The tale tells how Sun the Pilgrim sprang aloft on a single somersault, and how the monks of the Guanyin Temple, great and small alike, with the mendicants, the serving lads, and the lay attendants, bowed one and all toward Heaven, crying: “Merciful Father! So he is a holy one come down among us, who mounts the clouds and drives the mist. Small wonder the fire could work him no hurt. That old flayer of ours, who could not know a man when he saw one, plotted and contrived, and this day has undone none but himself.”
Sanzang said, “Rise, gentlemen; there is no cause for reproach. If he finds the cassock, all matters may rest; but should the search come to nothing, my disciple is of no gentle temper, and what may become of your lives I cannot say. I fear not one among you would get clear.”
Hearing these words, the monks were seized every one with a lifted heart and a hanging gall. They called upon Heaven and vowed offerings, praying only that the cassock be recovered and their lives preserved entire. Of this no more.
But we tell now how the Great Sage Sun, reaching the upper air, gave his waist a single twist and came at once above Black Wind Mountain. He halted his cloud-head and looked carefully. It was indeed a fine mountain, and the season was full spring. Behold:
Ten thousand ravines contend in their torrents; a thousand cliffs vie in their beauty.
Birds call, and no man is seen; blossoms drop, and the trees are fragrant still.
Rain passes: the sky joins a green wall of stone, glistening. Wind comes: the pines furl, and a kingfisher screen unfolds.
Mountain grasses put forth, wild flowers open, on hanging cliff and beetling crag;
fig-vine and creeper spring, fine trees grow lovely, on the steep ridge and the level hill.
No recluse is met with here — where would one look for a woodcutter?
By the torrent a pair of cranes are drinking; on the rocks the wild gibbons run mad.
Massed and heaped like coiled shells, they range their indigo; towering, gathering their green, they toy with the light of the mountain haze.
The Pilgrim was still taking in the mountain prospect when of a sudden he heard voices before a slope of fragrant grass. Stepping softly and hiding his track, he slipped in below that stone cliff and watched with a stolen eye. They proved to be three fiends, seated upon the bare ground. In the upper place was a black fellow; below on the left was a Taoist, and below on the right a scholar robed in white. All of them were there discoursing at large — of raising the tripod and settling the furnace, of kneading cinnabar and smelting quicksilver, of White Snow and Yellow Sprout: the side gates and the outer ways.
In the midst of the talk the black fellow laughed and said, “The day after tomorrow is the day of my mother's travail. Let the two of you honour me with your presence.”
The white-clad scholar said, “Year upon year we drink to the Great King's long life. What reason could there be for not coming this year?”
The black fellow said, “Last night I came by a treasure. It is named the brocade-bordered Buddha-robe, and it is truly a thing to be delighted in. Tomorrow I shall make it the gift of my birthday, spread a great banquet, invite the Taoist officers of every mountain, and give thanks for the Buddha-robe. We shall call it the Buddha-Robe Feast — how would that be?”
The Taoist laughed and said, “Excellent, excellent, excellent. Tomorrow I shall come first to wish you long life; the day after, I shall come again to the banquet.”
When the Pilgrim heard the words “Buddha-robe,” he settled it in his mind that the treasure was his own. He could not master his rage. Springing out from the stone cliff, he raised the golden-hooped rod in both hands and shouted, “You pack of thieving fiends! You have stolen my cassock, and now you would hold a Buddha-Robe Feast? Bring it here this instant and give it back!” With a bellow of “Not a step!” he swung up the rod and brought it down full on their heads.
In their panic the black fellow turned to wind and fled, the Taoist mounted a cloud and was gone, and only the white-clad scholar was beaten dead by a single stroke. Dragging the body over to look at it, he found it was a mottled white snake-spirit. He hauled it up for good measure and wrenched it into five or seven lengths; then he went straight into the deep mountain to hunt for that black fellow.
Rounding a sharp peak and skirting a steep ridge, he saw, before a sheer wall of cliff, a cave-dwelling reared aloft. Behold it:
Mist and rosy cloud, faint and far; pine and cypress, dense and dark.
Mist and rosy cloud, faint and far, their colours crowding the gate; pine and cypress, dense and dark, their green encircling the door.
The bridge is trodden on a withered raft of timber; the summit is wound about with fig-vine.
Birds bear red stamens to the cloudy ravine; deer tread the fragrant thicket to the terrace of stone.
Before that gate the season hurries the flowers to open, and the wind conveys their scent.
Overlooking the dyke, green willows turn with orioles; bordering the bank, young peach trees flutter with powdered butterflies.
A wilderness, and scarcely to be boasted of — yet it outdoes the prospect below Penglai.
The Pilgrim came to the gate and saw that the two leaves of stone were shut very fast. Above them lay a slab set crosswise, plainly inscribed with six great characters: BLACK WIND MOUNTAIN, BLACK WIND CAVE. At once he swung his rod and cried, “Open the gate!”
Within there was a little demon on gate duty, who opened up and came out, demanding, “Who are you, that you dare come battering at our immortal cave?”
The Pilgrim cursed him: “You death-courting beast! What manner of place is this, to be styled an immortal cave? Is the character 'immortal' yours to use? Get inside quickly and report to that black fellow of yours. Tell him to send out this venerable one's cassock at once, and I will spare the whole nest of your lives.”
The little demon ran headlong within and reported, “Great King, the Buddha-Robe Feast cannot be held. Outside the gate there is a hairy-faced, thunder-god-snouted monk come to demand the cassock.”
The black fellow, whom the Pilgrim had driven from the slope of fragrant grass, had only just barred the gate and was not yet settled in his seat when he heard this speech. He thought within himself, “There is no knowing where this creature has come from. To be so lacking in manners that he dares come bawling up to my gate!” He called for his armour, harnessed himself accordingly, snatched up a black-tasselled spear, and came out at the gate.
The Pilgrim, dodging aside beyond the gate, held his iron rod and opened his eyes wide to look; and the fiend was indeed of a fearful aspect:
A bowl-shaped iron helm with the sheen of lacquered fire; black-gold mail agleam and dazzling bright.
A black gauze gown drawn over wind-hooded sleeves; a dark-green silken sash, its tassels drooping long.
In his hand he grips one black-tasselled spear; upon his feet he treads a pair of black leather boots.
His eyes flash golden pupils like a stroke of lightning: this is none other than the Black Wind King of the mountain.
The Pilgrim laughed to himself and said, “This creature is the very image of a kiln-stoker, no different from a digger of coal. He must scrape charcoal hereabouts for a living. How else should he be black from head to heel?”
The fiend shouted in a harsh voice, “What manner of monk are you, that you make so bold on my ground?”
The Pilgrim gripped his iron rod, rushed up before him, and roared out, “No idle talk! Give back your old grandsire's cassock, and be quick about it.”
The fiend said, “Which temple's monk are you? And where did you lose this cassock of yours, that you dare come here to claim it?”
The Pilgrim said, “My cassock lay in the rear abbot's lodge of the Guanyin Temple, due north of here. Because a fire broke out in that temple, you took advantage of the uproar to plunder, stole it away, and would hold a Buddha-Robe Feast in honour of your birthday. How dare you deny it? Give it back at once and I will spare your life. But if so much as half the character 'no' should crack between your teeth, I will push Black Wind Mountain over, trample Black Wind Cave flat, and grind every fiend of this cave of yours to powder.”
Hearing this, the fiend laughed a cold laugh. “You insolent thing! So it was you who set that fire last night. You worked your violence on the roof of that abbot's lodge and called up the wind, and I carried off a single cassock. What of it? Where have you come from? What is your surname and what your name? What powers have you, that you dare talk so wide-mouthed and wild?”
The Pilgrim said, “So you cannot even know your old grandsire. Your old grandsire is disciple to Sanzang, Master of the Law, the imperial brother who stands before the throne of the Great Tang. My surname is Sun, my name Wukong, and I am called the Pilgrim. If you would ask after old Sun's arts, the mere telling of them would scatter your souls and lay you dead where you stand.”
The fiend said, “I have never met with you. What arts have you? Say them out, and I will hear.”
The Pilgrim laughed. “My son, stand steady and listen with care. As for me:
“From my youth my divine powers and my arts stood high; changing with the wind, I played the hero.
“Nourishing nature and refining the true, I endured sun and moon; leaping clear of the Wheel, I fled away with my life.
“With one point of sincere heart I once went seeking the Way, and on Spirit Terrace Mountain gathered the sprouts of the drug.
“On that mountain there dwelt an aged immortal elder, whose years stood high at a hundred and eight thousand.
“Old Sun bowed and took him for a master, and he pointed me out one road to long life.
“He said the elixir lies within the body; to gather it outside is labour thrown away.
“I got the transmission of the Great Grade of Heavenly Immortal; but lacking the root, the enduring is hard indeed.
“Turning the light to shine within, I sat and stilled the heart; within the body sun and moon, and Kan and Li conjoined.
“Thinking on nothing, wholly sparing of desire; the six roots made clean, the body firm and sound.
“To turn back age and come again to childhood is easily got; to pass beyond the common and enter the holy — the road is not far.
“Three years without leakage, and the immortal body was formed, unlike the vulgar sort who suffer the boiling and the seething.
“The Ten Islets and the Three Isles I roamed besides, and made one circuit of the sea's corners and the sky's edge.
“Three hundred years and more were allotted me to live, yet I could not rise in flight to the ninth empyrean.
“I went down into the sea and subdued the dragon for a true treasure: only then did I come by the one golden-hooped rod.
“Before Flower-Fruit Mountain I was chief and captain; within the Water-Curtain Cave I gathered a throng of fiends.
“The Jade Emperor sent down a summoning edict and enfeoffed me Equal to Heaven, of the highest grade.
“Many a time I made great havoc in the Hall of Divine Mists; more than once I stole the peaches of the Queen Mother.
“A hundred thousand heavenly soldiers came to subdue me, ranged rank on rank, thick with spear and blade.
“I beat the Heavenly King back to the upper realm, and Nezha, nursing his hurt, led off his troops and fled.
“The Illustrious Sage, that True Lord, was a master of transformations; old Sun staked all and fought him to a fall and a draw.
“The Patriarch of the Way, Guanyin, and the Jade Emperor together looked down from the Southern Gate of Heaven at the subduing of the fiend.
“But Lord Lao lent his aid for one bout, and Erlang took me captive to the Courts of Heaven.
“They bound my body to the fiend-subduing pillar and straightway bade the divine soldiers strike the head from it.
“Sword hacked and hammer beat, and I could not be marred; then they had the thunder smite me, and fire come to burn.
“Old Sun has arts in very truth, and feared not the half of a hair of it.
“They put me in Lord Lao's furnace to be smelted, and the divine fire of the Six Ding boiled me slowly.
“The days full, the furnace opened, and out I sprang; iron rod in hand, I ran my circuit round the sky.
“Ranging at will, nowhere barred, I made one uproar through the Thirty-three Heavens.
“My Buddha, the Tathagata, put forth the power of the Law, and the Mountain of Five Phases pressed down on old Sun's waist.
“A full five hundred years I lay pressed beneath it, till by good fortune Sanzang came out of the court of Tang.
“Now I have turned to the right and go westward, to climb to Thunderclap and look upon the jade tuft.
“Go and ask through heaven and earth and the four seas: I am the first of fiends, famed through the generations.”
Hearing this, the fiend laughed. “So you are that Bimawen who made havoc in Heaven?”
Now nothing angered the Pilgrim so much as to be called Bimawen. At the sound of the word his heart swelled with fury, and he cursed him: “You thieving fiend! You steal a cassock and will not return it, and then you affront your elder into the bargain. Do not run — mind the rod!”
The black fellow twisted aside and let it pass, snatched up his long spear, and came on with a quick hand to meet him. It was a fine fight between the two of them:
The As-You-Will rod, the black-tasselled spear: the two of them at the cave mouth vaunting their hardihood.
A thrust that parts the breast, a cleaving at the face; a stroke that lands on the arm, a wound aimed full at the head.
This one flings his rod crosswise with a treacherous hand; that one twirls his straight and drives three quick spear-thrusts.
A white tiger climbing the hill puts forth a claw; a yellow dragon lying athwart the road turns its body in haste.
They spout coloured mists, they belch a hair-fine light: two fiend-immortals not to be measured.
The one is the Sage Equal to Heaven, cultivating the right; the other the Great King of Black Wind, a spirit come to its perfection.
This strife in the mountains, this place of contention — all for a cassock, and neither of them good.
The fiend and the Pilgrim fought some dozen bouts without advantage to either, and by degrees the red sun stood at noon.
The black fellow raised his spear to fend off the iron rod and said, “Sun the Pilgrim, let the two of us draw off our arms awhile. Wait till I have taken my meal, and I will contend with you again.”
The Pilgrim said, “You beast of evil karma — do you call that being a man? A fine fellow, who must eat after half a day! Take old Sun: pressed under the root of the mountain a full five hundred years and more, and never so much as tasted broth or water. Where was there any hunger in that? Make no excuses. Do not run. Give me back my cassock, and then I will let you go to your dinner.”
The fiend made a feint with his spear, drew his body back into the cave, shut the stone gate, called in his little demons, and set about ordering the banquet and writing the invitation cards, bidding the demon kings of every mountain to the festival. Of this no more.
But we tell how the Pilgrim, unable to beat the gate open, had no choice but to return to the Guanyin Temple. The monks of that house had already buried the old abbot, and were all in the lodge waiting upon the Tang monk. The morning meal being done, they had set out the noon meal, and were just there adding broth and changing water, when they saw the Pilgrim come down out of the air. The monks made their bows, received him into the lodge, and he came before Sanzang.
Sanzang said, “Wukong, you are come back? And the cassock — how does it stand?”
The Pilgrim said, “There is a thread to follow now. It is well that we did not wrong these monks: it was a fiend of Black Wind Mountain who stole it. Old Sun went quietly to seek him out, and found him with a white-clad scholar and an old Taoist, sitting and talking before that slope of fragrant grass. He is a monster who confesses without being beaten, for out it came of a sudden: the day after tomorrow is the day of his mother's travail, and he had bidden all the fiends to keep his birthday; last night he had come by a brocade-bordered Buddha-robe, and would make it the gift of the day, spread one great banquet, and call it the Feast in Praise of the Buddha-Robe. So old Sun rushed upon them and struck one blow of the rod. The black fellow turned to wind and was gone, the Taoist too was nowhere seen, and only the white-clad scholar was beaten dead — who proved to be a mottled white snake come to spirithood. Then I hurried on to his cave mouth and called him out to contend with me. He has owned to it: he carried it off. We fought this half day out, and neither had the better. The fiend went back into his cave to eat, shut the stone gate, and for fear of the fight would not come out. So old Sun has come back to see the master and bring this word first. We have the whereabouts of the cassock now, and I have no fear he will not give it up.”
Hearing this, the monks joined palm to palm or knocked their heads upon the ground, and all together chanted, “Namo Amitabha! This day the trail is found, and only now have we our lives again.”
The Pilgrim said, “Do not be glad and easy yet. I have not got it in my hand, nor has my master yet passed out of your gate. Only when the cassock is here, and my master is sent well out of your door, will you have your ease; and should there be the least mischance, old Sun is no master to be trifled with! Has there been good tea and rice for my master to eat? Has there been good fodder for the horse?”
The monks answered him with one full mouth: “There has, there has, there has. We have not slighted the venerable one by a hair's weight.”
Sanzang said, “In this half day since you left, I have taken tea three times over and two meatless meals, and not one of them has dared to slight me. Only do you go and spend heart and strength to the last, and bring back the cassock.”
The Pilgrim said, “Do not fret. The trail is found. I shall certainly lay hold of the creature and return your property to you. Be easy, be easy.”
Just as they were speaking, the prior of the upper hall had a plain repast made ready afresh and begged the venerable Sun to take his meal. The Pilgrim ate a little of it, then rode his auspicious cloud again and went off to search. As he went he saw a small demon coming along the highroad, a little rosewood casket tucked under his left arm. The Pilgrim reckoned there must be some written matter within the casket. He raised his rod and struck full on the head. The poor thing could not bear a blow, and was beaten flat as a meat pasty. He dragged it to the roadside, lifted the lid of the casket, and looked. It was indeed an invitation card. Upon the card was written:
Your junior in the service, the Bear-Fiend, bows his head and addresses the cinnabar chamber of the venerable elder Jinchi, great expounder of the Law. I have often received your kind favours, and my gratitude is deep as a gulf. Last night I beheld the calamity of Huilu, and failed of coming to your rescue; yet I judge that by your immortal arts you took no other harm. Your servant has by chance come by a Buddha-robe, and would hold an elegant gathering. I have respectfully set out a flowered cup, and beg to draw you to the pure viewing. When the day arrives, I entreat a thousand times that your immortal carriage may condescend to attend and to converse. This would be a favour. Drawn up two days beforehand.
The Pilgrim read it and laughed aloud. “That old flayer! There was not a hair's worth of loss in his dying — so he was in league with a fiend. No wonder he lived two hundred and seventy years. I suppose the fiend passed him some paltry trick of swallowing the breath, and so he came by that span. Old Sun still remembers what he looked like. I shall change into that monk, walk into his cave, and see where my cassock is laid. If I can once get my hand on it, I will take it straight back, and spare myself the labour.”
Excellent Great Sage! He worked a spell, turned to meet the wind and changed, and was indeed the very likeness of the old monk. He hid away the iron rod, stretched his stride, came straight to the cave mouth, and called, “Open the gate!”
The little demon opened it, saw such a figure standing there, and turned quickly to report, “Great King, the elder Jinchi is come.”
The fiend was greatly startled. “I have this moment dispatched the little one with a card to invite him. At this hour he cannot yet have reached there. How is it he comes so speedily? I suppose the little one never fell in with him, and that Sun the Pilgrim has assuredly called him here to demand the cassock. Steward — put the Buddha-robe away, and let him not lay eyes on it.”
The Pilgrim came in at the front gate, and saw in the courtyard pine and bamboo mingling their green, peach and plum contending in loveliness, flowers opening in clusters, orchids fragrant in tufts: a very cave-heaven of a place. On the second gate he saw a matched pair of lines, of the kind known as a couplet, which read: In stillness hidden in the deep hills, no vulgar cares; secluded in an immortal cave, delighting in heaven's own truth. The Pilgrim said within himself, “This creature too has shed the dust and left the world — a monster who knows what is allotted him.” Passing in and going further forward, he came within the third gate to painted ridgepoles and carven beams, bright windows and coloured doors. He saw the black fellow wearing a lined jacket of dark-green ramie silk, over it a cloak of raven-blue figured damask, on his head a soft cap of black horn, and on his feet a pair of deerskin boots dyed black.
Seeing the Pilgrim enter, he set his gown and cap straight and came down the steps to receive him. “Old friend Jinchi, these many days we have been strangers. Pray sit, pray sit.” The Pilgrim greeted him with due ceremony. The greeting done, they sat; and being seated, they took tea.
The tea over, the fiend leaned forward. “I sent but now a small note, begging a meeting the day after tomorrow. How is it my old friend condescends to visit me today?”
The Pilgrim said, “I was on my way to pay my respects, and unlooked-for met your splendid brush upon the road. Seeing that there was an elegant gathering for a Buddha-robe, I came hurrying, desiring only to be granted a sight of it.”
The fiend laughed. “My old friend is mistaken. This cassock belongs by right to the Tang monk. He lodged his staff at your house: can it be you never saw it, that you come to me for a sight of it?”
The Pilgrim said, “This poor monk had borrowed it, and it being late at night had not yet unrolled it, when unlooked-for the Great King took it away. Then fire burned our barren hill and my substance was lost; and the Tang monk's disciple is a stout fellow besides. In all that confusion we searched on every side and could not find it. So it was the Great King's abundant fortune that gathered it in — and therefore I have come expressly to see it.”
Just as they were talking, a little demon on mountain patrol came in to report: “Great King, disaster! The junior officer who carried down the invitation has been beaten to death by Sun the Pilgrim beside the highroad, and he, having caught the thread of it, has changed into the elder Jinchi and comes to cheat you of the Buddha-robe!”
Hearing this, the fiend said within himself, “I did wonder how that elder should come today, and come so speedily. It is he after all.”
He sprang up in haste, caught his spear, and thrust at the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim whipped the rod from his ear, showed his true form, parried the spear-point, leapt out of the middle hall, and fought his way from the courtyard to beyond the front gate. The whole rabble of the cave were frightened out of their courage, and the household, old and young, out of their souls. It was a fine contest there on the mountaintop, and quite another thing from the bout before. A fine fight:
That Monkey King, bold of gall, passed himself for a monk; this black fellow, quick of wit, had hidden the Buddha-robe.
Word went and word came, and the occasion was nicely turned; each met the moment as it fell, and neither missed a step.
The cassock he would see, and had no way to see it; the treasure lay dark and subtle, wondrous and fine.
The little fiend on patrol spoke of disaster; the old fiend flew into rage and put forth his divine might.
They turned and fought their way out of Black Wind Cave: spear and rod contending to settle the right and the wrong.
The rod parried the long spear with a ringing clang; the spear met the iron rod and gave out light.
Wukong's transformations are rare among men; the monster's powers are seldom seen on earth.
The one would take the Buddha-robe to keep his birthday: would the other, lacking the cassock, consent to go quietly home?
In this bitter fight they could not part their hands; and had a living Buddha come down to earth, he could not have broken the ring.
The two of them fought from the cave mouth up to the summit, and from the summit out beyond the clouds, belching mist and spouting wind, whirling the sand and rolling the stones, and fought until the red sun sank westward with neither the victor.
The fiend said, “You of the surname Sun, hold your hand awhile. The day is late, and it is no fit hour for contending. Go, go; wait till tomorrow morning, and I will settle life and death with you.”
The Pilgrim shouted, “My son, do not run! If you would fight, fight like a man who fights, and do not put me off with the lateness of the hour.”
Look at him — with neither head nor face to the thing, he simply laid on with the rod. But the black fellow turned again to a gust of clear wind, went back into his own cave, barred the stone gate fast, and did not come out. The Pilgrim, having no stratagem left him, was reduced to returning to the Guanyin Temple. He set down his cloud and called, “Master.”
Sanzang, whose eyes had been straining after him, was greatly glad to see him of a sudden before his face; and seeing no cassock in his hand, was afraid again. He asked, “How is it that this time too no cassock has come?”
The Pilgrim drew a card out of his sleeve, handed it to Sanzang, and said, “Master, that monster and this dead old flayer were friends from the first. He had a little demon carry this card, and would have had him come besides to the Buddha-Robe Feast. So old Sun beat the little demon dead, changed into that old monk, went into his cave, and cheated a cup of tea out of him. I would have asked him for a sight of the cassock, and he would not fetch it out. While we sat there, some patrolling creature or other let the news slip, and he fell to fighting with me. We fought till this hour with nothing to choose between us. Seeing it grow late, he slipped back into the cave and barred the stone gate. Old Sun had no help for it, and has come back awhile.”
Sanzang said, “How do your arts stand against his?”
The Pilgrim said, “I am not so very much the harder. We fought to an even hand.”
Sanzang had scarcely read the card when he passed it to the prior. “Can it be that your master too was a fiend?”
The prior knelt down in haste. “Venerable sir, my master was a man. It was only that the Great King of Black Wind, having cultivated himself into the estate of men, would often come to the temple to expound the scriptures with my master; and he taught my master certain arts of nourishing the spirit and swallowing the breath. So they called one another friends.”
The Pilgrim said, “This crowd of monks has no fiendish air about it. Every one of them has a round head to top the heavens and a square foot to tread the earth; only they are somewhat plumper and taller than old Sun. They are no fiends. Look at the card there: it is written 'Your junior in the service, the Bear-Fiend.' The thing must certainly be a black bear come to spirithood.”
Sanzang said, “I have heard the ancients say, 'The bear and the ape are of a kind.' Both are of the tribe of beasts. How then should he come to spirithood?”
The Pilgrim laughed. “Old Sun is of the tribe of beasts, and was made Great Sage Equal to Heaven. Wherein do I differ from him? Broadly, of the things of this world, whatever has the nine apertures may cultivate itself and become immortal.”
Sanzang said again, “You told me just now that his powers are an even hand with yours. How then will you get the victory, and bring my cassock back?”
The Pilgrim said, “Never mind, never mind. I have my remedy.”
While they were consulting, the monks set out the evening meal and begged master and disciple to eat. Sanzang bade them light the lamps, and went again to rest in the meditation hall at the front. The monks all leaned against wall and partition, thatched themselves shelters of matting, and lay down each where he was, leaving only the rear lodge for the prior and his second to sleep in. It was then the still of night. Behold:
The River of Heaven shows its image; the jade vault is without a mote.
The sky is filled with glittering stars; one stream has drawn in the traces of its waves.
Ten thousand hollow voices are stilled; on a thousand hills the birds are gone.
By the brook the fishing-fires are out; on the pagoda the Buddha-lamp burns low.
Last night the acharya's bell and drum resounded; tonight one round of weeping is all that is heard.
That night they lodged in the meditation hall. Sanzang, thinking on the cassock — how should he sleep sound?
Turning suddenly, he saw whiteness through the window, and rose in haste, calling: “Wukong, it is light! Go quickly and find the cassock.” The Pilgrim rolled up out of his bed in one bound, and saw the monks standing in attendance with hot water offered ready.
The Pilgrim said, “Do you serve my master with a will. Old Sun is off.”
Sanzang got down from the bed and caught hold of him. “Where are you going?”
The Pilgrim said, “I reckon this whole business is Guanyin's fault. She keeps this meditation cloister here, she takes the incense of the households hereabouts, and yet she suffers that fiend to live next door. I shall go to the Southern Sea and find her, and have a word with her, and make her come herself to demand the cassock of the fiend and return it to me.” Sanzang said, “If you go, when will you return?”
The Pilgrim said, “At the least, before breakfast is cleared; at the most, by noon — and the thing is done. Let those monks serve you well. Old Sun is off.”
Scarcely was the word spoken and he was gone without a trace. In a moment he had come to the Southern Sea, and halted his cloud to look. Behold it:
A boundless ocean, far-reaching; the force of the water joined with the sky.
Auspicious light enfolds the cosmos; a lucky vapour lights the hills and streams.
A thousand tiers of snowy breakers roar into the blue empyrean; ten thousand folds of misty wave surge through the white day.
The water flies to the four quarters; the billows roll round about.
Water flying to the four quarters shakes the rolling thunder; billows rolling round about sound the thunderclap.
Speak no more of the water's force: look rather at what lies within.
Dim in five colours, the jewelled and terraced mountain — red, yellow, purple, black, green and blue.
Only now is Guanyin's true and excellent realm to be seen: look upon Mount Luojia of the Southern Sea.
A goodly place! The peaks rise high, their summits piercing the void.
Within are a thousand kinds of rare flower and a hundred sorts of auspicious herb.
Wind shakes the jewelled trees; sun glances on the golden lotus.
The Hall of Guanyin, roofed with tiles of lapis glass;
the Cave of Tidal Sound, its door laid over with tortoiseshell.
In the shade of the green willows the parrot talks; in the purple bamboo grove the peacock cries.
On the veined stone the guardians of the Law stand august;
before the agate strand, Moksha stands stalwart.
The Pilgrim could not take in all that strange and marvellous prospect, but pressed his cloud straight down and came beneath the bamboo grove. The devas were there already to receive him. “When the Bodhisattva spoke before to the assembly of the Great Sage's turning to the good, she proclaimed it warmly. You are guarding the Tang monk now: how have you the leisure to come here?”
The Pilgrim said, “It is in guarding the Tang monk that a thing has met us on the road. I would see the Bodhisattva. Be so good as to announce me.”
The devas went to the cave mouth and made it known, and the Bodhisattva called him in. The Pilgrim went forward according to the rule, and bowed beneath the jewelled lotus throne. The Bodhisattva asked, “What have you come for?”
The Pilgrim said, “My master met your cloister upon the road. You take the incense of the world of men, and yet you suffer a black bear-spirit to dwell next door there, and let him steal my master's cassock. Time and again I have demanded it and he will not give it up, and now I come expressly to require it of you.”
The Bodhisattva said, “What talk is this from a monkey — such insolence! If the bear-spirit stole your cassock, why do you come to demand it of me? It is all your own doing, you presumptuous wretch of an ape. You took a treasure and made a show of it, you put it before the eyes of small men, and then you played the ruffian, called up wind and started a fire, burned my Cloud-Resting Lower Cloister, and now come to bully me in my own house.”
When the Pilgrim heard the Bodhisattva say this, he knew that she understood things past and to come. He bowed hurriedly. “Bodhisattva, forgive your disciple's fault. It was indeed thus and so. But I cannot bear it that the monster will not give me the cassock, and my master will begin to recite that spell of his; old Sun cannot endure the headache, and therefore has come to trouble the Bodhisattva. I look to the Bodhisattva's compassionate heart to help me take the fiend, that I may get the robe and go on westward.”
The Bodhisattva said, “That monster has powers in plenty, and is not much beneath you. Well then — for the Tang monk's sake I will go this once with you.”
Hearing it, the Pilgrim gave thanks and bowed again.
He begged her to come forth at once. Together they rode the auspicious cloud, and were soon at Black Wind Mountain, where they let their cloud fall and followed the path to find the cave.
As they went, they saw a Taoist come out from before the slope of the hill, carrying in his hand a tray of glass with two pellets of immortal elixir set within it, walking straight on. He ran full against the Pilgrim, who whipped out his rod and brought it down upon his head, so that the brains came flowing out and the blood spurted from the trunk.
The Bodhisattva was greatly startled. “You monkey! Are you still so wanton? He had not stolen your cassock; he was no acquaintance of yours; you had no grudge against him whatever. How is it that you have beaten him dead?”
The Pilgrim said, “Bodhisattva, you do not know him. He is a friend of that black bear-spirit. Yesterday he was sitting and talking before the slope of fragrant grass with a white-clad scholar. The day after tomorrow is the black spirit's birthday, and he had bidden them to keep the Buddha-Robe Feast. Today this one was to come first with birthday greetings, and tomorrow to the feast. So I knew him, and knew for certain he was going today to wish the fiend long life for the other's sake.” The Bodhisattva said, “If it is thus as you say, well then.”
The Pilgrim went and lifted the Taoist up to look at him: he was a grey wolf. Beside him, on the underside of the tray, were words graven: MADE BY LINGXUZI.
The Pilgrim saw it and laughed. “Good fortune, good fortune! It is a convenience for old Sun and a saving of labour for the Bodhisattva. This one is what they call a confession without a beating; and as for that fiend, let him be done for this very day.”
The Bodhisattva said, “Wukong, what do you mean by this?”
The Pilgrim said, “Bodhisattva, I, Wukong, have a word to say — what is called meeting a stratagem with a stratagem. I do not know whether the Bodhisattva will be willing to follow me.”
The Bodhisattva said, “Speak.”
The Pilgrim said, “Bodhisattva, you see that in this tray are two pellets of immortal elixir. These shall be our gift of introduction to the monster; and the four characters cut on the back of the tray, which say 'Made by Lingxuzi' — these shall be our warrant for his arrest. If the Bodhisattva will do as I say, I can lay a scheme for you, and there will be no need to move shield and spear, nor any labour of battle. The monster shall have his plague this instant, and the Buddha-robe shall appear this instant.
“But if the Bodhisattva will not do as I say, then let the Bodhisattva go west and Wukong go east: the Buddha-robe will count as a gift bestowed, and Sanzang of the Tang will count as come to nothing.” The Bodhisattva laughed. “This monkey has a ready mouth.”
The Pilgrim said, “I would not presume — but it is a scheme, for all that.”
The Bodhisattva said, “And how does this scheme of yours run?”
The Pilgrim said, “On this tray is cut 'Made by Lingxuzi.' I fancy this Taoist is called Lingxuzi. Bodhisattva, if you will do as I say, you have only to change into this Taoist; and I will eat one of these pills and turn myself into another, a trifle larger. Bodhisattva, you shall then take up this tray with its two pellets, go and drink the fiend's health, and yield him the larger pill. Wait till the fiend has swallowed it at a gulp, and old Sun will do his business from within: if he will not give up the Buddha-robe, old Sun will weave him one out of his very bowels.”
The Bodhisattva had no help for it, and could only nod her head and do as he said. The Pilgrim laughed. “How is that?”
Then the Bodhisattva, by her great and vast compassion, by her boundless power of the Law, by her hundred million transformation-bodies, met intention with mind and body with intention; and in a moment of blurred seeming she was changed into the Immortal Lingxu.
A crane-feather cloak, and the immortal wind blowing; fluttering, she seems about to pace the void.
A weathered face, old as pine and cypress; a beauty not to be found in ancient time or now.
Going and going, she yet abides nowhere; suchness upon suchness, each with its own difference.
All comes home at last to a single Dharma; only the fiendish body stands between.
The Pilgrim looked and said, “Marvellous, marvellous! Is it the fiend that is the Bodhisattva, or the Bodhisattva that is the fiend?”
The Bodhisattva laughed. “Wukong: Bodhisattva and fiend are together a single thought. If you speak of the original state, both belong to non-being.”
The Pilgrim was enlightened on the instant. He turned about and changed himself into one pellet of elixir:
Rolling on the tray, it is never unsettled; round and lucid, it has no quarter.
Thrice three, and it accords with Goulou; six times six, and it takes counsel with Shaoweng.
Potsherd and bright metal, a flame of yellow gold; a mani jewel, a light in the white day.
The lead and quicksilver of the outer arts may not lightly be weighed against it.
The Pilgrim, changed into that pill, was after all a trifle the larger. The Bodhisattva marked which it was, took up the glass tray, and went straight to the mouth of the fiend's cave to look. It was indeed thus:
Deep cliff and perilous peak, cloud rising above the ridge;
grey cypress and green pine, wind sighing among the trees.
Deep cliff and perilous peak — truly a haunt of fiends, where the smoke of men is scarce;
grey cypress and green pine — a place, too, where a true immortal may hide and cultivate, and feeling for the Way abounds.
The hill has its gorge, the gorge its spring; the murmuring water sobs like a sounding zither, and one might wash the ears in it;
the cliff has its deer, the wood its cranes; the faint immortal piping stirs among the peaks, and the heart may take its delight.
This is a fiend-immortal with a portion allotted him, brought down to bodhi; the great vow, boundless, letting fall its pity.
The Bodhisattva looked, and rejoiced secretly in her heart. “This creature of evil karma has taken possession of this mountain cave — and yet he has something of a portion in the Way.”
And so within her heart there was already a compassion.
She came to the cave mouth, and the little demons who kept it half knew her. “The immortal elder Lingxu is come!” Some ran in to report and some came forward to usher her. The fiend was already out at the door to meet her. “Lingxu! I am honoured that your immortal carriage should deign to call. My poor hut is lit up by it.”
The Bodhisattva said, “This humble Taoist respectfully presents one pellet of immortal elixir, and ventures to wish you a thousand years.”
When the two of them had made their bows and were fairly seated, he began to speak again of what had passed the day before.
The Bodhisattva did not answer, but took up the tray of elixir at once. “Great King, look first on the poor mind of this Taoist.” She fixed her eye upon the larger pellet and pushed it across to the fiend. “May the Great King live a thousand years.”
The fiend pushed the other across and handed it to the Bodhisattva. “May Lingxuzi share it with me.”
The courtesies over, the fiend was just about to swallow when the drug went smoothly down and rolled straight in. It showed its true form and set itself four-square. The fiend rolled over upon the ground. The Bodhisattva showed her own form, and demanded the Buddha-robe of the fiend. The Pilgrim had already come out by way of his nostril.
The Bodhisattva, fearing the fiend might yet turn violent, threw a fillet down upon his head. The fiend got up and raised his spear to thrust; but Pilgrim and Bodhisattva were already risen into the air, and she began upon the True Words.
The fiend's head ached as before. He threw down the spear and rolled about all over the ground.
In mid-air the Handsome Monkey King laughed himself double; on the flat earth the Black Bear Fiend rolled himself sick.
The Bodhisattva said, “Creature of evil karma, will you now take refuge?”
The fiend answered with his whole mouth, “My heart is willing to take refuge; only spare my life.”
The Pilgrim, fearing the delay would waste his time, was minded to strike at once. The Bodhisattva stopped him hurriedly. “Do not harm his life. I have a use for him.”
The Pilgrim said, “A monster like this — if he is not beaten to death, where will you find a use to put him to?”
The Bodhisattva said, “Behind my Mount Luojia there is nobody to keep watch. I mean to take him away and make him a Great God who guards the mountain.”
The Pilgrim laughed. “Truly you are the Merciful Lord who saves from suffering: not a single soul is lost. If old Sun had a spell of that sort, I would recite it over his mother a thousand times. There would be a great many black bears about, and I would settle accounts with the lot of them.”
Now the fiend had come to himself some while since, and in all fairness could not endure the pain. He could only kneel upon the ground and plead: “Do but spare my life, and I will turn to the true fruit.”
Then the Bodhisattva let her auspicious light descend, laid her hand upon his crown and gave him the commandments, bade him take up the long spear, and follow at her side.
And so the Black Bear's wild heart was that day settled, and his boundless stubborn nature was in that hour gathered in.
The Bodhisattva gave her charge: “Wukong, go back now. Serve the Tang monk well, and hereafter be neither slothful nor a maker of trouble.”
The Pilgrim said, “I am deeply sensible that the Bodhisattva has come so far. Your disciple ought to see you a part of the way home.”
The Bodhisattva said, “Spare yourself.”
The Pilgrim then took up the cassock in both hands, knocked his head, and parted from her. The Bodhisattva too took the bear-fiend with her, and went straight back to the great sea.
There is a poem to attest it. The poem says:
Auspicious light hangs thick and gathers to a golden image; ten thousand beams in riot, truly a thing to praise.
She succours the people of the world and lets her pity fall; she looks through all the Dharma-realm and shows the golden lotus.
Her coming now was chiefly for the sake of the scripture-bearing; her going leaves not one spot of flaw behind.
The fiend subdued and made true, she returns to the great sea, and the Gate of Emptiness has its brocade cassock again.
In the end there is no knowing how matters shall go hereafter. Listen to the explanation in the next chapter.