The Pilgrim took his leave of the Bodhisattva, pressed down his cloud-head, hung the cassock on a fragrant nan tree, and whipped out his rod. He battered his way into the Black Wind Cave — and in that cave there was not one small fiend to be had. The truth was that, having seen the Bodhisattva reveal herself and subdue the old monster till he rolled about on the ground, they had all scattered and fled in haste. Now the Pilgrim let his violence run its full course: against the several tiers of gates he heaped dry brushwood, before and behind, and set the whole alight at once, so that he burned the Black Wind Cave into a Red Wind Cave. Then he took up the cassock, mounted the auspicious light, and turned back due north.
Now it is told that Sanzang, watching for the Pilgrim and finding him slow to return, grew heavy with doubt: he could not tell whether the Bodhisattva had refused to come, or whether the Pilgrim had found a pretext and run off. In the very midst of these wild surmises he saw, high in the air, a bright shimmer of coloured mist, and the Pilgrim dropped suddenly before the steps and knelt, saying, “Master, the cassock is come back.”
Sanzang was overjoyed. Nor was there one among the monks who did not rejoice, crying, “Good! Good! Only today are our lives made whole again.”
Sanzang received the cassock and said, “Wukong, when you set out this morning you promised to be back by the noon meal. How is it that you return only now, with the sun already west?” The Pilgrim laid out for him, from beginning to end, the whole business of inviting the Bodhisattva, of the transformations wrought, and of the monster subdued. When Sanzang had heard him out he set up an incense table, made his obeisance toward the south, and then said, “Disciple, since the Buddha's robe is ours again, make haste to gather up the bundles, and let us be gone.”
The Pilgrim said, “No hurry, no hurry. The day is drawing on; this is no hour to be taking the road. Wait until tomorrow, and set out early.”
The monks all knelt together and said, “His reverence Sun speaks justly. For one thing, night is falling; for another, we have a vow or two upon us. Now that we are safe, and the treasure recovered, let us pay off our vow, and beg your reverences to share out the blessed food with us. Tomorrow morning we shall see you west again.”
The Pilgrim said, “Just so, just so.” And you should have seen those monks empty their purses and turn them out to the very bottom — whatever poor remnant they had snatched from the fire, each brought forth all he had: they set out a vegetarian offering, burned paper for peace and freedom from harm, and chanted a few scrolls to dissolve calamity and undo misfortune. So the evening's business ended.
Early next morning they groomed and harnessed the horse, bundled up the baggage, and went out at the gate; the monks saw them a long way off before turning back. The Pilgrim led the road, and it was indeed the season when spring runs warm. Behold:
Grass cushions the jade-grey courser, and soft is the print of his hoof; the willow shakes out its golden threads, and the dew's sheen is new.
Peach and apricot fill the wood, contending in loveliness; the fig-vine winds along the path and puts forth its spirit.
On the sandy dyke the sun is warm, and the mandarin ducks are sleeping; in the mountain stream the flowers are fragrant, and the butterflies are tame.
Thus autumn goes, winter wanes, and spring is half over — yet who knows in what year the journey shall be full and the true scriptures had?
Master and disciple travelled some five or seven days of wild road, when one day, as the sky was drawing toward dusk, they saw far off a hamlet of a few households. Sanzang said, “Wukong, look — there is a mountain farmstead close by on that side. Let us go and beg a night's lodging, and take the road again tomorrow. What do you say?” The Pilgrim said, “Wait till old Sun has gone to look whether it be lucky or ill, and we will settle the matter then.” The Master reined in the silken bridle; the Pilgrim fixed his gaze and looked. It was in truth like this:
Bamboo hedges dense on dense; thatched roofs tier on tier.
Wild trees, sky-piercing, greet the gate; a winding stream and its bridge cast their shadow across the door.
By the road the willows are green, and green upon green; within the garden the flowers are open, and fragrance upon fragrance.
At this hour the last light is sinking westward, and everywhere in the hill-woods the birds are clamouring;
the evening smoke climbs from the cooking-fires, and along every lane the cattle and sheep are turning home.
See too the fowls and swine, fed full, drowsing at the corner of the house, and the tipsy old neighbour coming along in song.
When the Pilgrim had done looking he said, “Go forward, Master. It is certainly a village of decent folk, and a fit place to beg a lodging.” The elder urged the white horse on, and they came shortly to the mouth of the street. There they saw a young fellow, a cotton cloth wound about his head, a blue jacket on his back, an umbrella in his hand and a pack on his shoulder, his breeches gathered and bound, straw sandals of the three-eared sort upon his feet, striding along in a great hurry out of the street.
The Pilgrim reached out and caught him fast. “Where away?” he said. “I have a question for you. What place is this?” The man only struggled the harder, shouting, “Is there nobody else in my village? Am I the only man fit to be asked the road?” The Pilgrim said, smiling upon him, “Do not be vexed, patron. 'A kindness done another is a kindness done yourself.' What harm is there in telling me the name of the place? I may even be able to dissolve your troubles for you.” The man could not wrench his hand free, and hopped about in a rage. “Ill luck!” he cried. “Ill luck! The master's temper I cannot bear, and now I run into this bald-head besides, and take his insolence too!” The Pilgrim said, “If you have the strength, prise open my hand, and you may go for all of me.” The man twisted left and twisted right, but where could he twist himself loose? It was as though an iron pincer had gripped him.
So enraged was he that he threw down his pack, flung away his umbrella, and came at the Pilgrim with both hands, clawing like a shower of rain. The Pilgrim propped the baggage with one hand and held the man off with the other; scuffle as he might, he could lay hold of nothing. The tighter the Pilgrim held, the more the man raged, crackling with fury like a thunderclap. Sanzang said, “Wukong, is that not another man coming over there? Ask that one instead. Why keep hold of this one? Let him go.” The Pilgrim laughed. “Master, you do not understand. If I ask another and get nothing by it, I must ask this one anyway. He is where the trade lies.”
Held fast and not let go, the man was forced at last to speak. “This place is within the borders of the kingdom of Ü-Tsang, and it is called Gao Village. More than half the households of the village are surnamed Gao, and that is why it is so called. Now let me go.” The Pilgrim said again, “You are dressed for more than a short walk. Tell me truly: where are you bound, and what is the business you are really about? Then I will let you go.”
Having no help for it, the man told him the truth. “I am a servant of Squire Gao, and my name is Gao Cai. My squire has a youngest daughter, just twenty years old, who has never yet been given in marriage. Three years ago a monster took possession of her, and for these three whole years the monster has been his son-in-law. My squire was not pleased, and said, 'For a daughter to take a monster to husband is no lasting arrangement: for one thing it ruins the good name of the house; for another, no proper in-laws come and go.' From the first he has wanted to be rid of the creature. But the monster would not be got rid of. Instead he shut the girl away in the back court, and for near half a year now he has not let her out to see so much as one of the household. My squire gave me a few taels of silver and bade me seek out an exorcist to take the fiend.
“In all this while I have not rested my feet. Back and forth I have gone, and I have fetched three or four men — worthless monks, every one of them, and spineless Daoists, who could not subdue the monster at all. Just now he railed at me for a good while, and said I could do nothing right. Then he gave me another five mace of silver for my expenses, and told me to go again and find a better exorcist. I never thought to run into you, you ill-starred creature, and be seized and hindered on my road, so that I take abuse both indoors and out. I could not help it, and so I shouted at you. I did not think you would have some trick of holding, and that I could not wrench free of you; and so I have told you the whole truth. Now let me go.”
The Pilgrim said, “Your luck is in, and I am in business: the four and the six make ten, and here is the very trade for us both. You need go no farther, and you need spend none of your silver. We are not of those worthless monks and spineless Daoists. We have some skill in fact, and we are old hands at taking monsters. As the saying has it, 'First it obliges the physician; second, it gets the eye cured.' Be so good as to go back and inform your master that we are the holy monk, imperial brother of the Tang court, sent forth by our sovereign, bound west to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures, and well able to subdue fiends and bind demons.”
Gao Cai said, “Do not lead me astray. I am a man with a bellyful of anger already. If you have gulled me, and have no skill, and cannot take the monster, will you not have got me abused all over again?” The Pilgrim said, “I warrant I shall not lead you astray. Bring me to the gate of your house.” The man had no choice. He picked up his pack in earnest, took his umbrella, turned about, and led the master and disciple to the gate, saying, “Your reverences, sit a moment on the mounting-block while I go in and let the master of the house know.” Only then did the Pilgrim let go his hand. He set down the load, led the horse, and master and disciple stood and sat by the gate to wait.
Gao Cai went in at the great gate and made straight for the central hall, where as it happened he ran full into Squire Gao. The squire scolded him. “You thick-skinned brute! Why have you not gone to look for a man? What do you come back for?” Gao Cai set down his pack and umbrella. “Let it be reported to the master of the house: your servant had only just walked out to the mouth of the street when he ran into two monks — one on horseback, one carrying a load. He caught hold of me and would not let go, and asked me where I was going. Again and again I refused to tell him, until he had pestered me past bearing; and being unable to get my hand free, I told him the master's whole business from beginning to end. At which he was delighted, and would take the monster for us.”
Old Gao said, “Where are they from?” Gao Cai said, “He says they are the holy monk, imperial brother of the Tang court, sent forth by the sovereign, bound west to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures.” The squire said, “If they are monks from far off, they may well have some real skill. Where are they now?” Gao Cai said, “Waiting outside the gate.”
The squire changed his clothes in haste and came out with Gao Cai to receive them, calling, “Elder!” Sanzang heard him, turned quickly about, and found him already at his side. The old man wore a cap of black silk gauze and a gown of Shu brocade the colour of scallion-white; on his feet were calfskin boots the colour of unhusked rice, and about his waist a sash of black-green braid. He came out smiling and speaking his welcome, saying, “Your two reverences, I make you my bow.” Sanzang returned the courtesy; the Pilgrim stood and did not stir. Seeing how fierce and ugly his face was, the old man did not dare bow to him at all. The Pilgrim said, “Why do you not salute old Sun?” The old fellow, somewhat frightened, said to Gao Cai, “You young rascal, would you be the death of me? There is an ugly-headed, monstrous-faced son-in-law in the house already that I cannot get rid of; why must you bring me this thunder-god to plague me too?”
The Pilgrim said, “Old Gao, you have grown to these many years for nothing, and still know nothing of the world. If you will judge a man by his face alone, you go wholly wrong. Old Sun is ugly enough, but he has some skill. If I catch the fiend for your household, seize the goblin, lay hold of that son-in-law of yours and give you back your daughter — will that not be well done? Why harp so on a man's face?”
Hearing this, the squire trembled, but forced up his spirits and said, “Please come in.” Being asked, the Pilgrim at last led the white horse in, bade Gao Cai shoulder the baggage, and went inside with Sanzang. Caring nothing for what was seemly, he tethered the horse to a pillar of the open hall, dragged over a lacquered armchair, and told his master to sit. Then he dragged over another chair and sat down beside him. Old Gao said, “This little elder makes himself quite at home.” The Pilgrim said, “If you will let me lodge here half a year, I shall be more at home yet.”
When they were seated, Old Gao asked, “My man said just now that your two reverences come from the Land of the East?” Sanzang said, “It is so. This poor monk goes at the command of the court to worship the Buddha in the West and seek the scriptures. Passing your worthy village, I beg a single night's lodging, and shall take the road early tomorrow.” Old Gao said, “You came only to lodge, then. How is it you speak of catching monsters?” The Pilgrim said, “We came to lodge, and while we are about it we shall catch a monster or two, for the sport of it. May I ask how many monsters your house has?” Old Gao said, “Heaven above! How many more do you suppose we could stomach? This one monster of a son-in-law has worn us to death already.” The Pilgrim said, “Tell me the whole story of that monster from the beginning — what powers he has — and I shall be better able to take him for you.”
Old Gao said, “In this village of ours, from ancient times until now, we have never known of any spectre or goblin, any fiend to work us mischief. It is only that I, an old fool, have had the misfortune to father no son. I got but three daughters: the eldest was named Fragrant Orchid, the second Jade Orchid, the third Kingfisher Orchid. The first two were married young to families of this village. For the youngest I wished to take in a husband, hoping he might live in the house with me, and be a son-in-law to keep me in my age, to hold up the door and the household, to do the work and answer the levies. Three years ago, unlooked for, there came a fellow whose looks were passable enough. He said he was of a family on Fuling Mountain, that his surname was Zhu, that he had neither father nor mother above him nor brothers below, and that he was willing to be taken in as a husband. Seeing a man so wholly without root or tie, I, old fool, took him in. From the day he entered the door he was diligent enough: he ploughed and harrowed without ox or gear; he reaped the grain without sickle or staff; at dusk he went and at dawn he came, and truly it went well. There was but one thing: he had a way of changing his face.”
The Pilgrim said, “Changed how?” Old Gao said, “When he first came he was a stout dark fellow; afterwards he turned into an idiot with a long snout and great ears, with a ridge of bristles down the back of his skull, his body coarse and frightful, his head and face for all the world like a pig's. And his gullet is prodigious: at one sitting he must have three or five dǒu of rice, and for his morning bite a hundred-odd flat cakes are barely enough. It is a mercy that he still eats vegetarian. If he took to flesh and wine, then all this old fool's holdings, land and stock and the rest, would be eaten clean away inside half a year.”
Sanzang said, “He eats so because he works so.” Old Gao said, “The eating is the small matter. Nowadays he raises winds besides, and comes in cloud and goes in mist, and sends the stones walking and the sand flying, so that he has frightened my whole household and the neighbours to left and right out of all peace. And he has shut my little daughter Kingfisher Orchid away in the back court, and for a full half-year we have not seen her face, nor do we know whether she is alive or dead. By this we knew him for a monster, and would fetch some exorcist to be rid of him — to be rid of him.”
The Pilgrim said, “What difficulty is there in that? Set your mind at rest, old man. Tonight I warrant I shall have him fast for you, and make him write a deed of divorce and give your daughter back to you. How will that do?” Old Gao rejoiced. “Taking him in was no great matter; but he has ruined a deal of my good name, and estranged a deal of my kin. If only you can seize him, what need is there of any deed? Do me the kindness of pulling him up by the root.” The Pilgrim said, “Easy, easy. When night falls, you shall see how it goes.”
The old man was greatly pleased, and only then had the tables and chairs wiped down and a vegetarian meal laid out. The meal done and evening drawing on, the old man asked, “What weapons will you want? How many men to attend you? Let them be got ready in good time.” The Pilgrim said, “I have my own weapon.” The old man said, “Your reverences have nothing but that staff. How shall a staff beat such a monster?” The Pilgrim thereupon drew from his ear an embroidery needle, pinched it between his fingers, waved it once in the wind, and there it was — an iron rod with a golden fillet, thick as a bowl. He held it out toward Old Gao and said, “Look at this cudgel. How does it compare with the weapons of your house? Will it beat this fiend or no?”
Old Gao said further, “You have a weapon, then. Will you want men to go with you?” The Pilgrim said, “I want no men. I want only a few old fellows of years and standing, to sit at their ease with my master and keep him in talk, so that I may leave him and go. Wait till I have brought that monster back, taken his confession before the company, and pulled him up by the root for you.” The old man at once called his houseboy and invited a few kinsmen and friends. In a little while all had come, and when the greetings were over the Pilgrim said, “Master, sit easy and set your mind at rest. Old Sun is off.”
See him now, gripping his iron rod and tugging Old Gao along. “Bring me to the back court,” he said, “where the monster lodges, that I may look at it.” Old Gao led him to the door of the back court. The Pilgrim said, “Go and fetch the key.” Old Gao said, “Look at it first. If a key could serve, I should not have sent for you.” The Pilgrim laughed. “Old fellow, for all your years you cannot take a jest. I was only teasing you, and you took it in earnest.” He went up and felt the lock: it was one filled solid with molten copper. That so vexed him that he drove his golden-hooped rod at it once, burst the door leaves open — and within was pitch darkness.
The Pilgrim said, “Old Gao, call your daughter once, and see whether she is inside.” The old man hardened his heart and called, “Third sister!” The girl knew her father's voice, and with hardly breath or strength enough answered him once: “Papa — I am here.” The Pilgrim flashed his golden eyes and looked carefully into the shadow. What manner of thing do you suppose he saw? Only this:
Cloudy tresses heaped in disorder, uncombed; a face of jade unwashed, and grimed with dust.
The orchid heart within her is whole as ever; the tender bearing is ten parts fallen away.
The cherry lips have lost their blood and breath; the waist and limbs are bent, and huddled close.
Sorrow gathers upon her, and the moth-brows are pale;
thin and shrinking she is, and the voice is low.
She came out, saw Old Gao, caught hold of him, and clung to his neck weeping. The Pilgrim said, “Do not weep, do not weep. Tell me — where has the monster gone?” The girl said, “I do not know where he goes. These days he leaves at daybreak and comes back at nightfall. He goes in cloud and mist, and I know nothing of where he goes or whence he returns. Because he knows my father would be rid of him, he is always on his guard; and so he comes at dusk and goes at dawn.”
The Pilgrim said, “Enough said. Old man, take your daughter to the front of the house and talk with her at leisure, and let old Sun wait for him here. If he does not come, do not blame me; but if he comes, I shall cut the grass and root it out for you.” So Old Gao, in great good humour, took his daughter away with him to the front.
The Pilgrim then worked his magic: he shook himself, changed, and became the very likeness of the girl, and sat alone in the room to wait for the monster. Before long a wind came up, and truly the stones walked and the sand flew. A fine wind it was:
At its first coming it was faint and swaying; afterwards it grew vast and boundless.
Faint and swaying, it filled heaven and earth; vast and boundless, it met with no let nor hindrance.
It stripped the blossom and snapped the willow better than hemp is stuffed; it toppled trees and broke the forest as one pulls up a cabbage.
It overturned rivers and stirred the seas, and ghosts and spirits grieved; it split rock and levelled mountains, and heaven and earth were astonished.
The flower-cropping elk lost the trail he came by; the fruit-plucking ape was bewildered outside his own wood.
The seven-storey iron pagoda was struck at the Buddha-head; the eight-sided banners were torn from the precious canopy.
Beams of gold and pillars of jade rocked from their footings; tiles flew from the roofs like clods of swallow-clay.
The boatman lifted his oar and vowed a vow; casting off, he made haste to promise pig and sheep in payment.
The earth-god of the ward forsook his shrine; the dragon-kings of the four seas bowed themselves toward the court above.
By the sea it stove in a yaksha's boat; at the Great Wall it blew down half a frontier fort.
When that gust of wild wind had passed, there in mid-air came a monster, and hideous indeed he was to look upon: a black face with short bristles, a long snout and great ears; on his back a coarse cloth gown neither green nor blue, and at his waist a girdle of flowered cotton. The Pilgrim laughed to himself. “So this is the article,” he said. Good Pilgrim! He neither went to meet him nor asked him a word, but lay on the bed feigning sickness, moaning and grumbling without a pause.
The monster could not tell true from false. He came into the room, threw his arms about her, and would have kissed her. The Pilgrim laughed inwardly. “He is really coming to try it on with old Sun,” he thought. He applied a grip, took hold of the monster's long snout, and gave him what is called a little throw: one twist over the head, and down he went with a smack beside the bed. The monster picked himself up, steadied himself against the bedside, and said, “Sister, why are you so cross with me today? I suppose I am come home late?”
The Pilgrim said, “I am not cross, not cross at all.” The monster said, “If you are not cross with me, why did you throw me down so?” The Pilgrim said, “Why must you be so ill-bred about it, catching hold of me and kissing me? I am not myself today; on an ordinary day I should have got up and opened the door for you. You had better put off your clothes and sleep.” The monster took no meaning from this, and went in all good faith to undress. The Pilgrim sprang up and seated himself upon the night-stool. The monster came groping back to the bed as before, felt about, and found no one there. He called, “Sister, where have you gone? Come, take off your clothes and sleep.” The Pilgrim said, “You sleep first; I am going out to relieve myself.” The monster did indeed undress first and get into bed.
The Pilgrim suddenly heaved a sigh and said aloud, “My luck has come to a low ebb.” The monster said, “What vexes you? How should your luck be low? Since I came into your house I have eaten a little tea and rice, it is true — but I have never eaten it for nothing. I have swept your floors and cleared your drains, carried brick and shifted tile, rammed earth and built walls, ploughed and harrowed, sown wheat and set out rice, and made a going concern of the place. The silk you wear on your back, the gold in your hair, fruit and flowers to enjoy through the four seasons, greens boiled and fried at all eight festivals — what is there in it that does not suit you, that you sigh short and sigh long, and talk of luck at a low ebb?” The Pilgrim said, “It is not that. Today my parents were on the other side of the wall, flinging bricks and pitching tiles, and abusing me and cursing me shamefully.”
The monster said, “What do they beat and curse you for?” The Pilgrim said, “They say that you and I are man and wife, that you are a son-in-law under their roof, and that you have no manners at all. A man with a face as ugly as that, they say, can meet no brother-in-law and be seen by no relation; and they do not know where you come and go in your cloud and mist, nor what house you are truly of, nor your surname or your name; and that you ruin their good name and defile the honour of their gate. So they beat and curse me, and I am wretched.”
The monster said, “Ugly I may be, but if you would have me handsome, that is no hard thing. When first I came I told them everything, and it was with their consent that they took me in. Why do they raise this talk now? My house is on Fuling Mountain, in the Cloud-Ladder Cave. I take my surname from my looks, and so I am surnamed Zhu; and my formal name is Zhu Ganglie, Bristles the Boar. If they ask you again, tell them this, and there is an end of it.”
The Pilgrim rejoiced privately. “The monster is honest enough,” he thought. “No need of the rack — he has confessed it all as plain as this. Now that I have the place and the name, I shall take him however it may be.” The Pilgrim said, “They mean to fetch an exorcist to catch you.” The monster laughed. “Sleep on, sleep on, and pay them no mind. I have the transformations of the Thirty-Six Constellations and a nine-toothed muckrake. What have I to fear from exorcists, monks or Daoists? Even if that father of yours were pious enough to call down the Patriarch of the Nine Heavens who Sweeps the Demons, why, he and I have been acquainted; he would not dare do anything to me.”
The Pilgrim said, “They say they will fetch that Great Sage Equal to Heaven, surnamed Sun, who made the great uproar in Heaven five hundred years ago.” At the sound of that name the monster took three parts of a fright. “If that is so,” he said, “I shall be off. There is an end of our being man and wife.” The Pilgrim said, “How is it you must go?” The monster said, “You do not know: that Protector of the Horses who made the uproar in Heaven has some skill in him. I fear I should get no good of him, and should lose my name, and look a poor figure.”
With that he pulled on his clothes, opened the door, and made for the outside. But the Pilgrim caught him fast, wiped a hand across his own face, showed his true form, and roared, “Fine monster! Where do you run? Lift your head and look at me — who am I?” The monster turned his eyes, and saw the Pilgrim's jutting teeth and bared jaws, his fiery eyes and golden pupils, his bumpy head and hairy face — the very image of a living thunder-god. So terrified was he that his hands went numb and his legs weak. With a ripping sound he burst out of his clothes, changed into a wild wind, and got clean away. The Pilgrim sprang after him, drew out the iron rod, and struck once at the wind. The monster turned into ten thousand shafts of fire and made straight for his own mountain. The Pilgrim mounted a cloud and gave chase, calling out, “Where do you run? If you go up to Heaven, I will follow you to the Palace of the Dipper and the Ox; if you go down into the earth, I will pursue you to the Prison of Unjust Death!”
Ah! Not yet may it be known to what place this pursuit led, nor who had the victory and who the defeat. Let it be told in the chapter to come.