Now the Pilgrim served the Tang monk on their westward way, and after several days of travel it was the very dead of the twelfth month's cold: a north wind blew keen and biting, and the frozen ground lay glassy and slick. The road they walked ran by sheer cliffs and jagged bluffs, a rugged and broken track, over steep peaks and range upon range of piled-up ridges.
Sanzang, up on his horse, caught from far off the rushing gurgle of water grating at his ear, and turned his head to call: “Wukong, where is that water sounding?”
“I recall this place is called Coiled-Snake Mountain,” said the Pilgrim, “and the gorge here Eagle-Grief Ravine; it must be the water sounding down in the gorge.”
Before he had finished speaking the horse reached the water's edge, and Sanzang drew up his rein to look. And this was the sight:
A trickling cold vein of water winds its way out through the clouds;
Its deep, clear ripples take up the sun and give back red.
Its sound stirs like night rain, heard through a hidden valley;
Its brightness breaks like dawn cloud, dazzling the empty sky.
From dizzying heights the waves fly up and spit out shattered jade;
A single pool resounds, and roars in the clear wind.
It flows off to lose itself in a boundless reach of misted waves,
Where gulls and egrets forget each other and no angler ever comes.
As master and disciple stood there gazing, all at once from the middle of the gorge came a great splash, and a dragon came boring up out of the water, shoving the billows and heaving the waves, and shot out past the cliff-face straight at the elder. In his alarm the Pilgrim dropped the baggage, caught his master down off the horse, and turned to flee. The dragon could not overtake them, so it swallowed the white horse — saddle, bridle and all — at a single gulp, and sank back into the water to hide its trail as before.
The Pilgrim set his master down to sit on a high mound, then came back to lead the horse and take up the load — but only the one load of baggage was left, and the horse was nowhere to be seen. He carried it over before his master and said: “Master, that vile dragon has left no trace either; it has only frightened my horse away.”
“Disciple, ah,” said Sanzang, “however are we to find the horse now?”
“Rest easy, rest easy,” said the Pilgrim. “Let me go and take a look.”
He gave a whistle, sprang up into the air, and with his fiery eyes and golden pupils shaded his brow with a hand and scanned every quarter — but of the horse there was still not the least trace. He brought his cloud down and reported: “Master, our horse has surely been eaten by that dragon; there is nothing to be seen anywhere I look.”
“Disciple, ah — how big a mouth can that creature have, to swallow so large a horse, saddle, bridle and all?” said Sanzang. “It must have shied and slipped its rein, and wandered off into some fold of the hills. Look again, and carefully.”
“You do not know what I am capable of,” said the Pilgrim. “These two eyes of mine can commonly make out good and ill fortune a thousand lǐ off in broad daylight. Within that thousand lǐ, let a dragonfly so much as spread its wings and I would see it — how then should I fail to see so large a horse?”
“If it has indeed been eaten, how am I to go forward?” said Sanzang. “Alas — with all these thousand hills and myriad streams, however am I to travel it?” And as he spoke, his tears fell like rain.
When the Pilgrim saw him break into weeping, how could he hold in his hot temper? He raised his voice and shouted: “Master, don't put on this spineless act — sit down, sit down, and let old Sun go find that creature and make it give me back my horse, and there's an end of it.”
But Sanzang caught hold of him and said: “Disciple, ah — where would you go to look for it? I only fear that if it should come lunging out from hiding, would it not then do me harm as well? Then it would be man and horse both lost — however would that do?”
Hearing these words, the Pilgrim grew angrier still, and shouted out like a thunderclap: “You are no good at all — no good! You want a horse to ride, yet you won't let me go; sit here minding the baggage like this, then, till we grow old, and be done!”
He was still grumbling and bawling, his anger hard to quiet, when a voice was heard speaking up in the air, calling: “Great Sage Sun, do not fret; sworn brother of the Tang, cease your weeping. We are a company of spirits dispatched by the Bodhisattva Guanyin, come expressly to give the scripture-seeker our hidden protection.”
Hearing this, the elder hastily made his obeisance. The Pilgrim said: “Which of you are you? Announce your names, that I may call the roll.”
“We are the Six Ding and Six Jia, the Guardians of the Five Quarters, the Four Sentinels of the Watches, and the eighteen Protectors of the Faith,” said the gods, “each taking his turn on the day's watch to attend your call.”
“Who is on duty first today?” said the Pilgrim.
“The Ding and Jia, the Sentinels, and the Protectors serve by rotation,” said the Guardians. “But of us Guardians of the Five Quarters, it is the Gold-Headed Guardian alone who stays at your side day and night.”
“If that is so, let those not on duty withdraw for now,” said the Pilgrim, “and let the Six Ding spirit-generals, the Sentinel of the day, and the Guardians stay to keep watch over my master. Let old Sun go find that vile dragon down in the gorge and make it give me back my horse.”
The gods obeyed his command. Only then did Sanzang set his heart at rest; he sat down on the stone cliff and charged the Pilgrim to be careful.
“Only be easy in your mind,” said the Pilgrim.
Good Monkey King! He cinched tight his cotton cassock, hitched up his tiger-skin kilt, and gripped fast his gold-banded iron cudgel; he braced up his spirits and went straight to the gorge, half riding cloud and half riding mist, and, hovering over the surface of the water, cried aloud: “You rascally loach, give me back my horse! Give me back my horse!”
Now that dragon, having eaten Sanzang's white horse, lay low in the middle of the gorge-bed, nursing its spirit and biding quietly — when it heard someone hurling abuse and demanding a horse. Unable to hold down the fire rising in its heart, it flung itself up in a rush, leaping through the waves and churning the billows, and sprang to the surface crying: “Who is it that dares run his mouth and insult me here?”
The Pilgrim, seeing it, gave a great roar: “Stay where you are! Give me back my horse!” Swinging his cudgel, he struck straight at its head, and the dragon bared its fangs and flailed its claws and came clawing at him. The bout the two of them fought there at the edge of the gorge was fierce indeed. And this was the sight of it:
The dragon unfurled its keen claws; the monkey raised his golden hoop.
That one — its whiskers hung down like threads of white jade;
This one — his eyes flashed like lamps of ruddy gold.
That one — the bright pearl beneath its whiskers spat out a coloured mist;
This one — the iron staff in his hand whirled up a wild wind.
That one is a wretch of a son who wronged his own parents;
This one is a sprite who once bullied the generals of Heaven.
The two of them, each for the tribulations laid upon him, had suffered grinding hardship;
Now, to win through, each put forth all his power.
Back and forth they went, fighting a good long while, wheeling and circling a great space of time, until that dragon's strength went slack and its sinews numb, so that it could hold out no longer. It spun about, flung itself into the water once more, sank deep to the floor of the gorge, and would not put up its head again. Though the Monkey King railed at it without ceasing, it merely pleaded deafness.
The Pilgrim was at his wits' end, and could only go back and face Sanzang, saying: “Master, old Sun cursed that monster until it came out. It contested with me a good while, then quailed at the fight and fled; now it hides in the middle of the water and will not come out again.”
“I wonder,” said Sanzang, “was it really he who ate my horse?”
“Just listen to what you say!” said the Pilgrim. “If he had not eaten it, would he still be willing to come out and answer back, and set himself against old Sun?”
“The other day, when you killed the tiger,” said Sanzang, “you said you had the art of subduing dragons and taming tigers. How is it that today you cannot subdue this one?”
Now this monkey could not bear to be pressed by anybody. Seeing that Sanzang had flung this remark in his teeth, he roused his divine might and said: “Say no more, say no more — let me have it out with him again and see which of us is uppermost.”
The Monkey King strode out, sprang to the brink of the gorge, and put forth that divine power of his for overturning rivers and churning seas. The water of Eagle-Grief Steep Gorge, limpid to its very floor, he stirred until it was like the flood-swollen billows of the Yellow River in its nine bends.
The vile dragon, down in the deep gorge, could find no rest sitting or lying, and thought within its heart: “This is what is meant by saying that blessings never descend in pairs, and misfortunes never walk alone. I have but lately escaped a death-doom under the statutes of Heaven; not a year has passed, and while I bide here as karma allots, I run up against this rascally demon, who comes to do me harm.”
See how, the more it brooded, the angrier it grew. Unable to swallow the affront, it gritted its teeth and sprang out, cursing: “Where do you come from, you rascally demon, to bully me so?”
“Never mind where I come from or don't,” said the Pilgrim. “Only give back the horse, and I will spare your life.”
“Your horse I have swallowed down into my belly,” said the dragon. “How am I to spit it up again? And if I do not give it back, what do you propose to do?”
“If you won't give back the horse, then look to my cudgel,” said the Pilgrim. “I shall simply beat you dead, and your life shall pay for my horse's, and there's an end of it.”
The two of them fought bitterly once more beneath the cliff. They had not fought many bouts before the little dragon found it truly could not parry. Giving its body a shake, it changed into a water-snake and went boring away into a clump of grass.
The Monkey King, cudgel in hand, came running up and parted the grass to seek the snake — but where was he to find any trace of it? He grew so frantic that the Three Corpse-gods shrieked within him and smoke burst from his seven orifices. He recited the syllable oṃ, and summoned forth at once the Local God of that ward and the Mountain God of that place, who came and knelt together, saying: “The Mountain God and the Local God attend you.”
“Stick out your ankle-bones and take five strokes apiece by way of greeting,” said the Pilgrim, “to relieve old Sun's feelings.”
The two gods knocked their heads on the ground and pleaded: “We beg the Great Sage to be indulgent, and let us humble gods state our case.”
“What have you to say?” said the Pilgrim.
“The Great Sage lay long imprisoned, and we humble gods did not know when he had come forth; therefore we failed to receive him. We beg a thousand pardons.”
“In that case I will not beat you for now,” said the Pilgrim. “I ask you: this monstrous dragon in Eagle-Grief Gorge — from what quarter does it come? How comes it to have snatched my master's white horse and eaten it?”
“The Great Sage has never had a master,” said the two gods. “You have always been a Perfected One of Primal Chaos, who bowed neither to Heaven nor to Earth. However should you come to have any master's horse at all?”
“You do not know the half of it,” said the Pilgrim. “For that business of deceiving my superiors I served out a full five hundred years of bitter tribulation. Now, by the grace of the Bodhisattva Guanyin, who exhorted me to goodness, I was set free by a true monk of the Tang court, whom she charged to deliver me; and she bade me follow him as his disciple and go to the Western Heaven, to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Passing this way, we have lost my master's white horse.”
“So that is how it stands,” said the two gods. “There has never been any evil thing in this gorge. Only it is deep and sheer and broad, and the sheen of its water is clear to the very floor, so that crows and magpies dare not fly across it; for the water is so clear that they see their own shapes reflected there, and take them for birds of their own flock, and again and again fling their bodies into the water. And so it is called Eagle-Grief Steep Gorge.
“Only in a former year the Bodhisattva Guanyin, going in search of a scripture-seeker, saved a jade dragon, and sent it to dwell here, bidding it await that scripture-seeker, and forbidding it to do wrong or work mischief. Only when hungry does it come up on the bank to pounce on a few birds for food, or catch a river-deer or a stag to eat. We cannot think how it came to be so senseless as to give offence to the Great Sage today.”
“The first time, he still crossed hands with old Sun and wheeled through several bouts,” said the Pilgrim. “The second time, when old Sun stood bawling abuse, he would not come out again. So I worked a spell for overturning rivers and churning seas, and muddied the water of his gorge; and out he came leaping, still bent on contending. But he did not reckon how heavy old Sun's cudgel is. He could not fend it off, and turned into a water-snake and bored away into the grass. I came chasing after to look for him, but there is no trace.”
“The Great Sage does not know,” said the Local God. “This gorge has a myriad holes and passages, all running into one another, and that is why its waters lie so deep and reach so far. Doubtless there is such a hole here too, and he has bored his way down through it. There is no need for the Great Sage to rage and hunt about here. If you would take this creature, you need only invite Guanshiyin to come, and it will submit of itself.”
Hearing this, the Pilgrim called the Mountain God and the Local God to come with him before Sanzang, and set out the whole affair.
“If you must go and invite the Bodhisattva, when will you get back?” said Sanzang. “How is this poor monk to bear hunger and cold?”
Before he had finished, there came from the unseen sky the voice of the Gold-Headed Guardian, calling: “Great Sage, you need not stir. This humble god will go and invite the Bodhisattva here.”
The Pilgrim was overjoyed and said aloud: “Much obliged, much obliged. Go quickly, go quickly.”
The Guardian sprang swiftly upon his cloud-head and went straight to the Southern Sea. The Pilgrim charged the Mountain God and the Local God to guard his master, and the Sentinel of the Day to go and find vegetarian fare; and he himself went back to patrol the brink of the gorge — of which no more.
Now the Gold-Headed Guardian, mounting a single cloud, came early to the Southern Sea. He reined in his auspicious light and went straight to the Purple Bamboo Grove on Mount Potalaka, where he had the golden-armoured devas and Mokṣa Huì'àn carry word within, and so obtained audience with the Bodhisattva.
“On what errand have you come?” said the Bodhisattva.
“The Tang monk has lost his horse at Eagle-Grief Steep Gorge on Coiled-Snake Mountain,” said the Guardian, “and the Great Sage Sun is so beside himself that he can neither advance nor retreat. On enquiring of the earth-god of that place, we learn it was swallowed by the vile dragon whom the Bodhisattva sent to dwell in the gorge. The Great Sage has bidden this humble god come and beg the Bodhisattva to subdue the vile dragon and give him back his horse.”
Hearing this, the Bodhisattva said: “That creature is by birth a son of Aorun of the Western Sea. For setting fire to the luminous pearl of the palace hall he was charged by his own father with unfilial conduct, and in the courts of Heaven he was condemned to death. It was I who went in person before the Jade Emperor and begged him down, that he might serve the Tang monk as a beast of burden. How comes he to have eaten the Tang monk's horse instead? Since it is so, wait while I go.”
The Bodhisattva descended from her lotus dais, left her immortal grotto, and with the Guardian rode the auspicious light, passing over the Southern Sea and away. There is a poem to attest it. The poem says:
The Buddha preached the pāramitā, the sūtras of the Three Baskets;
The Bodhisattva spread goodness till it filled the Long Wall.
The mahā words of wonder pass through Heaven and Earth;
The prajñā mantra of truth delivers the ghostly souls.
Thus was the Golden Cicada made to slough his shell once more;
Thus was Xuanzang set again to the practice of the Way.
Only because the road lay barred at Eagle-Grief Gorge
Did the dragon's son return to truth and take the form of a horse.
The Bodhisattva and the Guardian were not long in reaching Coiled-Snake Mountain. They halted their auspicious cloud in mid-air, and looking down beheld Sun the Pilgrim at the brink of the gorge, bawling abuse; and the Bodhisattva bade the Guardian call him up. The Guardian brought down his cloud-head and, passing Sanzang by, went straight to the gorge and said to the Pilgrim: “The Bodhisattva is come.”
Hearing it, the Pilgrim sprang up on his cloud into the air, and shouted at her: “You there, teacher of the Seven Buddhas, sovereign of the Compassionate Faith — how came you to contrive a scheme to injure me?”
“Why, you insolent ape, you boorish red-rumped baboon!” said the Bodhisattva. “Time and again I have exerted myself to the utmost, delivered up a scripture-seeker, and charged him strictly to save your life. How is it that you do not come to thank me for the gift of your living, but come instead to brawl at me?”
“A fine turn you have done me!” said the Pilgrim. “Once you had let me out, you might have left me to my freedom and my sport, and there an end. The other day you met me above the sea and rebuked me in a few words; you bade me come and serve the Tang monk with all my heart and strength — well and good. But why did you send him a flowered cap, and cozen me into wearing it upon my head to my torment? You made this fillet grow into old Sun's skull, and taught him besides to recite a scroll of some Tight-Fillet Spell, and set that old monk reciting it over and over, till this head of mine ached and ached again. Is that not injuring me?”
The Bodhisattva laughed and said: “You monkey, you would not obey commands, you would not accept the true fruit; and had I not bound you thus, you would be deceiving your superiors and defying Heaven again. How would you know good from ill? If you blundered into calamity as you did before, who would take you in charge? It needed just this ordeal to make you willing to enter the gateway of my yoga.”
“Well, let that pass; call it my ordeal if you must,” said the Pilgrim. “But why did you take that guilty vile dragon and set it here to work its sorceries, and let it eat my master's horse? That is to loose a wicked creature to do evil, and it is very ill done.”
“That dragon I myself petitioned the Jade Emperor for,” said the Bodhisattva, “and begged to have him placed here, expressly to serve the scripture-seeker as a mount. Consider: how should a common horse from the Eastern Land traverse these ten thousand streams and thousand hills? How should it reach that Buddha-land of Vulture Peak? It needs this dragon-horse, and then only will the road be passable.”
“But he so dreads old Sun that he lies hid and will not come out,” said the Pilgrim. “What is to be done?”
The Bodhisattva called the Guardian and said: “Go to the brink of the gorge and cry aloud: 'Third Prince Jade Dragon, son of Dragon King Aorun — come forth! The Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea is here.' Then he will come out.”
The Guardian did indeed go to the brink of the gorge and call out twice. The little dragon churned the billows and leapt the waves, sprang out of the water, changed into human likeness, and trod upon a cloud; and rising into the air he did reverence to the Bodhisattva, saying: “I have long awaited here the grace by which the Bodhisattva loosed me and spared my life, and never yet have I heard tidings of the scripture-seeker.”
The Bodhisattva pointed to the Pilgrim and said: “Is this not the scripture-seeker's chief disciple?”
Seeing him, the little dragon said: “Bodhisattva, this is my adversary. Yesterday my belly was famished, and I did indeed eat his horse. Trusting to a certain strength of his, he fought me until my courage failed and I withdrew, and then so railed at me that I shut my door and dared not come out. Never once did he so much as mention the words 'seeking the scriptures.'”
“You never asked my surname or my name,” said the Pilgrim. “How should I have said it?”
“Did I not ask, 'Whence come you, rascally demon?'” said the little dragon. “And you bawled back, 'Never mind whence or whence not — only give me back my horse.' When did you ever utter half a syllable of the word 'Tang'?”
“That monkey-head trusts to nothing but his own strength,” said the Bodhisattva. “When would he ever praise another? On this journey forward there will yet be others who submit and follow. When they question you, speak first of the scripture-seeking, and then, without troubling your heart, they will yield of themselves.”
The Pilgrim received her instruction gladly. The Bodhisattva stepped forward and plucked away the luminous pearl from beneath the little dragon's chin. She dipped a sprig of willow in the sweet dew, brushed it once across his body, blew upon him a breath of immortal air, and cried aloud: “Change!” And the dragon changed at once into the very image of the horse, hair and hide the same.
Then she gave him her charge in words: “You must set your heart on discharging your karmic debt. When your merit is accomplished, you shall rise above the common dragons, and I will give you back a golden body and the true fruit.”
The little dragon took the bit-bone in his mouth and, in his heart of hearts, assented. The Bodhisattva bade Wukong lead him to see Sanzang. “And I shall return to the sea.”
The Pilgrim seized hold of the Bodhisattva and would not let her go, saying: “I will not go on. I will not go on. The road to the West is rugged as this, and I must guard this mortal monk. When shall we ever arrive? With such grinding and such wearing as this, old Sun's very life can hardly be kept whole. What merit shall I ever accomplish? I will not go on. I will not go on.”
“In the years when you had not yet attained the Way of man,” said the Bodhisattva, “you were willing to give your whole heart to the cultivation of insight; now that you have escaped Heaven's calamity, how is it that you turn slothful? In my gate it is by extinction that one becomes true; you must have faith in the true fruit. If ever you come to a place of wounding and bitter torment, I grant you this: call upon Heaven, and Heaven will answer; call upon Earth, and Earth will prove efficacious. And if you come at the last to some pass from which there is no escaping, I will come myself to save you. Come here to me. I will bestow on you one further power.”
The Bodhisattva plucked three leaves from her willow, set them behind the Pilgrim's head, and cried: “Change!” They changed straightway into three life-saving hairs. She charged him, saying: “When you come to a season with no aid and no master, you may shift and turn as the moment requires, and they shall save you from the calamity of your extremity.”
When the Pilgrim had heard all these good words, he thanked at last the greatly merciful, greatly compassionate Bodhisattva. And the Bodhisattva, wreathed in fragrant wind and drifting coloured mist, went straight back to Potalaka and away.
The Pilgrim then brought down his cloud-head, took the dragon-horse by the forelock, and came before Sanzang, saying: “Master, the horse is here.”
One look, and Sanzang cried out for joy: “Disciple! How comes this horse to be even sleeker than before? Where did you find it?”
“Master, you are still dreaming,” said the Pilgrim. “It was the Gold-Headed Guardian who fetched the Bodhisattva just now, and she has turned the dragon of the gorge into our white horse, with the same hair and markings — only the saddle and bridle are lacking. She had old Sun lead him hither.”
Sanzang was greatly astonished, and said: “Where is the Bodhisattva? Let me go and bow my thanks to her.”
“By this time the Bodhisattva has reached the Southern Sea,” said the Pilgrim. “She will not be troubled with it.”
Sanzang thereupon heaped up a little earth for an incense-burner, kindled incense, and bowed toward the south. His reverence done, he rose, and with the Pilgrim set about going forward. The Pilgrim dismissed the Mountain God and the Local God with a shout, gave his charge to the Guardian and the Sentinel, and then invited his master to mount.
“How am I to ride a horse that has neither saddle nor bridle?” said Sanzang. “Let us wait and find a boat to ferry us over the gorge, and then consider what to do.”
“What a master this is, who knows nothing of the times!” said the Pilgrim. “In this wild waste of hills, where should a boat come from? This horse has lived here long and must know the lie of the water. Just ride him, and let him serve for a boat to carry you across.”
Sanzang, having no help for it, could only do as he was told and bestride the bare-backed horse. The Pilgrim shouldered the baggage, and they came to the brink of the gorge. There on the upper reach they saw an old fisherman poling a raft of dead wood, coming down with the current.
Seeing him, the Pilgrim beckoned with his hand and called: “Old fisherman, here — come here. I am bound from the Eastern Land to fetch the scriptures, and my master finds this a hard crossing. Come and ferry him over.”
Hearing this, the fisherman at once poled in to the bank. The Pilgrim helped his master down from the horse and supported him on either side; Sanzang boarded the raft; they hauled the horse aboard and stowed the baggage. The old fisherman poled the raft away, swift as wind and arrow, and before they knew it they were across Eagle-Grief Steep Gorge and up on the western bank.
Sanzang bade the Pilgrim open the bundle, take out a few of the Great Tang's copper coins, and give them to the old fisherman. But the old fisherman thrust the raft off with one stroke of his pole, saying: “I want no money, I want no money” — and went away into midstream, vague and far and vanishing. Sanzang was much abashed, and could only press his palms together and give thanks.
“Master, leave off your civilities,” said the Pilgrim. “Do you not know him? He is the water-god of this very gorge. He never once came out to receive old Sun, and old Sun owes him a beating still. That he is let off the beating is enough for him — how should he dare ask for money!”
The master, half believing and half not, could only bestride the bare-backed horse again and follow the Pilgrim, striking for the high road and hastening away westward. And this is what is meant by the lines:
Broad and vast, True Thusness ascends the farther shore;
The heart made sincere, the nature comprehended, one climbs to Vulture Peak.
They went forward together, master and disciple, and before they were aware the red sun had sunk in the west and the light of the sky grew late. And this was the sight:
Thin clouds in tangled disarray; the mountain moon dim and blurred.
Frost-colour fills the whole sky and breeds cold;
The sound of wind on four sides pierces the body.
Where the lone bird goes, the grey islet stretches wide;
Where the sinking rose-cloud brightens, the far hills lie low.
In the thin wood a thousand trees roar; on the empty ridge one gibbon cries.
On the long road no traveller's track is seen;
Ten thousand lǐ off, a homeward boat puts in at nightfall.
Sanzang, gazing out from horseback, caught sight all at once of a farmstead beside the road. “Wukong,” he said, “there is a household ahead. We may beg a night's lodging there, and go on tomorrow at daybreak.”
The Pilgrim raised his head, looked, and said: “Master, that is no farmstead.”
“How is it not?” said Sanzang.
“A farmstead has no flying fish and no crouching beasts along its ridge,” said the Pilgrim. “This is certainly a temple or a hermitage.”
While master and disciple were still speaking, they had already reached the gate. Sanzang dismounted, and saw upon the gate three great characters — Shrine of Village and Soil — and so went in at the door. Inside there was an old man with a string of prayer-beads about his neck, who came to meet them with palms joined, calling: “Master, be seated.” Sanzang hastily returned the courtesy, went up into the hall, and did reverence before the holy image; and the old man at once called a boy to bring tea.
Tea over, Sanzang asked the old man: “Why is this shrine called 'Village and Soil'?”
“Our poor district lies within the borders of the Western Fan land of Habi,” said the old man. “Behind this shrine is a hamlet of households who, of one devout heart, raised this temple. 'Village' means the land of a single hamlet; 'Soil' means the soil-god of a single community. At each season — the ploughing of spring, the weeding of summer, the reaping of autumn, the storing of winter — we make ready the three victims, with flowers and fruit, and come here to sacrifice to the soil, that the four seasons may be clear and auspicious, the five grains abundant, and the six beasts of the farm flourish.”
Hearing this, Sanzang nodded in praise: “Just so — 'three lǐ from home, and the customs of the village are other.' Among the folk of my own country there is no such piety.”
The old man then asked: “And what is the master's own honoured native place?”
“This poor monk is from the Great Tang land in the East,” said Sanzang, “sent by imperial command to the Western Heaven, to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Passing by your precious district, and the sky growing late, I have come to your holy shrine expressly to beg lodging for one night. At daybreak we shall go on.”
The old man was mightily pleased, said “Forgive my poor welcome” several times over, and called the boy again to set out a meal. When Sanzang had eaten, he gave thanks.
The Pilgrim's eye was sharp. Seeing under the eaves a rope hung out for clothes, he walked over, snapped it with one pull, and tied the horse's legs with it.
The old man laughed and said: “Where did you steal that horse?”
The Pilgrim said angrily: “You old fellow, you talk without knowing high from low. We are holy monks going to worship the Buddha. Should we be stealing horses?”
The old man laughed: “If it is not stolen, why has it no saddle, no bridle and no rein — so that you must come and break my clothes-line?”
Sanzang made apology for him, saying: “This wild creature has nothing worse than a hasty temper. — If you wanted to tether the horse, you should have asked the old gentleman properly for a length of rope. How came you to snap his clothes-line? — Old sir, do not take it amiss, do not take it amiss. This horse of ours, I tell you truly and conceal nothing, was not stolen. Coming from the east yesterday, we reached Eagle-Grief Steep Gorge. We had a white horse to ride, with saddle and bridle complete. But it fell out that in that gorge there was a vile dragon, grown to a sprite in the place, and it swallowed my horse, saddle, bridle and all, at a gulp. Happily my disciple has some arts, and moved the Bodhisattva Guanyin to come to the gorge and seize that dragon; and she bade it change into the very white horse I used to ride, hair and markings all alike, to bear me west to worship the Buddha. We crossed the gorge today, not one day since, and have come to your holy shrine, old sir — and I have not yet been able to procure a saddle and bridle.”
“Master, do not take it amiss,” said the old man. “This old fellow spoke in jest; who could know your worthy disciple would take it in earnest? When I was young I had a few country coppers, and was fond enough of riding a fine horse. But through years of misfortune heaped on misfortune, mourning and fire, I came at last to this pass; so I took service as keeper of this shrine, and tend its incense. Happily the households of the hamlet behind support me with their alms, and so I pass my days.
“Now at my place there is still a saddle and bridle, a thing I have loved all my life; poor as I am, even so I could never bring myself to sell it. Just now, hearing the master's words — that a Bodhisattva should stoop to rescue a divine dragon, and bid it become a horse to carry you — how then can this old fellow have so little as no help at all to give? Tomorrow I shall fetch out that saddle and bridle and gladly present them to the master, to be strapped upon its back for your journey. I beg you to accept them with a smile.”
Hearing this, Sanzang thanked him beyond all measure. And soon the boy was seen bringing out the evening meal. The meal done, they set up the lamps, laid out the bedding, and each lay down to rest.
Early next morning the Pilgrim rose and said: “Master, that old temple-keeper promised us a saddle and bridle last night. Go and ask him for it, and do not let him off.”
Before he had done speaking, they saw the old man come, indeed bearing up a saddle and bridle, saddle-cloths, rein and headstall and the like — everything that is used upon a horse, with nothing wanting; and he set them down beneath the eaves, saying: “Master, I offer up the saddle and bridle.”
Sanzang, seeing them, received them with delight, and bade the Pilgrim take them up and lay them on the horse's back, to see whether they matched. The Pilgrim went forward and lifted them one by one to look, and they were fine things indeed. There is a poem to attest it. The poem says:
The carved saddle glints with colour, bound about with stars of silver;
The precious stirrups fly with light, and the gold thread shines.
Saddle-cloths, layer on layer of felted matting piled;
A leading-rein of three strands, of purple silken cord.
The bridle-head, stitched in leather, is bright with rounded flowers;
The cloud-shaped flaps, traced in gold, show beasts at their dancing.
Ring and bit are beaten out of tempered iron;
And from the two hanging straps, dipped in water, are knotted tassels of hair.
The Pilgrim, secretly delighted, laid the saddle and bridle upon the horse's back — and they fitted as though they had been made to measure. Sanzang bowed his thanks to the old man, who hastily raised him up, saying: “I am overwhelmed, I am overwhelmed. What need is there to thank me?”
The old man did not press them to stay, but asked Sanzang to mount. The elder came out at the gate, laid hold of the saddle and mounted; the Pilgrim shouldered the baggage. Then from his sleeve the old man drew out a whip besides — a haft of fragrant rattan, studded with leather and stitched at the inch, and a lash strung and knotted of tiger-sinew — and holding it out at the roadside with folded hands he said: “Holy monk, I have a hand-strap yet. Let me give you that as well.”
Sanzang took it from horseback, saying: “Much thanks for your charity, much thanks for your charity.”
But even as he was making his salutation, the old man was suddenly not to be seen; and turning to look back at the Shrine of Village and Soil, they found only a stretch of naked ground. They heard only a voice speaking in mid-air: “Holy monk, I have used you with much neglect. I am the Mountain God and the Local God of Mount Potalaka, dispatched by the Bodhisattva to bring the saddle and bridle to you. Press on westward with all your strength, and be not slothful for a moment.”
Startled clean out of himself, Sanzang tumbled from the saddle and bowed toward the empty sky, saying: “Your disciple has the fleshly eyes of a mortal womb and did not know your honoured face. I beg forgiveness for my fault. I pray you convey my thanks to the Bodhisattva, whose grace and protection I have deeply received.” And look at him: he did nothing but knock his head toward heaven, past all counting.
At the roadside the Great Sage Sun fell over laughing, laughing till he was helpless; the Handsome Monkey King was fairly undone with glee. He came forward and took hold of the Tang monk, saying: “Master, get up. He has gone far off already; he cannot hear your prayers, he cannot see you knocking your head. What are you going on bowing for?”
“Disciple!” said the elder. “When I kowtow like this, you will not bow him so much as a single bow, but stand off at the side doing nothing but smirk. What sort of behaviour is that?”
“How should you know?” said the Pilgrim. “A creature like that, who hides his head and shows his tail, ought by rights to have had a beating; and only for the Bodhisattva's sake was he let off the beating, which is quite enough for him. Should he dare receive a bow from old Sun besides? Old Sun has been a stout fellow since he was small, and never learned how to bow to anybody. Even when I met the Jade Emperor and the Most High Lord Lao, I made them no more than a chanted salute, and there was an end of it.”
“Irreverent creature!” said Sanzang. “Say no more of such empty stuff. Up now, and do not delay us on the road.”
Only then did the master rise, gather their things, and set off westward.
From there they travelled some two months of peaceful road, and those they met with were Lolo and Hui folk, wolves and serpents, tigers and leopards. Time ran swiftly on, and it was the season of early spring once more. And this was the sight: on hill and in wood a brocade of kingfisher green; on grass and tree the shooting of blue buds; the plum-blossom wholly fallen, the willow's eye first opening.
Master and disciple journeyed on, taking their pleasure in the light of spring, until they saw the sun sinking westward again. Sanzang reined in his horse and gazed afar: in a fold of the hills were the shadowy shapes of towers and terraces, and halls that lay sunk in stillness.
“Wukong, look,” said Sanzang. “What sort of place is that yonder?”
The Pilgrim raised his head, looked, and said: “That is no palace hall. It must certainly be a monastery. Let us press on a little, and beg a night's lodging there.”
Sanzang gladly assented, gave the dragon-horse his head, and made straight for it. But we do not yet know what sort of place this may prove to be. Listen to the next chapter, and it will be explained.