Upholding the Law, they journey west; the road runs long and far;
the autumn wind sighs cold, shaking down its frost-white flowers.
The wayward ape is chained fast — loose not the rope;
the unruly horse, tightly reined — lay on no whip.
Wood Mother and Metal Squire were, from the first, conjoined;
Yellow Dame and Cinnabar Child, at root, without discord.
Bite through the iron pellet — the true tidings within;
Prajnā-pāramitā bears you home to that far shore.
This chapter, in sum, tells how the way of fetching the scriptures departs not from the way of tending, within one’s own body, to the root.
Now, the master and his three disciples, having fully awakened to Suchness and suddenly loosed the dusty locks, leapt free of the sea of nature and the Flowing-Sands, and — wholly unencumbered — struck straight onto the great road, coming west. They passed through green hills and jade streams beyond number, gazing on wild grasses and idle blossoms without end. Truly, time sped swiftly on; once more it was deep autumn — and they beheld this scene:
Maple leaves fill the hills with red; the yellow chrysanthemum braves the evening wind.
The aged cicada’s drone grows languid; the grieving cricket’s brooding knows no end.
The lotus, tattered, is a fan of green silk torn; the oranges, fragrant, a cluster of golden pellets.
How touching — the wild geese in their several rows, dot upon dot, ranging far across the empty sky.
Just as they were pressing on, before they knew it evening had fallen. Sanzang said, “Disciples, the sky darkens once again — where are we to go and rest?”
Pilgrim said, “Master, you speak amiss. One who has left the household feeds on the wind and lodges by the water, sleeps beneath the moon and beds down in the frost — everywhere is home. Why, then, ask where we shall lodge?”
Zhu Bajie said, “Brother — do you know how light your own travelling is? What do you care for another’s weary burden? Ever since we crossed the Flowing-Sands River, all this while it has been climbing mountains and crossing ridges, my body shouldering the heavy load — hard, so hard to bear! We really must find a household: first, to beg a little tea and rice; second, to restore our spirits — that would be the sensible course.”
Pilgrim said, “Idiot! Talk like this sounds like a grumbling, resentful heart. Still hankering after the idle ease of Gao Village — shirking effort, seeking no blessing — that, I fear, will not do. Now that you are a monk who holds to the right, you must eat bitterness and bear hardship — only so do you make a true disciple!”
Zhu Bajie said, “Brother, just see how heavy this load of baggage is!”
Pilgrim said, “Brother, ever since you and Sha came along, I have not once carried it — how should I know its weight?”
Zhu Bajie said, “Brother, just tally it up, will you:
Four strips of yellow rattan-splint; eight ropes, of differing length;
and, to guard against the drizzling rain, a felt wrapper of three or four plies;
the flat carrying-pole, forever apt to slip, has nails driven in at either end;
a nine-ringed staff, copper-inlaid and iron-forged; and a great rain-cape, bound round with bamboo-thread and rattan.
With so much baggage as this, it is hard on old Pig to shoulder it alone, day after day — while you get to be the master’s disciple, and make me your hired hand!”
Pilgrim laughed and said, “Idiot — who are you talking to?”
Zhu Bajie said, “To you, brother.”
Pilgrim said, “Then you have the wrong man. Old Monkey attends only to the master’s welfare; you and Sha are in sole charge of the baggage and the horse. And should you slack even a little, it’s a round of the stout cudgel across your shins to start with!”
Zhu Bajie said, “Brother, don’t talk of beatings — to beat is simply to bully by brute force. I know your lordly temper is proud — you’ll surely not stoop to carry it. But the master’s mount — so tall and stout and sleek — carries only the one old monk; to have it bear a few pieces would be no more than brotherly feeling.”
Pilgrim said, “You call him a horse, but he is no common horse. He was in truth the son of Ao Run, Dragon King of the Western Sea, and went by the name Dragon-Horse, the Third Prince. Only because he set fire to the hall and burned the luminous pearl there, his own father charged him with unfilial revolt; having broken the statutes of Heaven, he owed his very life to the mercy of the Bodhisattva Guanyin, who delivered him. There at the Eagle’s-Sorrow Steep-Gorge he waited long for the Master; and by good fortune the Bodhisattva came in person, stripped him of his scales, drew off his horns, plucked the pearl from beneath his throat, and only then made him into this horse — willing to bear the Master westward to worship the Buddha. All this is each one’s own store of merit — do not measure yourself against him.”
Sha Monk, hearing this, said, “Elder brother — is he truly a dragon?”
“A dragon,” said Pilgrim.
Bajie said, “Brother, I have heard the ancients say: a dragon can spew cloud and belch fog, scatter earth and fling up sand; it has the craft to cleave hills and split ridges, the power to overturn rivers and churn seas. How is it that today he plods along at such a crawl?”
Pilgrim said, “You want him to go fast? I’ll make him go fast for you to see.”
What a Great Sage! — with a single clench of the gold-banded cudgel, a myriad shafts of colored cloud sprang forth. The horse, seeing the cudgel raised and fearing a blow, took fright — its four hooves swift as flying lightning — and went whistling off at a gallop. The Master, his hands gone weak, could not rein him in and let the beast have its wilful head; up the mountain scarp it bolted, and only then eased to a heavy, plodding stride.
When the Master’s panting had at last settled, he raised his head and saw far off a cluster of pine-shade, within which stood several buildings, truly grand and imposing. Behold:
The gate hung with kingfisher cypress; the homestead nestled by green hills.
A few pines, soft and swaying; several bamboo-stalks, dappled and mottled.
By the hedge, wild chrysanthemums glow, frost-touched and bright; at the bridge, secluded orchids mirror crimson in the stream.
Whitewashed walls of daubed clay; an encircling enclosure of laid brick.
The high hall, how splendid and grand; the great mansion, how serene and still.
No ox or sheep in sight, no cock or hound; it must be that, the autumn harvest gathered, the farm-work lies at rest.
The Master, just then reining in to gaze about him at leisure, saw that Wukong and his brothers had only now caught up. Wujing said, “Master — you weren’t thrown from the horse, were you?”
The elder scolded: “That wretch of an ape, Wukong — he spooked the horse! It was lucky I could still keep my seat.”
Pilgrim, with an ingratiating smile, said, “Don’t scold me, Master — it was all Zhu Bajie, saying the horse went too slow, so I had him quicken his pace.”
The blockhead, from chasing the horse, had hurried a touch too hard; wheezing and puffing, he grumbled and muttered under his breath: “That’s torn it, that’s torn it — look, my belly hangs slack and my girdle’s come loose. The load is heavy, I can’t shoulder it up, and now you’ve set me racing back and forth after the horse besides!”
The elder said, “Disciples — just look, over yonder there’s a farmstead. We might well go and beg a night’s lodging there.”
Pilgrim, hearing this, quickly lifted his head and looked: sure enough, high in the air auspicious clouds hung and gathered, propitious vapors veiled the sky. He knew at once it must be a conjuration of buddhas and immortals; yet, not daring to divulge the secret of Heaven, he only said, “Good, good, good — let’s go and lodge there.”
The elder hastily dismounted. He saw a gate-tower, its brackets wrought as drooping lotus and elephant-trunk, its ridge-beams painted and its rafters carved. Sha Monk set down the load and Bajie led the horse, saying, “This household — it’s an exceedingly wealthy and well-stocked one.”
Pilgrim made to go straight in, but Tripitaka said, “You mustn’t. We are men who have left the household life; each of us must keep clear of any cause for suspicion. On no account barge in uninvited. Better wait until someone comes out, and then ask for lodging with due courtesy — that will do.”
Bajie tethered the horse and lounged aslant against the foot of the wall; Tripitaka sat upon the stone drum-block; Wukong and Sha Monk sat at the edge of the terrace-plinth. When no one came out for a long while, Wukong — impatient by nature — sprang up and went in through the gate to look, and found a great south-facing hall of three bays, its blinds and lattices hung high. On the screen-door hung a horizontal scroll-painting of “Longevity Mountains and Seas of Blessing”; and on the gilt-lacquered pillars to either side was pasted a spring-couplet on great red paper, which read: “Silk threads drift from the frail willow — dusk on the level bridge; snow dots the fragrant plum — springtime in the little court.” In the very center stood an incense-table of dull-finished black lacquer, and upon it sat an ancient bronze censer in the form of a beast. Above stood six folding armchairs, and on the side walls to either end hung four hanging-panels of the four seasons.
Just as Pilgrim was peering about, all at once he heard the sound of footsteps within the rear door, and out came a woman neither quite old nor quite young, who asked in a coy, lilting voice: “Who is this that barges uninvited into a widow’s house?”
Flustered, the Great Sage bowed with a rapid murmur of assent and said: “This humble monk comes from the Great Tang in the Land of the East, sent by imperial decree toward the Western Region to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Our party of four, passing through your precious district as the sky grows dark, has hastened expressly to your reverend and charitable dwelling to beg one night’s shelter.”
The woman, greeting him with a smiling word, said: “Elder — and where are the other three? Do bring them in.”
Pilgrim called out loudly, “Master — do come in, now!”
Only then did Tripitaka, with Bajie and Sha Monk, lead the horse and shoulder the load and go in; and there was the woman coming out of the hall to receive them. Bajie, with languid, half-lidded eyes, stole a look — and how, you ask, was she got up?
She wore a jacket of brocade in officer’s-green ramie-silk, over it a vest of pale rose thrown on top;
she had bound about her a goose-yellow brocade skirt, tricked out with colored knots, beneath which peeped high-soled embroidered shoes.
Her fashionable chignon was veiled in black gauze, set off against coiling dragon-twists of two-toned hair;
a palace-style ivory comb glinted vermilion and kingfisher-blue, and slantwise she had pinned two braided golden hairpins.
Her cloud-like tresses, half turned gray, swept up like phoenix-wings; from her ears hung a paired descent of ranked precious pearls.
Though she wore neither rouge nor powder, she was lovely still; in charm she yet resembled one in the bloom of youth.
When the woman had seen his three companions, she was the more delighted, and with all courtesy invited them into the hall. One by one they exchanged greetings, and when the courtesies were done she asked each to take his seat and sip tea. From behind the screen there suddenly appeared a serving-girl with looped side-buns and dangling tresses, bearing a golden tray and white-jade cups; the fragrant tea breathed a warm vapor, and rare fruits gave off a delicate scent. The girl swept back her colored sleeves — her fingers slender as spring bamboo-shoots — raised the jade cups, and passed the tea up in offering. To each of them in turn she made her bows. The tea over, the woman gave orders besides to prepare a vegetarian meal.
Tripitaka, raising his folded hands, said, “Aged bodhisattva — your honored surname? And what is the name of this fine place?”
The woman said, “This region is a land of the Western Continent of Cattle-Gift. This poor widow’s maiden family is surnamed Jia, and her husband’s family surnamed Mo. In my youth, by misfortune, my father- and mother-in-law died early, and my husband and I kept and carried on the ancestral estate. We had family wealth by the myriad strings of cash, and good fields by the thousand qǐng. In our fate as man and wife there was no son; we bore only three girls. The year before last, in great misfortune, I lost my husband as well. I have kept my widowhood, and this year my mourning is fulfilled. There is left behind, to no purpose, all this land and estate, with no kin or relative besides — only we, mother and daughters, to take it in charge. I would marry out to another, yet I cannot bear to give up the estate. Now that the elder has graced us with his coming — you being, I suppose, a master and three disciples, four in all, and we a mother with daughters, likewise four — I have a mind to keep the estate and take in husbands: the four of you would suit exactly. I do not know whether your honored wishes would consent, or how you would have it.”
Tripitaka, hearing this, played deaf and feigned dumb; he closed his eyes and stilled his heart, and sat wordless, making no reply.
The woman said, “In my house there are over three hundred qǐng of paddy-field, over three hundred of dry-field, over three hundred of hill-orchard; more than a thousand head of yellow water-buffalo, mules and horses in droves, pigs and sheep past counting; to the four quarters, farmsteads, walled granges, and pasture, sixty or seventy holdings in all. In the house there is grain enough for eight or nine years’ unused eating, silk and damask for ten years’ unworn wearing, gold and silver for a lifetime’s unspent using — better by far than a brocade-curtained hoard of springtime; and as for two mere rows of golden hairpins, they are not worth the mention. If you, master and disciples, would but turn your hearts and change your minds, and be taken as husbands into my humble house — free and at ease, enjoying wealth and honor — would that not be far better than toiling westward?”
But Tripitaka only sat as if witless, as if dull, silent and saying not a word.
The woman said, “I was born in the dīng-hài year, on the third day of the third month, in the hour of yǒu; my late husband was three years my senior, and I am this year forty-five. My eldest girl is named Zhenzhen, this year twenty; the second is named Aiai, this year eighteen; the third little one is named Lianlian, this year sixteen — and none is yet betrothed to any family. Homely though I am, my girls are lucky enough to have some measure of good looks, and in women’s work — needle and thread — there is nothing they cannot do. Because my late husband had no son, I raised them as though they were sons; in their childhood I even had them read some Confucian books, and they all know a little of chanting verse and matching couplets. Though we dwell in a mountain manor, we are not of the utterly coarse and vulgar sort; I should think we might well be a match for you gentlemen elders. If you would but open your hearts, grow out your hair and keep a full head of it, and become masters of my house — wearing damask and silk brocade — it would be far better than begging-bowl and black robe, straw sandals and rain-hat.”
Tripitaka sat above them, for all the world like a child startled by thunder, like a toad in a downpour: only stiff and staring, rolling up the whites of his eyes and tipping backward.
Now Bajie, hearing of such wealth and such beauty, felt an itch he could not scratch; seated on that chair, he was as if a needle jabbed his backside, squirming left and right, unable to hold still. He stepped forward, gave the Master a tug, and said, “Master — this good lady is telling you her mind; why do you keep pretending not to hear? Surely you ought at least to give her some answer.”
The Master jerked up his head, gave a sharp “Tut!”, and rebuffed Bajie with a shout: “You accursed beast! We are men who have left the household life. How should wealth and rank move our hearts, or fair looks hold our thoughts? What sort of principle would that amount to?”
The woman said with a laugh, “A pity, a pity. What good is there in leaving the household life?”
Tripitaka said, “Lady bodhisattva — and you who remain in the household, what good is there in that?”
The woman said, “Elder, pray be seated, and let me tell you the good of the householder’s life. How is this to be shown? There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:
In spring she cuts fāngshèng ornaments and dons fresh gauze-silk; in summer changes to light silk and delights in the green lotus;
in autumn there is new-brewed fragrant glutinous wine; and when winter comes, in a warm chamber the flushed face grows drunk.
In the four seasons every kind of enjoyment is at hand; at the eight festivals each rare delicacy abounds.
Brocade-lined and damask-spread, on the night of the flowered candles — far better than trudging on foot to bow before Amitābha.”
Tripitaka said, “Lady bodhisattva — you who remain in the household enjoy splendor and receive wealth; you have what to wear and what to eat, with sons and daughters gathered round: that is fine indeed. But you cannot know that we who have left the household have our own portion of good besides. How is this to be shown? There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:
To leave the household and fix one’s resolve is no common thing; it topples the hall of bygone love and fondness.
External things breed no idle wagging tongues; within the body there is of itself a fine yin and yang.
Merit completed and conduct fulfilled, one attends court at the golden portal; seeing the nature and clarifying the mind, one returns to the native home.
Far better than staying home, greedy for bloody fare, and in old age sinking into the stinking bag of skin.”
The woman, hearing this, flew into a rage: “This insolent monk has no manners! Were it not that I regard you as come from far, from the Land of the East, I ought to have you driven out with a shout. Here am I, in all sincerity of heart, wishing to make over my family fortune and take you in as husbands — and you, on the contrary, wound me with your words. Even supposing you have taken the precepts and made your vow never to return to the lay world — surely, of the men under you, my house might yet recruit one. Why must you cleave so stiffly to the rule?”
Tripitaka, seeing her wrath, could only turn all humble and placating, and called out, “Wukong — you stay here.”
Pilgrim said, “From a child I never knew how to do that sort of thing — let Bajie stay here.”
Bajie said, “Brother — don’t go planting it on someone else! Let us all think it over at leisure.”
Tripitaka said, “If you two are unwilling, then let Wujing stay here.”
Sha Monk said, “Just listen to what the Master says! Your disciple, moved by the Bodhisattva’s exhortation, took the precepts and the discipline, and waited upon the Master. Since the Master took me in and further instructed me — following the Master not yet two months, having not gained even half a measure of merit — how should I dare covet such wealth? I would sooner die than not go on to the Western Heaven; never will I do this conscience-betraying thing.”
The woman, seeing them decline and refuse, sharply drew back, turned in behind the screen, and with a bang shut the side-door. Master and disciples were left cast out in front, with neither tea nor food, and no one came out again.
Bajie, fretting in his heart, grumbled at the Tang Monk: “Master, you’re far too clumsy at handling things — you’ve said it all clean dead. You’d have done better to leave yourself some room to maneuver — just answer vaguely, coax a little vegetarian fare out of her to eat, and win a night’s comfort this evening. As for whether we’d consent tomorrow or not — that would rest with you and me. But shut in like this behind a closed door, with our cold ashes and chill stove — how are we to pass the night?”
Wujing said, “Second brother — you be the son-in-law in her house.”
Bajie said, “Brother, don’t go foisting it on me — let’s weigh it at leisure.”
Pilgrim said, “Weigh what? If you’re willing, we’ll just have the Master and the woman become in-laws, and you become a married-in son-in-law. A house so rich in wealth and treasure will surely furnish a dowry besides, and lay on a wedding-feast; we too would come in for some good cheer, and you would return to lay life here — would that not be a thing perfect on both sides?”
Bajie said, “That’s all very well to say — only, having left the world and then returned to it, I’d be keeping one wife and taking another.”
Sha Monk said, “So second brother has a sister-in-law after all?”
Pilgrim said, “You still don’t know about him. He was originally the son-in-law of Squire Gao of the Gao Family Village, in Ulterior Tibet, until old Monkey subdued him. He too had once received the Bodhisattva’s precepts and discipline; there being no help for it, I seized him and made a monk of him, so that he forsook his former wife and joined the Master to go west and worship the Buddha. He must be that, parted so long, he has thought again of that old business; and hearing of this business just now, he has surely conceived the same intent afresh. Blockhead, go be this family’s son-in-law then — only make old Monkey a few extra bows, and I won’t report you, and there’s an end of it.”
The blockhead said, “Nonsense, nonsense! Everyone has the same mind — yet you single out old Pig to make a fool of. As the common saying has it: ‘A monk is a hungry ghost amid lust.’ Which of them doesn’t want it so? You all put on such simpering, coy airs that you’ve torn the good thing clean apart — so that now not even tea-water is to be seen, and no one tends the lamps. Even if we get through tonight, tomorrow that horse must carry a rider again and travel the road; and if it goes hungry another night, it will be fit only to be skinned. You sit here — old Pig will go and graze the horse a while.”
The blockhead, in a blundering rush, undid the tether and led the horse out. Pilgrim said, “Wujing, you keep the Master company here a while; let old Monkey follow him and see where he goes to graze the horse.”
Tripitaka said, “Wukong, if you go to watch him, then watch — only don’t keep mocking him so.”
Pilgrim said, “I know.”
The Great Sage walked out of the hall, gave his body a shake and a change, turned into a red dragonfly, flew out the front gate, and caught up with Bajie.
The blockhead led the horse along, and where there was grass would not let it graze, but with clicks and hisses drove it on, rounding to the back gate. There he saw the woman, with her three girls, standing idly outside the back gate, amusing themselves looking at the chrysanthemums. When the mother and daughters saw Bajie coming, the three girls slipped inside. The woman, standing at the gate, said, “Little elder — where are you off to?”
The blockhead dropped the halter-rope, stepped up with a bow of greeting, and said, “Ma’am — I’ve come to graze the horse.”
The woman said, “Your master is far too clever by half. To be taken as a son-in-law in my house — would that not be better than being a vagrant monk, tramping the road westward?”
Bajie said with a laugh, “They are under the Tang king’s command, and dare not disobey the sovereign’s order; they won’t do this thing. Just now, out in the front hall, they were all pinning it on me; and being one to defer to those above and mind those below, I only feared, ma’am, that you might mislike my long snout and big ears.”
The woman said, “I’ve no objection myself; it is only that the house has no master, so taking one in would do well enough — but I fear my girls may find you ill-favored.”
Bajie said, “Ma’am, tell your worthy daughters not to be so choosy about a man. Take that Tang Monk of ours — handsome enough in looks, but in truth good for nothing. Ugly I may be, but I have a few lines of doggerel to say.”
The woman said, “And how does it go?”
Bajie said: “I —
Ugly of person though I be, at diligent toil I have some skill.
If it be a thousand qǐng of land, no need to set an ox to plough.
It needs but a single stroke of my rake, and the sown seed sprouts in its season.
In drought I can pray down rain; in stillness I can summon wind.
Should the house be thought too low, I’ll raise it up two storeys or three.
If the floor’s unswept, I’ll give it a sweep; if the drain’s blocked, I’ll give it a clearing.
The long and short of household matters, every kind of thing — from kicking heaven to fiddling with wells, I can do it all.”
The woman said, “Since you can manage the housework, go and talk it over once more with your master; if there’s no awkwardness in it, I’ll take you in.”
Bajie said, “No need to talk it over — he is not my own natural parent; whether I do it or not rests with me alone.”
The woman said, “Well then, well then — let me speak with my girls.” He watched her slip inside and, with a bang, pull the back gate shut.
Bajie, not grazing the horse at all, took the horse and led it back to the front. Little did he know the Great Sage had learned it all, point by point; wheeling on his wings, Monkey flew back, resumed his true form, and going first to the Tang Monk said, “Master, Wuneng is bringing the horse.”
The elder said, “If the horse weren’t led, I feared it might frisk off.”
Pilgrim burst out laughing, and told over from the beginning the whole business between the woman and Bajie; Tripitaka listened as if half believing, half not.
In a little while, they saw the blockhead lead the horse up and tie it. The elder said, “Have you grazed the horse?”
Bajie said, “There was no good grass, no place to graze the horse.”
Pilgrim said, “No place to graze the horse — but was there a place to lead it?”
The blockhead, hearing these words, knew the secret was out, and hung his head, twisted his neck, thrust out his snout and knit his brows, saying nothing for a good while.
Then, at a creaking sound, the side-door opened: with two pairs of red lanterns and a hand-censer borne before them, clouds of incense wreathing, girdle-pendants tinkling, the woman came out leading her three daughters — Zhenzhen, Aiai, and Lianlian by name — to make their bows before the scripture-seekers. The young women ranged themselves in the hall and, facing forward, made their reverence. They were indeed born comely; behold them:
Each with moth-brows arched in kingfisher-green, powdered faces breathing spring.
Bewitching, a nation-toppling beauty; graceful, they stir the heart.
Flowered hair-ornaments show their many charms; embroidered sashes flutter, far beyond the dust of the world.
Where the half-held smile breaks, cherry-lips part; as they step slowly, orchid and musk waft forth.
Their heads heaped with pearls and kingfisher-jade, a-tremble with countless jeweled hairpins;
their whole persons subtly fragrant, delicately lovely, with fine gold thread worked in flowers.
Why speak of the Chu maidens’ beauty, or Xi Shi’s alluring face?
Truly they are as fairy maidens of the Ninth Heaven come down from the sky, or the Moon’s Chang’e stepping forth from the Cold Palace.
Tripitaka pressed his palms together and bowed his head; the Great Sage feigned utter indifference; and Sha Monk turned his back and faced away. But look at Zhu Bajie — his eyes never stirred from them; lust threw his heart into disorder, desire ran unbridled and bold, and mincing out a whisper he murmured low, “Much trouble it is for the fairy maidens to descend. Ma’am — do have the sisters go in.”
The three young women turned in behind the screen, leaving a pair of gauze lanterns behind. The woman said, “Would you four elders be so minded — which of you will you have wed my daughters?”
Wujing said, “We have already talked it over: let the one surnamed Zhu be taken in as your son-in-law.”
Bajie said, “Brother, don’t pin it on me — let’s still reckon it by common consent.”
Pilgrim said, “What is there still to reckon? You’ve already settled it all snug and tidy at the back gate, and called her ‘Ma’am’ into the bargain — what is there left to deliberate? The Master shall be father of the groom, this good dame mother of the bride; let old Monkey stand as sponsor, and Sha Monk as go-between. No need even to consult the almanac — today is a Heaven-favored, most auspicious day; come, bow to your master, and go in to be the son-in-law.”
Bajie said, “It won’t do, it won’t do — how could one properly do such a thing?”
Pilgrim said, “Blockhead, don’t bluster — your mouth has called her ‘Ma’am’ who knows how many times already; what do you mean, ‘it won’t do’? Hurry up and say yes — and stand us some wedding-wine into the bargain; that would be no bad thing.”
With one hand he gripped Bajie, with the other he seized the woman, and said, “Mother-in-law, take your son-in-law inside.” The blockhead, his feet shuffling and reluctant, made as if to go along.
The woman at once called the serving-lads: “Wipe down the tables and chairs, set out the evening meal, and attend to our three wedding-guests. I will take our son-in-law off to his room.” On the other side she gave orders besides to the cooks to lay on a banquet, for the marriage-gathering next morning. The several serving-lads received their orders and withdrew. The three of them ate their meal, hastily made up their beds, and all settled to rest in the guest-quarters — of which no more.
Now Bajie, following his mother-in-law, walked on inside — chamber upon chamber, past counting how many — stumbling and knocking along, with door-sills everywhere to trip his feet. The blockhead said, “Ma’am, go a little slower — I don’t know the way in here; give me a little guiding.”
The woman said, “These are all granaries, storerooms, and milling-rooms — the various outbuildings; we’ve not yet even reached the kitchen quarter.”
Bajie said, “What a great house!”
Bumping and knocking, round bends and past corners, they walked on a good while more before reaching the inner-hall apartments. The woman said, “Son-in-law, your elder brother says today is a Heaven-favored, auspicious day, so we’ve had you married in at once. Only, in the haste, we’ve not managed to summon a yin-yang master for the hall-bowing and the bed-strewing rites. You may just face forward and make eight bows.”
Bajie said, “What you say is right, ma’am. You take the seat of honor; let me make a few bows — count it as the hall-bowing, count it as the thanks to the in-laws, two things in one — is that not a saving of trouble?”
His mother-in-law said with a laugh, “Well then, well then. A trouble-saving, house-managing son-in-law indeed. I’ll sit, then; you make your bows.”
Ah! The hall was ablaze with silver candles as the blockhead, facing forward, made his bows. His bows done, he said, “Ma’am, which of the sisters will you match with me?”
His mother-in-law said, “That is just the difficulty: were I to match you with the eldest, I fear the second would resent it; the second, and the third would resent it; the third, and the eldest would resent it — so I remain in doubt, undecided.”
Bajie said, “Ma’am, if you fear their quarreling, give them all to me — that would spare the squabbling and the upsetting of house-rules.”
His mother-in-law said, “The very idea! You alone would take all three of my daughters? It cannot be!”
Bajie said, “Listen to what you say, ma’am — who doesn’t keep three chambers and four concubines? Even a few more, and your son-in-law would gladly take them in. In my young days I once learned an art of hard campaigning; I warrant I could serve each of them to her full content.”
The woman said, “That won’t do, that won’t do. I have here a kerchief: put it on your head to cover your face, and chance a heaven-made match — I’ll have my daughters walk past before you, and whichever one you reach out and catch, that one I’ll match with you.”
The blockhead did as told, took the kerchief, and put it on his head. There is a verse to prove it. The verse says:
Foolish and dull, he knows not the root of the matter; the sword of lust wounds the body, and in secret undoes him.
From of old there have truly been the rites of the Duke of Zhou; today the bridegroom dons the veil upon his head.
The blockhead, his head-wrapping all in order, said, “Ma’am, do have the sisters come out.”
His mother-in-law called, “Zhenzhen, Aiai, Lianlian — come, all of you, to the heaven-made match, to be wed to your son-in-law.”
One heard only the ringing of girdle-jades and the fragrance of orchid and musk, as if fairy maidens were passing to and fro. The blockhead indeed reached out his hands to grab someone, flailing to both sides — left, he caught nothing; right, he caught nothing. To and fro they went; no telling how many young women were moving about, yet he could not hope to catch even one. Lunging east, he ended embracing a pillar; lunging west, he came up feeling the plank wall. Dashing both ways till his head spun, he could not keep his feet, and did nothing but tumble. Forward he kicked against the door-leaf, back he ran up against the brick wall; bumping and knocking, he fell till his snout swelled and his head was bruised, and sat down on the ground. Panting hard, he said, “Ma’am — your daughters are so very nimble; I can’t catch a single one. What’s to be done, what’s to be done?”
The woman lifted the veil from him and said, “Son-in-law, it is not that my daughters are slippery — they are all yielding to one another, and none will take you.”
Bajie said, “Ma’am — if none of them will take me, then you take me yourself.”
The woman said, “A fine son-in-law indeed! So without regard for age or rank — you’d have even your mother-in-law? These three daughters of mine are most deft of hand; each has worked a pearl-inlaid brocade undershirt. Whichever one’s you can put on, that one I’ll have take you.”
Bajie said, “Good, good, good — bring all three and let me try them on; if I can wear them all, then have them all take me.”
The woman turned into the room, brought out only one, and handed it to Bajie. The blockhead stripped off his dark brocade cassock, took the shirt, and put it on his body. Before he had even tied the sash, with a lurch he pitched over and fell to the ground. It turned out to be several ropes, binding him fast. The blockhead, unable to bear the pain, found that all these people had already vanished.
Now Tripitaka, Pilgrim Sun, and Sha Monk woke from a night’s sleep, and before they knew it the east was growing pale. Suddenly opening their eyes and raising their heads to look — where was that great mansion and lofty hall? nor any carved beams and painted rafters; one and all, they lay asleep in a grove of pine and cypress. So alarmed was the elder that he hastily called for Pilgrim.
Sha Monk said, “Brother — it’s all over, all over; we’ve run into ghosts.”
The Great Sage Sun, clear in his heart, smiled faintly and said, “What do you mean?”
The elder said, “Look — where are we sleeping?”
Pilgrim said, “Under these pines we’ve slept snug enough. Only there’s no knowing where that blockhead is suffering for it.”
The elder said, “Who is suffering?”
Pilgrim laughed, “Yesterday’s household of mother and daughters — who knows what bodhisattvas they were — appeared here to try us, and must have departed at midnight, leaving only poor Zhu Bajie to suffer for it.”
Hearing this, Tripitaka pressed his palms together and bowed his head in reverence. Then they saw, on an old cypress tree behind them, a slip of paper hanging and fluttering in the breeze. Sha Monk hurried to fetch it for the master to read, and it proved to be an eight-line gatha, which ran:
The Old Mother of Mount Li had no yearning for the mundane; the Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea invited her down the mountain.
Samantabhadra and Manjusri were both the guests; they took the form of fair maidens amid the grove.
The holy monk, being virtuous, was yet free of the worldly; Bajie, lacking Chan, was the more full of the mundane.
From now, still your mind and mend your faults; should you grow slack, the road ahead is hard.
As the elder, Pilgrim, and Sha Monk were chanting over this gatha, they heard from deep in the grove a loud voice crying, “Master! I’m bound to death — save me, save me; I’ll never dare again.”
Tripitaka said, “Wukong, is that one calling out Wuneng?”
Sha Monk said, “The very one.”
Pilgrim said, “Brother, pay him no mind — let’s be off.”
Tripitaka said, “That blockhead, foolish and stubborn though he is, is yet honest through and through, and has some strength besides — he can shoulder the loads. And in view of the bodhisattvas’ kindness that day, let us save him and let him follow along; surely he won’t dare so again.”
So Sha Monk rolled up the bedding and gathered the loads; the Great Sage loosed the reins and led the horse, guiding the Tang Monk into the grove to search. Ah! This is just what is meant by:
In following the true path, cultivate with care;
sweep away lust and desire, and of itself the self returns to truth.
After all, there is no knowing whether the blockhead’s fortune was ill or fair — pray hear it told in the next chapter.