八戒守擔，山凹避風 Bajie Waits Out the Wind in the Hollow
卻說豬八戒見那黃風大作，天地無光，牽著馬，守著擔，伏在山凹之間，也不敢睜眼，不敢擡頭，口裡不住的念佛許願；又不知行者勝負何如，師父死活何如。正在那疑思之時，卻早風定天晴。忽擡頭往那洞門前看處，卻也不見兵戈，不聞鑼鼓。獃子又不敢上他門，又沒人看守馬匹、行李，果是進退兩難，愴惶不已。憂慮間，只聽得孫大聖從西邊吆喝而來，他才欠身迎著道：「哥哥，好大風啊！你從那裡走來？」行者擺手道：「利害，利害！我老孫自為人，不曾見這大風。那老妖使一柄三股鋼叉，來與老孫交戰。戰到有三十餘合，是老孫使一個『身外身』的本事。把他圍打，他甚著急，故弄出這陣風來。果是兇惡，刮得我站立不住，收了本事，冒風而逃。──哏，好風！哏，好風！老孫也會呼風，也會喚雨，不曾似這個妖精的風惡。」却说猪八戒见那黄风大作，天地无光，牵著马，守著担，伏在山凹之间，也不敢睁眼，不敢擡头，口里不住的念佛许愿；又不知行者胜负何如，师父死活何如。正在那疑思之时，却早风定天晴。忽擡头往那洞门前看处，却也不见兵戈，不闻锣鼓。呆子又不敢上他门，又没人看守马匹、行李，果是进退两难，怆惶不已。忧虑间，只听得孙大圣从西边吆喝而来，他才欠身迎著道：「哥哥，好大风啊！你从那里走来？」行者摆手道：「利害，利害！我老孙自为人，不曾见这大风。那老妖使一柄三股钢叉，来与老孙交战。战到有三十余合，是老孙使一个『身外身』的本事。把他围打，他甚著急，故弄出这阵风来。果是凶恶，刮得我站立不住，收了本事，冒风而逃。──哏，好风！哏，好风！老孙也会呼风，也会唤雨，不曾似这个妖精的风恶。」
逐句解 Line by line
We tell now how Zhu Bajie, seeing the yellow wind rise and heaven and earth go dark, held the horse, guarded the luggage-pole, and crouched down in a hollow of the hills,
牽著馬，守著擔 — both 著 are zhe, states maintained. 擔 reads dàn, the noun: the carrying-pole with its two loads, which is Bajie's office in this company.
not daring to open his eyes, not daring to lift his head, muttering the Buddha's name and making vows under his breath;
不住的念佛許願: to recite the Buddha's name without pause and to promise offerings. The ； is the author's, dividing what Bajie does from what he does not know.
nor did he know how the Pilgrim fared, whether he won or lost, or whether his master were alive or dead.
The doubled 何如 is a rhetorical figure of the storyteller — two unanswerable questions in the same shape. Bajie's cowardice is here indistinguishable from his loyalty, which is the joke the novel keeps making about him.
Just as he was at this anxious reckoning, the wind fell of a sudden and the sky cleared. He raised his head and looked toward the cave gate, but there was no glint of weapons there, and no sound of gong or drum.
看處 takes 處 as chù, the nominalising "place, point": "at the looking." 兵戈 and 鑼鼓 are the two sensory signs of a battle, and both are absent — the silence is what frightens him.
The Idiot dared not go up to the door; nor was there anyone to keep the horse and the baggage. It was hard to go forward and hard to go back, and he was in a wretched fright.
獃子, "the Idiot," is the narrator's name for Bajie, 子 a toneless suffix. 進退兩難 — the four-graph idiom is exact: both advancing and retreating are hard. 愴惶 is a literary word for panic, oddly grand for the occasion.
In the midst of his worrying he heard the Great Sage come hallooing from the west, and he rose to meet him, saying, "Brother! What a great wind that was!
吆喝: 喝 takes hè, "to shout," not the hē of drinking. 迎著道 — 著 is zhe, a directed motion sustained (compare 迎著風, ch18), not the resultative zháo.
Where have you come from?" The Pilgrim waved his hands. "Terrible, terrible!
你從那裡走來 takes 那 as interrogative nǎ: "from where?" Contrast the nineteen demonstrative nà of this batch. The doubled 利害 is the Pilgrim's highest praise of an enemy.
In all my time as a living being I never saw such a wind. That old fiend took up a three-pronged steel trident and came to fight with me.
自為人 — 為 is wéi, the copular verb: "since I became a being." The Pilgrim is careful not to say "a man." 一柄: 柄 is third tone, so 一 takes yì.
We had fought some thirty-odd bouts when I used old Monkey's trick of the body-beyond-the-body. We had him ringed and beaten, and he grew so desperate that he raised this wind.
他甚著急: 甚 is shèn ("very"), and 著急 takes 著 as zháo — a state arrived at, not one maintained. Both readings sit within four graphs of each other and both are corrections.
It was truly ferocious. It scoured me until I could not keep my feet, so I gathered in my art and fled before it.
刮得 takes the resultative de. 冒風而逃: the Pilgrim says plainly that he ran, which he almost never does.
— Hen! What a wind! Hen! What a wind! Old Monkey can call up winds himself, and rains as well, and never a wind of mine was as ill as that fiend's."
哏 (gén) is a grunt of disgust, the ch19 fix. The doubled exclamation is rare in narrative prose and marks the Pilgrim still rattled. His last clause is the chapter's hinge: he is a wind-caller himself, and this wind is beyond him.
This long paragraph is the first in the novel to be divided between two passages of this edition; the cut falls where the Pilgrim finishes his account of the wind and Bajie opens a new subject. The division is editorial and is noted in both halves.
Bajie in a hole in the ground, eyes shut, promising things to the Buddha, is the pilgrimage seen from below. He is not brave; but he does hold the horse and the luggage through a wind that flattened Mount Potalaka, and he asks after his master before he asks after himself. The novel gives him his cowardice and his fidelity in the same clause, and never separates them.