat and tongue were sound of voice.
His speech came ready and nimble, though his body could not stir.
This was none other than the Great Sage of five hundred years before — his ordeal now fulfilled, escaping Heaven's net this very morning.
The Grand Guardian was bold indeed. Stepping forward, he pulled away the grass at the monkey's temples and the sedge beneath his chin, and asked, “What is it you have to say?”
“I have nothing to say to you,” said the monkey. “Have that master there come up; I have a question to put to him.”
“What would you ask me?” said Sanzang.
“Are you the one the sovereign of the Eastern Land has sent to the Western Heaven to fetch the scriptures?”
“I am indeed. Why do you ask?”
“I am the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, who five hundred years ago made havoc in the Halls of Heaven; only because I committed the crime of deceiving those above was I pressed down here by the Buddha Patriarch. Some time ago a Bodhisattva, Guanyin, came at the Buddha's command to the Eastern Land to seek out a scripture-pilgrim. I begged her to save me, and she urged me to do no more violence, to take refuge in the Buddha's Law, and with all diligence to guard the scripture-pilgrim on his way west to worship the Buddha — after which good fortune would surely be mine. So day and night I have kept my heart on guard, watchful from dusk to dawn, waiting only for a master to come and set me free. I am willing to guard you on your journey, and to become your disciple.”
Hearing this, Sanzang was filled with joy. “Though you have so good a heart,” he said, “and have received the Bodhisattva's instruction, and are willing to enter the gate of religion — still, I have neither axe nor chisel. How am I to free you?”
“No axe or chisel is needed. Only be willing to save me, and I shall come out of myself.”
“I am willing to save you,” said Sanzang, “but how will you get out?”
“On the summit of this mountain there is a golden-lettered seal set by my Buddha, the Tathāgata. Only go up and peel the strip away, and I shall come out at once.”
Sanzang did as he was told, and turning back he entreated Liu Boqin: “Guardian, let me climb the mountain with you a while.”
“I cannot tell whether this is true or false,” said Boqin. The monkey cried aloud, “It is true — I would never dare to deceive you!”
Boqin could only call the servants and have the horses led along. He then supported Sanzang and climbed once more up the high mountain; clutching vines and clinging to creepers, they made their way to the very summit, where indeed they saw ten thousand shafts of golden light and a thousand strands of auspicious vapour. There stood a great four-square boulder, and pasted upon it was a paper wrapper bearing six golden characters: oṃ maṇi padme hūṃ.
Sanzang came forward and knelt; facing the characters upon the stone, he made several bows, and turning toward the west he prayed:
“Your disciple, Chen Xuanzang, has come by imperial command to seek the scriptures. If it is my destined lot to have a disciple, let me peel off these golden words, free the divine monkey, and together attain the Numinous Mountain. But if no such lot is mine — if this be some fierce and stubborn monster deceiving your disciple, unworthy of any blessing — then let the words not come away.”
His prayer done, he bowed again; and when the bowing was finished, he stepped forward and gently peeled the six golden characters away. At once a gust of fragrant wind arose, snatched the seal-strip from his hand, and swept it up into the air, while a voice cried: “I am the Guardian appointed to press down the Great Sage. Today his ordeal is fulfilled, and we return to see the Tathāgata and deliver back this seal.”
So startled were Sanzang and Boqin and all their party that they bowed toward the empty sky. Then they went straight down the mountain and came again to the stone chest, where Sanzang said to the monkey, “The seal is peeled away — you may come out now.”
The monkey rejoiced and called, “Master, please stand off a little, so that I may come out without alarming you.”
When Boqin heard this, he led Sanzang and the whole party off eastward for home. They had gone some five or seven li when again they heard the monkey call out, “Keep going — keep going!” Sanzang went on a good way further, and once he was down off the mountain, there came a great crashing sound — truly it was as if the earth split and the mountain crumbled. Everyone was struck with dread.
And there was the monkey, already at Sanzang's horse before them, kneeling stark and bare, calling, “Master, I am out!” He bowed to Sanzang four times, sprang up, and made a great salute to Boqin, saying, “I have troubled you, elder brother, to escort my master, and I thank you for clearing the grass from my face.”
His thanks done, he went at once to gather the baggage and cinch up the horse. But the horse, at the sight of him, went weak in the loins and buckled at the hoof, trembling so that it could not stand. For the monkey had once been the Bima'wen — the keeper of the dragon-horses in Heaven, with certain arts to his name — and so ordinary horses are afraid at the sight of him.
Seeing that the monkey was sincere and truly of good heart, a very man of the religious order, Sanzang said, “Disciple, what is your surname?”
“My surname is Sun,” said the Monkey King.
“Let me give you a religious name, so that it will be convenient to call you.”
“There is no need to trouble your kind heart, Master; I already have a religious name — I am called Sun Wukong, 'Awakened to Emptiness.'”
“That fits our order exactly!” said Sanzang with delight. “With a look like yours, you are the very image of a little ascetic; let me give you a byname as well, and call you 'the Pilgrim' — will that do?”
“Good, good, good!” said Wukong. And from that time he was also called Pilgrim Sun.
Seeing that Pilgrim Sun was set with one mind on setting out, Boqin turned and made a salute to Sanzang, saying, “Elder, you are fortunate to have gained so good a disciple here — I am glad, most glad. This man will indeed do to go with you. And now I take my leave.”
Sanzang bowed and made his thanks: “I have put you to much trouble, and I am more grateful than I can say. When you return to your house, convey my many respects to your honoured mother and to your worthy wife; I have been much bother to your household, and when I pass this way again I shall come to give my thanks in person.”
Boqin returned the courtesy, and with that the two parted.
Now we tell how Pilgrim Sun asked Sanzang to mount, while he himself went ahead, the baggage on his back, striding along stark and bare. Before long they had passed the Mountain of the Two Frontiers, when all at once a fierce tiger came roaring toward them, lashing its tail. Sanzang, on his horse, took fright; but the Pilgrim said gladly from the roadside, “Do not fear him, Master — he has come to bring me clothes.”
He set down the baggage, drew from his ear a tiny needle, met the wind with it, gave it a shake — and it became an iron rod as thick as a bowl. Holding it in his hand, he laughed: “This treasure has not been used these five hundred years and more; today I bring it out to earn myself a suit of clothes.”
See him stride out, meet the fierce tiger head on, and cry, “Cursed beast! Where do you think you are going!” The tiger crouched down and lay flat in the dust, not daring to stir at all. With one blow to the head he struck it, so that its brains burst out in ten thousand points of peach-red and its teeth flew forth like scattered pearls and shards of jade.
This so terrified Chen Xuanzang that he tumbled from the saddle; biting his finger, he cried, “Heavens! Heavens! The other day Grand Guardian Liu killed a striped tiger, but had to fight it half a day; today Sun Wukong needs no struggle at all — with one blow he has beaten this tiger to a pulp! Truly, however strong one is, there is always a stronger hand!”
The Pilgrim dragged the tiger over and said, “Sit a moment, Master, and wait while I strip off his clothes to wear on the road.”
“Where would he have any clothes?” said Sanzang.
“Never mind about me, Master; I have my own way of managing.”
Good Monkey King! He plucked out a single hair, blew on it a breath of immortal air, and cried, “Change!” It became an ox-ear pointed knife. From the tiger's belly he cut the skin open, peeled it downward, and stripped off the whole hide entire. He chopped away the claws and cut off the head, and pared the skin into a neat four-square piece of tiger-hide. Lifting it, he measured it and said, “A little too wide — one width will make two.”
He took up the knife again and cut it into two widths; he put one width away and wrapped the other about his waist. From the roadside he pulled up a length of creeper, bound it tight, and covered his lower body, saying, “Let us go, Master, let us go; when we reach a house, I will borrow needle and thread and sew it up — no matter for now.”
He gave the iron rod a twist, and it was again like a needle, which he tucked away in his ear. Then, the baggage on his back, he asked his master to mount.
As the two went forward, the elder asked from horseback, “Wukong, the iron rod with which you just now killed the tiger — how is it I no longer see it?”
The Pilgrim laughed. “Master, you do not know. This staff of mine was got long ago from the Dragon Palace of the Eastern Ocean; it is called the Divine Iron that Fixes the Bed of Heaven's River, and again the As-You-Will Gold-Banded Cudgel. In the year I made my great rebellion in Heaven, I leaned on it heavily. It transforms at my will — grows great when I would have it great, small when I would have it small. Just now I turned it into the likeness of an embroidery needle and tucked it in my ear. Only when it is needed do I bring it out.”
Sanzang heard this with secret delight, and asked again, “When that tiger caught sight of you just now, why did it not stir at all, but let you strike it at your ease — how do you account for that?”
“I will not deceive you, Master: not to speak of a tiger, were it even a dragon, at the sight of me it would not dare be uncivil. I, old Sun, have some skill at subduing dragons and taming tigers, some power to overturn rivers and churn seas; I read a face and tell its colour, I hear a sound and discern its meaning; at my largest I take the measure of the cosmos, at my smallest I withdraw into a hair; my changes are without end, my appearing and vanishing beyond all fathoming. To skin a tiger like this — what is there rare in that? If ever we come to some knotty pass, then you shall see my true arts.”
Hearing these words, Sanzang grew all the more untroubled and at ease, and whipped his horse onward.
Master and disciple went along the road, talking as they walked, and did not notice the sun sinking in the west. And this was the sight:
Flickering, the slanting after-glow throws back its light; to the far ends of sky and sea the clouds go home.
On a thousand hills the birds cry thick and fast, seeking their roosts, flocking to the woods in ranks.
The wild beasts go in pairs and pairs, home to their dens in troops and troops.
A single hook of new moon breaks the yellow dusk;
ten thousand points of bright stars ring the night with haloed light.
“Step lively, Master, the day is late,” said the Pilgrim. “Over yonder the trees stand thick — surely a farmstead; let us hurry and find lodging early.”
Sanzang duly whipped his horse forward, made straight for the house, and dismounted before the farm gate. The Pilgrim flung down the baggage, stepped up, and called, “Open the gate! Open the gate!”
Within, an old man came out leaning on a staff and pulled the gate open with a rattle. At the sight of the Pilgrim's fearsome aspect — a piece of tiger-skin bound at his waist, for all the world like the Duke of Thunder — he was so frightened that his legs went weak and his body numb, and he babbled deliriously, “A ghost has come! A ghost has come!”
Sanzang came forward and steadied him, calling, “Do not be afraid, old patron; he is this poor monk's disciple, no ghost or goblin.”
The old man raised his head, and seeing Sanzang's face fresh and refined, at last stood firm and asked, “From what temple do you come, reverend, that you bring this vicious fellow to my door?”
“This poor monk comes from the land of Tang, journeying to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Passing this way, and the day being late, I have come to your honoured house to beg one night's lodging; by first light, before the sky is bright, we shall be gone. I beg you show us this small kindness.”
“Though you may be a man of Tang,” said the old man, “that vicious one is surely no man of Tang.”
Wukong cried out in a stern voice, “You have no eyes in your head at all, old man! The man of Tang is my master; I am his disciple. And I am no 'sugar-man' or 'honey-man' either — I am the Great Sage Equal to Heaven! Among the folk hereabouts there are some who know me. I have seen you before, as it happens.”
“Where did you ever see me?” said the old man.
“Did you not, when you were small, rake firewood before my face? Did you not gather greens upon my very cheek?”
“This fellow talks nonsense!” said the old man. “Where did you live, and where did I live, that I should come and rake firewood and gather greens before your face?”
“It is my son here who talks nonsense. You simply do not know me: I am none other than the Great Sage of the stone chest in this Mountain of the Two Frontiers — look again and know me.”
The old man at last came to himself. “You do rather resemble him. But how did you ever get out?”
Then Wukong told the old man the whole tale — how the Bodhisattva had exhorted him to virtue and bidden him wait for the Tang monk to peel the seal and set him free — recounting it all through, from first to last.
The old man then made his bow, invited the Tang monk within, and at once called his aged wife and his children to come and meet the guests; he told them all that had passed, and every one of them was glad. He ordered tea; and when the tea was done, he asked Wukong, “Great Sage, you too must be well on in years?”
“And how old are you this year?” said Wukong.
“I have foolishly reached one hundred and thirty.”
“Then you are but my great-great-grandchild,” said the Pilgrim. “The age of my very birth I cannot recall to what time it belongs; but here at the foot of this mountain alone I have already spent five hundred years and more.”
“True, true,” said the old man. “I remember my grandfather saying that this mountain came down from Heaven and pressed a divine monkey beneath it. Only now have you got free of it. When I saw you in my childhood there was grass on your head and mud on your face, and still I was not afraid of you; but now the mud is gone from your face and the grass from your head, and you look rather thinner, with a great tiger-skin bound at your waist besides — how much, then, do you differ from a goblin?”
The whole family, hearing this kind of talk, all burst out laughing.
This old fellow was of a generous cast, and at once ordered a vegetarian meal set out. After the meal, Wukong said, “What is your family's surname?”
“My humble house is surnamed Chen.”
Hearing this, Sanzang came down and made a bow, saying, “The old patron and this poor monk are of one clan.”
“Master,” said the Pilgrim, “you are of the Tang surname; how are you of one clan with him?”
“In my lay family I too am surnamed Chen, a man of the Juxian Village in Hongnong Commandery, Haizhou, of the Tang realm. My dharma-name is Chen Xuanzang. It was only because our great Tang emperor Taizong made me his sworn younger brother, and pointed to 'Tang' as my surname, that I am called the Tang Monk.”
When the old man heard that they shared a surname, he was the more delighted.
“Old Chen,” said the Pilgrim, “I have troubled your house on every side; I have not bathed these five hundred years. Would you go and heat some water, so my master and I may wash — and I will thank you all the more when we leave.”
The old fellow at once had water heated and a basin brought, and set a lamp burning. Master and disciple bathed, and sat down before the lamp. Then the Pilgrim said, “Old Chen, there is one more thing I must trouble you for: lend me a needle and thread to use.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said the old fellow, and bade his wife fetch needle and thread, which she handed to the Pilgrim.
The Pilgrim, quick-eyed as ever, had seen while his master bathed a short white cloth tunic set aside unworn; he pulled it over and threw it about himself. Then he took off the tiger-skin, joined it together, worked it into a horse-face pleat, bound it about his waist, fastened it with the creeper-cord, and came before his master, saying: “How does old Sun's turnout today compare with yesterday's?”
“Good, good, good!” said Sanzang. “Dressed like this, you look at last like a proper pilgrim. Disciple, if you do not mind its being worn and old, that tunic is yours — put it on and keep it.”
Wukong made a salute. “I accept it, I accept it.”
He then went to find some fodder and fed the horse. By this time all their tasks were done, and master and disciple, with the old fellow, each went to rest.
Early next day Wukong rose and asked his master to take the road. Sanzang put on his robes and bade the Pilgrim gather up the bedding and baggage. Just as they were about to take their leave, the old fellow had already prepared water for washing, and a vegetarian meal besides; and when the meal was done, only then did they set out.
Sanzang mounted, and the Pilgrim led the way. Before they knew it they were eating when hungry and drinking when thirsty, resting by night and travelling by dawn; and it fell to be the season of early winter. And this was the sight:
Frost has withered the red leaves, and a thousand groves grow lean; on the ridge a few pines and cypresses stand fair and green.
Plum-buds, not yet open, breathe a faint, hidden fragrance; the warm days are short, the little-spring season come; chrysanthemums are spent and the lotus gone, yet the camellia thrives; by the cold bridge the old trees vie, branch striving against branch.
Down the winding gully the spring-water trickles and slides; pale clouds, on the verge of snow, drift across the whole sky.
The north wind gusts and tugs at the sleeves; as evening draws on, the cold's fierce might — how is a man to bear it?
Master and disciple had been going along a good while when suddenly, from the roadside, a whistle sounded and six men burst out, each gripping a long spear or short sword, keen blade or strong bow. With a great shout they cried, “Where are you off to, monk! Leave your horse this instant and set down your baggage, and we will spare your life to pass.”
This so terrified Sanzang that his soul flew off and his spirits scattered; he tumbled from the horse, unable to speak. The Pilgrim raised him with his hand and said, “Set your mind at rest, Master — it is nothing at all; these are people come to give us clothes and travelling-money.”
“Wukong, you must be a little hard of hearing,” said Sanzang. “He tells us to leave the horse and baggage, and you go asking him for clothes and money instead.”
“You just keep watch over the clothes, the baggage, and the horse,” said the Pilgrim, “and let old Sun have a bout with them, to see how it goes.”
“Even a good hand is no match for two fists, and two fists are no match for four hands,” said Sanzang. “There are six big fellows on his side, and you such a small, small little person — how dare you contend with them?”
The Pilgrim, bold by nature, would brook no discussion; he stepped forward, folded his hands at his breast, and made a bow to the six men, saying: “Sirs, what is the reason you block the road of this poor monk?”
“We are the great kings who cut the highways, the mountain lords of generous heart,” said the men. “Our great names have long been noised abroad — you must not have heard. Set down your goods at once and we will let you pass; but say so much as half a 'no,' and we will grind you to bone and pulp.”
“I too am a great king by inheritance,” said the Pilgrim, “a mountain lord of many years' standing — yet I have never heard that you sirs had any great names.”
“You do not know them; then let me tell you, and hear: one is called Eye-that-Sees-and-Delights, one Ear-that-Hears-and-Rages, one Nose-that-Smells-and-Covets, one Tongue-that-Tastes-and-Longs, one Mind-that-Conceives-and-Lusts, and one Body-that-is-Rooted-in-Care.”
Wukong laughed. “So you are six petty thieves. You do not even know that this monk is your own master, yet you come to block my way. Bring out the treasures you have robbed, and I will divide them with you in seven equal shares, and let you off.”
Hearing this, the robbers — the glad one glad, the angry one angry, the loving one loving, the longing one longing, the lustful one lustful, the careworn one careworn — rushed forward together, clamouring: “This monk has no manners! You have no goods at all, and now you turn round and want a share of ours!”
They wielded spear and sword and pressed in all together, hacking down at the Pilgrim's head with a clatter and a clang — seventy or eighty blows in all. Wukong stood planted in their midst, acting as though he felt nothing.
“What a monk!” said the robbers. “His head really is hard.”
The Pilgrim laughed. “It will pass well enough. And you have beaten till your hands are tired — now it is old Sun's turn to bring out a little needle for some sport.”
“This monk must be some acupuncture doctor in disguise,” said the robbers. “We have no illness — what talk is this of plying needles?”
The Pilgrim reached into his ear and drew out an embroidery needle; waved in the wind, it became an iron rod fully as thick as a bowl. Holding it in his hand, he said, “Don't run off — let old Sun try his hand with just one stroke.”
So terrified were the six robbers that they scattered and fled. But he strode after them, ran them down on every side, and beat them one and all to death. Then he stripped off their clothes and seized their travelling-money, and came back smiling, saying: “Please ride on, Master; the robbers have all been dispatched by old Sun.”
“You have brought down great trouble,” said Sanzang. “Though they were highway robbers, even had they been taken before a magistrate they would not have merited death; you, for all your powers, needed only to have driven them off — how could you go and beat them all to death? This is taking life without cause. How can you be a monk? A man who has left the household sweeps the floor for fear of harming an ant, and shades the lamp out of pity for moths and insects. How could you, without telling black from white, beat them dead at a stroke? You have not a shred of mercy or love of good in your heart. It is well that this was in the wild hills, where there is no one to investigate; but if we came to a town, and someone chanced to jostle you, and you fell to violence and beat and wounded people with your cudgel, then even I could not stand clear of it — how should I get free?”
“Master,” said Wukong, “if I had not killed him, he would have killed you.”
“I, who have left the household, would sooner die than do violence,” said Sanzang. “Were I to die, it would be but one life; but you have killed six of them — how is that to be explained? If this matter were brought before the authorities, even had your own father been the magistrate, it could not be argued away.”
“I will not deceive you, Master,” said the Pilgrim. “Five hundred years ago, when I held Flower-Fruit Mountain and reigned there as a monster, I killed I know not how many men. Supposing, as you say, it had come before the authorities and I had drawn a few charges upon myself — why, then I should never have become the 'Great Sage Equal to Heaven.'”
“It was just because you had no restraint and no rule, running riot in the world, cheating Heaven and deceiving those above, that you suffered that calamity of five hundred years ago,” said Sanzang. “Now that you have entered the gate of the Buddha, if you still do violence as you did then, taking life at every turn, you cannot go to the Western Heaven, cannot be a monk. Too wicked! Too wicked!”
Now this monkey had, all his life, been unable to bear being slighted. Seeing Sanzang go on and on nagging, he could not hold down the fire in his heart, and burst out: “If that is how it is — if you say I cannot be a monk and cannot reach the Western Heaven — then there is no need to keep scolding and despising me. I will go back, and that is that!”
Sanzang made no answer. So the monkey lost his temper; with a single bound of his body he cried out, “Old Sun is off!” Sanzang looked up in haste, but he was already gone. Only a whistling sound was heard as he made off eastward.
Left all alone, the elder nodded to himself and sighed, grieving without end: “So this is how he takes correction! I say but a few words to him, and off he goes without form or shadow, straight back the way he came. Enough, enough! It must be that it is not my fate to gather a disciple, to add to my company. Now, though I would seek him, there is nowhere to seek; though I would call him, he does not answer. On, then; on.” And so it was:
Cast off self and stake your life, and go toward the West;
lean not on others, but be your own master.
The elder could only gather up the baggage, load it on the horse — riding not at all — and, staff in one hand and bridle-rope in the other, press on westward in wretched loneliness. He had not gone far when he saw, on the mountain road ahead, an aged woman bearing a padded garment, and upon the garment a flowered cap. Seeing her come very near, Sanzang hastily led his horse aside and stood at the right to let her pass.
“Where do you come from, reverend,” the old woman asked, “walking here so utterly alone?”
“Your disciple is one sent from the Eastern Land of Great Tang to the Western Heaven, to worship the living Buddha and seek the true scriptures.”
“The Buddha of the West is at the Temple of Great Thunderclap, within the bounds of the country of India — a hundred and eight thousand li from here. With but a single man and a lone horse, no companion and no disciple, how can you ever get there?”
“Your disciple did, some days ago, take on a disciple; but he was of a wild and violent temper, and because I spoke a few words to him he would not take correction, and went off out of sight.”
“I have here a padded cloth tunic and a gold-inlaid flowered cap, which were once my son's,” said the old woman. “He was a monk only three days before, alas, his life was cut short and he died. I have just now been to his temple to weep for him, taken leave of his master, and brought these two things — the garment and the cap — away, to keep as a remembrance. Reverend, since you have a disciple, let me make you a gift of them.”
“I thank you, old mother, for your generous gift; but my disciple has already gone, and I dare not accept it.”
“Which way did he go?” said the old woman.
“I heard a whistling sound, and he went off eastward.”
“My home is not far to the east; he has surely gone that way. I have there besides a spell, called the True Words for Stilling the Mind, and also named the Tight-Fillet Spell. You must con it in secret, keep it fast in your heart, and never let a single soul know of it. I will go and catch up with him, and send him back to follow you; and you shall give him this garment and cap to wear. If he will not obey your command, you have only to recite this spell in silence, and he will never dare do violence again, nor ever dare leave.”
Hearing this, Sanzang bowed his head in thanks. The old woman changed into a shaft of golden light and went off eastward. Then Sanzang knew in his heart that it was the Bodhisattva Guanyin who had bestowed these True Words; in haste he gathered a pinch of earth for incense and bowed to the east with all his heart.
His worship done, he took up the garment and cap and hid them away within his bundle. Then, sitting by the roadside, he recited the True Words for Stilling the Mind over and over, until he had them letter-perfect and fixed fast in his breast — of which no more.
Now this Wukong, having parted from his master, rode a somersault-cloud straight back to the Eastern Ocean. Pressing down the head of his cloud, he parted the waters and came straight to the Crystal Palace. The Dragon King, startled into awareness, came out to meet him and led him within to be seated. The courtesies done, the Dragon King said:
“I have lately heard that the Great Sage's calamity is at an end — my congratulations! Surely you have set your immortal mountain in order again and returned to your ancient cave?”
“That was indeed my mind,” said Wukong, “but I have gone and become a monk instead.”
“A monk? How so?”
“I owe it to the Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea, who counselled me to goodness and set me toward the true fruit; I follow the Tang monk of the Eastern Land to the West to worship the Buddha, have taken refuge in the gate of the sangha, and am called the Pilgrim now.”
“This is truly to be congratulated! This is what is meant by forsaking the wrong and returning to the right, chastening oneself toward the good. But if so, why are you not going west — why turn back east?”
The Pilgrim laughed. “It is that the Tang monk does not understand human nature. A few petty thieves waylaid us; I beat them to death, and the Tang monk fell to nagging on and on, reciting no end of my faults. Do you think old Sun is one to swallow resentment? So I left him, meaning to return to my own mountain — and came first to look in on you, and beg a cup of tea.”
“Honoured, honoured!” said the Dragon King. And at once the dragon-sons and dragon-grandsons brought fragrant tea and offered it.
When the tea was done, the Pilgrim turned his head and looked, and saw on the back wall a painting called “Presenting the Sandal at the Yi Bridge.” “What scene is this?” he said.
“Great Sage, you belong to an earlier age and this matter to a later; that is why you do not know it. It is called 'Thrice Presenting the Sandal at the Yi Bridge.'”
“How is it 'thrice presenting the sandal'?”
“This immortal is the Duke of Yellow Stone, and this youth is Zhang Liang of the Han age. The Duke was sitting on the Yi Bridge when suddenly his sandal fell beneath it, and he bade Zhang Liang fetch it back. The youth fetched it at once and presented it kneeling. This happened three times, and Zhang Liang showed not the least trace of arrogance or negligence; so the Duke, taken with his diligence and care, bestowed on him by night a book of Heaven, and charged him to uphold the Han. Afterward, sure enough, he planned strategy within the tent and decided victory a thousand li away. When peace had come, he resigned his office and returned to the mountains, roamed with Master Red Pine, and awakened to the way of immortality. Great Sage, if you do not protect the Tang monk, do not give your full labour, do not accept instruction, you will remain in the end a mere goblin-immortal — never dream of attaining the true fruit.”
Wukong, hearing this, brooded a long while and said nothing.
“Great Sage, you must judge for yourself,” said the Dragon King. “Do not covet your ease and ruin your future.”
“Say no more,” said Wukong. “Old Sun will go back and protect him, and there's an end of it.”
“If that is so,” said the Dragon King gladly, “I dare not detain you long; may the Great Sage show mercy soon, and not keep your master waiting.”
The Pilgrim, seeing him urge and press him to be off, sprang up in haste, left the sea-depths, mounted his cloud, and took leave of the Dragon King. As he went, he met the Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea.
“Sun Wukong,” said the Bodhisattva, “why do you not accept instruction, why do you not protect the Tang monk — what are you doing here?”
Flustered, the Pilgrim made his bow up in the clouds and said: “I was favoured, before, with the Bodhisattva's kind words; and indeed a monk of Tang came, lifted the sealing-slip, saved my life, and I became his disciple. But he took offence at my fierceness, so I dodged away from him a while; and now I am off to protect him.”
“Hurry along, then, and do not let the good intention slip.” With that, each went their way.
In a moment this Pilgrim caught sight of the Tang monk sitting dejected by the roadside. He came up and said, “Master, why are you not on the road? Still sitting here — what for?”
Sanzang raised his head. “Where have you been off to? You have left me neither daring to go nor daring to stir, only to wait here for you.”
“I went to the house of the old Dragon King in the Eastern Ocean to beg a cup of tea.”
“Disciple, a man who has left the household should not tell lies. You had not been gone from me the length of an hour — and you say you went to the Dragon King's house for tea?”
The Pilgrim laughed. “I won't deceive you, Master: I can ride the somersault-cloud, and a single somersault covers a hundred and eight thousand li — so I can go and come again in an instant.”
“My words were just a trifle too heavy,” said Sanzang, “and at that you took offence and lost your temper and abandoned me. One so able as you can go and get tea; one like me, who cannot go, must sit here and starve. You ought to feel you have gone too far.”
“Master, if you are hungry, I will go and beg some food for you.”
“There is no need to beg. There is still some dry provender in my bundle, sent by the mother of Guardian Liu. Go and take the alms-bowl to find a little water, and let me eat a little before we take the road.”
The Pilgrim went and undid the bundle, and among the wrappings saw several coarse wheaten cakes, which he took out and handed to his master. He also saw a gleaming quilted cotton cassock and a cap set with gold flowers. “Was this clothing brought from the Eastern Land?” he said.
Sanzang answered offhandedly, “It is what I wore in my youth. If you put on this cap, without being taught the sutras you will know how to recite them; if you put on this robe, without rehearsing the rites you will know how to perform them.”
“Good master, let me have them to wear.”
“I only fear they may not fit, but if you can wear them, then put them on.”
The Pilgrim thereupon took off his old white cotton cassock and put on the quilted one, which fitted as though cut to the measure of his body; and he set the cap on his head. When Sanzang saw him wearing the cap, he stopped eating the dry rations and silently recited the Tight-Fillet Spell once through.
The Pilgrim cried out, “My head aches, my head aches!” The master, ceaselessly, recited it several times more, till the Pilgrim rolled on the ground in agony and clawed the gold-flowered cap to shreds. Sanzang, fearing he would snap the golden fillet, closed his mouth and stopped reciting; and when he stopped, the pain stopped too.
He reached up and felt about his head: it was like a thread of gold, bound fast about him, that could not be taken off nor snapped — it had already taken root there. So he drew the needle out of his ear, thrust it inside the fillet, and pried wildly outward. Sanzang, fearing he would pry it apart, began reciting again.
The pain came as before: he ached so that he stood on his hands, turned somersaults, his ears red and his face crimson, his eyes bulging and his body gone numb. When the master saw him like this, again he could not bear it, and once more stopped his mouth; and again the Pilgrim's head did not ache.
“This head of mine — so it was Master who put a spell on me?”
“What I recited was the Tight-Fillet sutra. When did I ever spell you?”
“Recite it again and let me see.”
Sanzang did indeed recite it again. The Pilgrim did indeed ache again, and could only plead, “Stop, stop! The moment you recite it I ache. What is the meaning of this?”
“Will you heed my instruction now?” said Sanzang.
“I will heed it.”
“And will you be unruly again?”
“I dare not.”
Though his mouth said yes, his heart still harboured malice: he gave the needle a shake, till it was as thick as a bowl, and made to strike at the Tang monk. In alarm the elder recited the spell two or three times more. This monkey tumbled to the ground, dropped the iron rod, could not raise his hand, and could only cry, “Master, I understand! Recite no more, recite no more.”
“How could you be so treacherous as to dare to strike me?” said Sanzang.
“I did not dare strike. Let me ask you, Master — who taught you this trick?”
“A moment ago an old woman handed it down to me.”
The Pilgrim flew into a rage. “No need to say more — this old woman is surely that Guanyin. How could she treat me so? Wait — I'll go up to the Southern Sea and beat her!”
“Since this method was given me by her, she must surely have known it beforehand,” said Sanzang. “If you go looking for her and she recites it, will you not be a dead monkey?”
The Pilgrim, seeing the sense of this, truly dared not stir a step, but could only turn his heart around; he knelt and pleaded: “Master, this is her device for keeping me in hand, to make me go west with you. I will not go troubling her, and you too must not treat it as an everyday thing and keep reciting it. I am willing to protect you, and will have no more thought of turning back.”
“If that is so,” said Sanzang, “then help me up onto the horse and let us go.”
At this the Pilgrim, his heart now set past all changing, roused his spirits, tightened the quilted cassock, saddled the horse, gathered the baggage, and pressed on toward the west.
In the end, as to what further was said on the road ahead — listen to the explaining in the next chapter.