Now those three pushed on into the wood, and there they found the blockhead lashed fast to a tree, howling with every breath, his pain past all bearing. Pilgrim stepped up and said with a laugh, “A fine son-in-law you make! This late in the day, and still not risen to thank the bride's people, nor gone to bring Master the glad news — still hanging here putting on your show and playing the fool. Bah! And where is your good matron now? Where is your wife now? A choice bridegroom indeed — bound, strung up, and racked!” The blockhead, seeing him come to jeer, was seized with shame; he ground his teeth and swallowed the pain, not daring to cry out. Sha Monk, at the sight, could bear it no longer; he set down the baggage, stepped up, cut the ropes, and brought him down. The blockhead could only kowtow and bow to them, so unbearable was his disgrace. There is a lyric to the tune “The Moon over the West River” in witness:
Lust is a sword that wounds the flesh; covet it, and calamity is sure to strike.
A fair one of twice-eight years, in comely paint and gown —
yet fiercer by far than any yakṣa fiend.
You hold but one true stock of capital, with not a mite of profit to swell your purse.
Best, then, to guard that fund and keep it close in store,
hold fast to it, and let it not run loose in wanton waste.
That Bājiè scooped up earth for incense and bowed toward the empty sky. Pilgrim said, “Do you know now who those Bodhisattvas were?” Bājiè said, “By then I had swooned away, dazed and reeling, my eyes all in a blur — how should I know who they were?” Pilgrim handed Bājiè that slip of paper. Bājiè saw it was a set of verses, and grew more ashamed still. Sha Monk said with a smile, “So Second Brother has this to his credit — he moved four Bodhisattvas to come and make a match with him!” Bajie said, “Brothers, raise it no more -- I am no fit son of man. From this day on I shall never again run wild. Even should I wear my bones to splinters, I will only rub my shoulders raw beneath the carrying-pole and follow Master to the Western Realm.” Tripiṭaka said, “If you speak so, that is well.” Pilgrim then led Master out onto the high road. When they had travelled a good while, of a sudden a towering mountain barred the way. Tripiṭaka reined in his horse, stayed his whip, and said, “Disciples, a mountain lies ahead — we must go warily, lest demons work mischief and do our company harm.” Pilgrim said with a laugh, “Before your horse stand we three — what demons need you fear?” At this the Elder set his heart at ease and pressed forward. And that mountain — it was a fine mountain indeed:
A soaring peak, sublime; a mighty mass, sheer-ridged.
Its roots joined the veins of Kunlun; its crown brushed the heart of the Milky Way.
White cranes came ever to roost in its cypress and juniper; dark gibbons swung the season round from its trailing vines.
Sunlight lit the clear-standing wood — layer on layer, a thousand strands of red mist wound about;
wind rose from the shadowed ravine — fluttering, ten thousand streams of coloured cloud took flight.
Secret birds cried in confusion within the green bamboo; brocade pheasants vied together among the wild blossoms.
There one saw the Thousand-Year Peak, the Five-Blessings Peak, the Lotus Peak, towering stern and cold, casting a fine radiance;
the Myriad-Ages Stone, the Tiger-Fang Stone, the Three-Heavens Stone, jutting sharp and glittering, breathing an auspicious vapour.
Before the cliffs, fine grasses; on the ridges, fragrant plum.
Bramble and thorn, dense and thick; iris and orchid, pure and pale.
In the deep wood, hawks and phoenixes gathered a thousand fowl; in ancient grottoes, the qilin ruled ten thousand beasts.
The ravine waters ran with feeling — winding, curling, coiling back many times to look again;
the ranged peaks, unbroken — fold on fold, tier on tier, turning back upon themselves.
Again one saw the green locust, the mottled bamboo, the blue-black pine, clinging on through a thousand years, vying in lush splendour;
the white plum, the red peach, the kingfisher willow, glowing bright, contending in the beauty of the three spring months.
Dragons intoned and tigers roared; cranes danced and gibbons cried.
River-deer came forth from the flowers; the blue simurgh sang to the sun.
This was a true blessed ground of the immortals' hills — Penglai and Langyuan were but such as this.
And one saw, too, the flowering and fading that crown the hilltops, the clouds that come and go along the ridges.
Tripiṭaka, on his horse, said with delight, “Disciples, all my way westward I have passed through many hills and streams, and all were jagged, perilous places — none so fair as this mountain's prospect. Its hidden charm is rare indeed. If Thunderclap be near and the road not far, we should make ourselves solemn and seemly to meet the World-Honoured One.” Pilgrim said with a laugh, “Too soon, too soon — we are nowhere near arriving.” Sha Monk said, “Elder Brother, how far are we from Thunderclap?” Pilgrim said, “A hundred and eight thousand lǐ — and of the ten stages we have not yet walked out even one.” Bājiè said, “Brother, how many years must we walk before we get there?” Pilgrim said, “This road — if it were the two worthy brothers walking, ten-odd days might do it; if I were to walk it, I could go fifty circuits in a day and still see daylight; but if Master walks it — no hope, no hope.” Tripiṭaka said, “Wukong, when do you say we may reach it?” Pilgrim said, “Were you to walk from youth to age, and from age to youth again, a thousand times over, it would still be hard; only let your nature be seen and your will sincere, and at each turning-back of the thought — there is the Numinous Mountain.” Sha Monk said, “Elder Brother, though this place be not Thunderclap, from such scenery there must be some worthy soul dwelling here.” Pilgrim said, “Those words are apt. Here there can be no evil sprites — surely this is the home of some holy monk or immortal company. Let us roam and go slowly.” Of this no more.
Now this mountain was named the Mountain of Ten Thousand Years of Life. On the mountain stood a temple, named the Temple of the Five Villages. Within the temple dwelt an Immortal, whose Daoist style was Master Zhenyuan, and whose byname was Lord Coeval-with-the-World. In that temple there grew a strange treasure, born at the very parting of Chaos, the first sundering of the primal murk, before Heaven and Earth were opened — a numinous root brought forth complete. Across the whole world of the Four Great Continents, only the Wǔzhuāng Temple of the Western Continent of Cattle-Gift brought it forth. It was called the Grass-Return Elixir, and also the Ginseng-Fruit. Once in three thousand years it flowered, once in three thousand years it set fruit, and only after three thousand more did the fruit ripen — a bare ten thousand years before it could be eaten. In all these ten thousand years, it bore but thirty fruits. The shape of the fruit was just like a child not yet three days born — the four limbs all present, the five features fully formed. If a person had the karmic affinity and got such a fruit to smell but once, he would live three hundred and sixty years; eat one, and he would live forty-seven thousand years. That day the Great Immortal Zhenyuan received a note from the Primordial Heavenly Worthy, bidding him to the Miluo Palace in the Heaven of Highest Clarity to hear the exposition of the “Fruit of the Undifferentiated Way.” The lesser immortals who had gone forth from the Great Immortal's gate were past all counting; and even now he had eight-and-forty disciples, every one a Perfected One who had attained the Way. That day he took forty-six of them up to the higher realms to hear the lecture, and left the two youngest behind to keep the house — one named Pure-Wind, one named Bright-Moon. Pure-Wind was but one thousand three hundred and twenty years old; Bright-Moon had only just turned one thousand two hundred. Master Zhenyuan charged the two boys, saying, “The Great Heavenly Worthy's summons must not be crossed; I must go to the Miluo Palace to hear the lecture. You two, keep careful watch at home. Before many days an old friend will pass this way — see you do not slight him. You may knock down two of my ginseng-fruits for him to eat, as a token of the regard of former days.”
The two boys said, “Master, who is this old friend? Pray tell your disciples, that we may receive him fittingly.” The Great Immortal said, “He is the holy monk under the Great Tang of the Eastern Land, styled Tripiṭaka — the monk now bound for the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures.” The two boys said with a laugh, “Confucius says: 'Those whose ways differ take no counsel together.' We are of the Mystic Gate of the Great Monad — what acquaintance should we have with that monk?” The Great Immortal said, “How should you know? That monk is the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada, second disciple of the Holy Elder of the West, the Tathāgata Buddha. Five hundred years ago he and I became acquainted at the Ullambana Feast. With his own hand he once served me tea — a son of Buddha, doing me honour; and so he is an old friend indeed.” The two immortal boys, hearing this, reverently obeyed their master's command. As the Great Immortal was about to set out, he charged them yet again: “My fruits are numbered — only two may be given him, no more to be spent.” Pure-Wind said, “When the orchard was opened, the assembly ate two between them; twenty-eight yet remain on the tree. We shall not spend them freely.” The Great Immortal said, “Though Tang Tripiṭaka be an old friend, you must guard against his underlings making a rumpus — do not let them get wind of it.” The two boys received their orders; and the Great Immortal, borne aloft amid his throng of disciples, rose in flight and made straight for the celestial realm.
Now the Tang Monk and his three disciples were roaming the mountain when of a sudden, raising their heads, they saw a cluster of pine and bamboo, and towers rising storey on storey. The Tang Monk said, “Wukong, look — what place is that yonder?” Pilgrim looked and said, “That place — if it is no Daoist abbey, then surely a Buddhist cloister. Let us step along; once there, we shall know the truth of it.” In no long while they came before the gate to look, and saw:
The pine-slope, cool and still; the bamboo path, pure and secluded.
White cranes came and went, escorting the drifting clouds; up and down, gibbons now and again presented fruit.
Before that gate the pool lay broad, the tree-shadows long; the stones were split, the moss-flowers breaking through.
The halls stood ranged in rank on rank, the Purple Pole soaring high; the terraces, dim and remote, where cinnabar cloud came drifting down.
Truly a blessed ground, a numinous domain — a cloud-grotto of Penglai.
In the pure void, the affairs of men grow few; in the stillness, the heart of the Way is born.
The blue bird ever bore the Queen Mother's letters; the purple simurgh often carried Lord Lao's scriptures.
Beyond all seeing was that lofty air of the Way and its Power — a boundless, silent dwelling of the immortals indeed.
Tripiṭaka left his saddle and dismounted, and saw, to the left of the mountain gate, a stone tablet bearing ten great characters: “Blessed Ground of the Mountain of Ten-Thousand Years; Grotto-Heaven of the Temple of the Five Villages.” The Elder said, “Disciples, it is indeed a Daoist abbey.” Sha Monk said, “Master, seeing how bright and fair the place, there must be worthy folk dwelling within. Let us go in and look; and should we return east with our task fulfilled, this too will be a sight worth the seeing.” Pilgrim said, “Well spoken.” So they all went in together, and saw upon the second gate a spring-couplet: “A deathless, ageless mansion of immortals; a Daoist household coeval with Heaven.” Pilgrim said with a laugh, “This Daoist talks big to frighten folk. Five hundred years ago, when I raised my great uproar in Heaven, even at the very gate of the Most-High Lord Lao I never saw talk the like of this.” Bajie said, “Never mind that — in, in! Perhaps this Daoist has some real virtue; who can say?” Coming to the inner gate, they saw two little boys hurry out in haste from within. See now how they were arrayed:
Pure of bone and bright of spirit, faces fair to see; atop, their hair in tufted knots, the short locks tousled free.
Their Daoist robes, as though by nature, wreathed the collar round with mist; their feather-garb, how fittingly, let sleeves stream out on the wind.
Their girdle-cords bound tight in dragon-head knots; their straw sandals lightly wound with silkworm-mouth floss.
Their bearing, past the common run — no vulgar sort were these — the very pair, Pure-Wind and Bright-Moon, the two immortal boys.
The boys, bowing low with rounded backs, came out to receive them: “Venerable Master, forgive our tardy welcome — pray be seated.” The Elder was pleased, and went up with the two boys into the main hall to look about. It proved to be a five-bay great hall facing south, all of carved-flower lattices, bright above and dark below. The immortal boys pushed open the lattice and led the Tang Monk into the hall; and there he saw, hung in the midst of the wall, the two great characters “Heaven-and-Earth,” worked in five colours, with a cinnabar-lacquered incense-table set below, a golden censer-and-vase upon it, and beside the censer sticks of fine incense. The Tang Monk stepped forward, took incense in his left hand and set it in the censer, and made obeisance three times round. His worship done, he turned his head and said, “Immortal boys, your Five-Villages Abbey is truly an immortals' realm of the West. Why do you not make offering to the Three Pure Ones, the Four Sovereigns, and the great officers of the Net-Heaven, but serve incense only to the two words 'Heaven and Earth'?” The boys said with a smile, “To be plain with you, Master — of these two words, the upper one is, in ritual terms, still warranted; but the lower may not even receive our incense. It is a piece of our master's flattery.” Tripiṭaka said, “What do you mean by 'flattery'?” The boys said, “The Three Pure Ones are our master's friends; the Four Sovereigns his old acquaintances; the Nine Luminaries his juniors; the Primal Powers his lesser guests.” Pilgrim, hearing this, laughed till he tumbled over. Bajie said, “Brother, what are you laughing at?” Pilgrim said, “They say Old Sun can play the trickster — but it seems this Daoist lad can bind the wind!” Tripiṭaka said, “Where is your revered master?” The boys said, “Our master, on a summons sent down by the Primordial Heavenly Worthy, has gone to the Miluo Palace in the Heaven of Highest Clarity to hear the exposition of the 'Fruit of the Undifferentiated Way'; he is not at home.” Pilgrim, hearing it, could not hold back and barked out: “This stinking Daoist brat — he doesn't even know who's who, yet plays the trickster to my face and rigs up his hollow scaffolding! Who at that Miluo Palace is any Great-Monad Heaven-Immortal? And who invited this mangy calf's-hoof of yours to go expound anything?”
Seeing his anger, and fearing the boy would answer back and stir up trouble, Tripiṭaka said: “Wukong, let be this quarrel. We have come in, and shall soon go out again; there is no call to lose our courtesy. As the old saying goes: 'An egret eats no egret's flesh.' His master being away, what use is it to make a disturbance of him? You go turn out the horses before the gate; Sha Monk, mind the baggage; have Bajie undo the bundle and take out some rice, and let us borrow their pot and stove to make a meal. When we leave we shall give them a few coppers for the firewood, and that will be that. Each to his own task; let me rest a while here, and we shall be off once the meal is done.” And the three of them went off, each to his task. Bright-Moon and Pure-Wind praised him endlessly to themselves: “A fine monk indeed — truly a beloved sage of the West come down to the mortal world, his primal spirit undimmed. Our master bade us receive the Tang Monk and give him the ginseng-fruit to eat, in token of old friendship — and also warned us to guard against his underlings making a rumpus. Sure enough, those three had savage, unruly faces and coarse tempers. Happily we have just drawn them off; had they been at hand, would the ginseng-fruit ever have come to light?” Pure-Wind said, “Brother, we do not yet know whether that monk is truly our master's old friend. Let us put him one question, and be sure we make no mistake.” The two boys stepped up again: “May we ask — are you the Tang Tripiṭaka of the Great Tang, bound west to fetch the scriptures?” The Elder returned the courtesy: “This poor monk is he. How is it, immortal boys, that you know my humble name?” The boys said, “Our master, before he left, charged us disciples to receive you from afar. But your carriage came on so swiftly that we failed to meet you as we ought. Pray be seated, Master, and let your disciples bring tea to serve you.” Tripiṭaka said, “I dare not trouble you.” Bright-Moon hurried to his room, took a cup of fragrant tea, and presented it to the Elder. The tea done, Pure-Wind said, “Brother, we must not disobey our master's command — you and I will go and fetch the fruit.”
The two boys took leave of Tripiṭaka and went together to their room, where one took up the golden striker and one the cinnabar tray; and, laying a green cloth over the bottom of the tray besides, they went straight into the ginseng orchard. Pure-Wind climbed up the tree and struck the fruit with the golden striker. Bright-Moon, below the tree, waited to catch it in the cinnabar tray. In a moment they had knocked down two fruits, caught them in the tray, and went straight to the front hall to present them: “Master Tang, our Five-Villages Abbey lies in a remote spot amid barren hills, and we have nothing to offer. Here are two plain fruits of the place — accept them, we pray, to relieve your thirst.” The Elder, at the sight, fell to trembling and shrank back three chǐ: “Mercy! Mercy! This year the harvest is full and the season ripe — how is it that in this abbey you make a famine and eat people? This is an infant not yet three days old — how should it relieve my thirst?” Pure-Wind said to himself: “This monk, from dwelling in the arena of tongues and the sea of right-and-wrong, has grown fleshly of eye and mortal of frame, and cannot know our immortal household's rare treasure.” Bright-Moon stepped up: “Master, this thing is called the ginseng-fruit; there is no harm in eating one.” Tripiṭaka said, “Nonsense, nonsense! Its father and mother, carrying it in the womb, suffered who knows what pains before ever it was born. Not yet three days old — and how can you take it and treat it as a fruit?” Pure-Wind said, “It truly grew upon a tree.” The Elder said, “Wild talk, wild talk! How could a tree bear a human being? Take it away — it is no fit way to treat a child of man.”
The two boys, seeing him refuse through a thousand pushings and ten-thousand balkings, had no choice but to take up the tray and turn back to their own room. Now the fruit was a curious thing: it could not be kept long — if left too long it would harden and be unfit to eat. The two came to their room, one apiece, and sitting on the edge of the bed, ate them with a will. Ah! It so fell out that things went like this. Their Daoist quarters and the kitchen shared a wall right up against each other, so that soft words spoken on the one side were heard at once on the other. Bajie, at that moment cooking in the kitchen, had earlier heard talk of taking the golden striker and the cinnabar tray, and had marked it well; and now he heard them say that the Tang Monk had not known it for the ginseng-fruit, so they had carried it off to their room to eat themselves. His mouth watering past all restraint, he said, “How am I to get one to taste?” His own body being clumsy and unwieldy, he could not stir to it, and could only wait for Pilgrim to come and scheme with him. Before the stove-mouth he had no more heart for the fire, but kept craning his neck and peering out to look. Before long he saw Pilgrim leading the horse up; he tied it to a locust tree and went straight round to the back. The blockhead beckoned wildly with his hand: “Over here! Over here!” Pilgrim turned and came to the kitchen door: “Blockhead, what are you bawling about? I suppose there's not rice enough — let the old monk eat his fill; we'll beg our meal at some great house on ahead.” Bajie said, “Come in — it's not that the rice is short. There's a treasure in this abbey — do you know of it?” Pilgrim said, “What treasure?” Bajie said with a grin, “Tell you, and you've never seen it; hand it you, and you'd not know it.” Pilgrim said, “This blockhead makes sport of Old Sun. Five hundred years ago, when I went seeking the immortal Way, I roamed to the corners of sea and sky — what have I not seen?” Bajie said, “Brother — have you ever seen a ginseng-fruit?” Pilgrim said, startled, “That I truly have never seen. But I have often heard it said that the ginseng-fruit is the Grass-Return Elixir, and that a man who eats it can greatly lengthen his years. But where is any to be had these days?”
Bajie said, “They have it right here. The boys brought two for Master to eat, but the old monk didn't know it — said it was an infant not three days old, and dared not touch it. And those lazy boys — since Master wouldn't eat, they ought to have offered us; instead they hid it from us, and just now, one apiece in the room next door, gobbled them down, munch-munch, and made off. It set my mouth fair watering. How am I to get one to taste? I reckon you're nimble enough — go into their orchard and filch a few for us to taste. How's that?” Pilgrim said, “Easy enough — Old Sun will go; I'll have them the moment I reach.” He whipped round to be off, but Bajie caught him fast: “Brother — I heard them say in there that you must fetch some golden striker to knock them down. You must manage it neatly, and let no word of it leak out.” Pilgrim said, “I know, I know.” The Great Sage worked a spell of invisibility and slipped into the Daoist quarters to look; but the two boys, having eaten the fruit, had gone up to the hall to talk with the Tang Monk, and were not in the room. Pilgrim looked about him for any golden striker, and saw only, hung on the window-lattice, a rod of red gold some two chǐ long and thick as a finger; its lower end was a knob like a garlic-clove, its upper end pierced with an eye and threaded through with a green silk cord. He said, “This must be the thing they call the golden striker.” He took it down, went out of the Daoist quarters, and made straight for the back; he pushed open a double door, raised his head to look — ah! — it was a flower garden! And this is what he saw:
Vermilion railings, jewelled balustrades; winding stonework, peaks piled like hills.
Rare blossoms vied in beauty with the fair sun; kingfisher bamboo contended in green with the blue sky.
Beyond the Floating-Cup Pavilion, a bend of green willows trailed like mist;
before the Moon-Viewing Terrace, clumps of tall pines stood dark as spilt indigo.
Ruddy and glowing, the brocade-nested pomegranate;
soft and green, the embroidered-cushion grass;
downy and blue-green, the jasper-sand orchid;
and rippling wide, the water along the brook.
Cinnabar cassia set off the golden-well parasol-trees; brocade pagoda-locusts leaned by vermilion rails and jade steps.
There were peaches of a thousand petals, now red, now white; and chrysanthemums of deep autumn, now fragrant, now yellow.
The tumi-rose trellis threw its light against the peony pavilion;
the hibiscus terrace ran on into the peony-herb plot.
Past all seeing were the frost-defying gentleman-bamboo and the snow-scorning grandee-pine.
And there were besides the crane-lodge and the deer-house, square pools and round ponds;
the springs flowed with shattered jade, the ground-blossoms heaped up gold.
The north wind, brushing them open, whitened the plum-blossom; the coming of spring dotted the crabapple red.
Truly this was called the first immortal scene in all the mortal world, the chief flowering-grove of the West.
Pilgrim, looking on without cease, saw yet another gate; pushing it open, he found a vegetable garden:
Planted with the greens of all four seasons — spinach, celery, chard, ginger-shoots and taro;
bamboo-shoots, yams, gourds and calabashes, and water-bamboo; scallions, garlic, coriander, leeks and shallots.
Water-mallow, tong-wormwood, and bitter dock; bottle-gourd and eggplant must be set out too;
turnip and radish buried round like sheep-heads; red amaranth, green pak-choi, purple mustard.
Pilgrim said with a laugh, “So he's a Daoist who plants his own and eats his own.” Passing through the vegetable garden, he came to yet another gate. He pushed it open to look — ah! — there in the very midst stood a great tree, its green boughs richly fragrant, its dark leaves deep-shadowing; the leaves were shaped like a plantain's, and it rose straight up above a thousand chǐ, its trunk seven or eight zhàng round at the root. Pilgrim, leaning below the tree, looked up, and saw on a south-facing branch a single ginseng-fruit peeping out — truly just like a child. Its rump-end, it turned out, bore the little stem; and there it hung nailed to the bough, its hands and feet stirring, its head nodding and rolling, and as the wind passed it seemed almost to make a sound. Pilgrim, delighted past measure, praised it to himself: “What a fine thing! Rare indeed, rare indeed!” Leaning on the tree, with a whoosh he shot up it. Now this monkey was, above all, a first-rate hand at climbing trees to steal fruit. He gave it one rap with the golden striker, and the fruit came tumbling down with a plop. He leapt straight down after it to search — but it was utterly gone; he hunted through the grass on every side, and found not a trace. Pilgrim said, “Strange, strange! Maybe, having feet, it can walk off — but even so it couldn't leap out over the wall. I have it — surely the Earth-God of this flower garden won't let Old Sun steal his fruit, and has taken it away.” So he pinched a magic sign, recited the syllable “Oṃ,” and summoned the garden's Earth-God before him. Bowing to Pilgrim, the god said, “Great Sage, you have called your humble servant — what is your bidding?” Pilgrim said, “You don't know that Old Sun is the most famous thief-chief under all Heaven. In my day I stole the Immortal Peaches, filched the imperial wine, and made off with the elixir of gold — and never did anyone dare share the take with me. How is it that today I steal a single fruit of his, and you go drawing off my share? This fruit grew upon a tree; even a bird passing in the air should have its share. If Old Sun eats one, what great harm is there? Why, the moment I knocked it down, you scooped it away?” The Earth-God said, “Great Sage, you wrong your humble servant. This treasure is a thing of the Earthly Immortals; your servant is but a ghost-immortal — how should I dare take it? I have not even the fortune to smell it.”
Pilgrim said, “If you did not take it, how is it that the moment I knocked it down, it vanished?” The Earth-God said, “Great Sage, you know only that this treasure lengthens life; you do not know its true origin.” Pilgrim said, “What origin?” The Earth-God said, “This treasure flowers once in three thousand years, sets fruit once in three thousand years, and only after three thousand more does it ripen. In a bare ten thousand years, it bears but thirty fruits. One with the karmic bond, but smelling it once, lives three hundred and sixty years; eating one, lives forty-seven thousand. Yet it stands in mutual aversion with the Five Phases alone.” Pilgrim said, “How is it averse to the Five Phases?” The Earth-God said, “This fruit, meeting metal, falls; meeting wood, withers; meeting water, melts; meeting fire, scorches; and meeting earth, sinks in. To knock it down, one must use a metal tool; only so will it come down. And once knocked down, the tray must be lined with a silk cloth. Should it touch any wooden vessel, it withers, and then, though eaten, prolongs no life. To eat it, one must use porcelain, dissolving it in clear water. Meeting fire, it scorches and is of no use.” “As for meeting earth and sinking in — the moment you, Great Sage, knocked it to the ground, it bored straight down into the soil. This soil is forty-seven thousand years old; a steel drill could not bore into it a hair's breadth — it is harder than wrought iron by three or four degrees. That men live long from eating the fruit is owing to this. If you do not believe it, Great Sage, give the ground here a rap and see.” Pilgrim at once drew his gold-banded staff and struck the ground once; with a clang the staff sprang back, and there was not a mark on the soil. Pilgrim said, “True enough, true enough. This staff of mine smashes stone to powder and dents even wrought iron — how did this one blow not so much as scratch it? Then it is as you say — I wrongly blamed you. You may go back.” And the Earth-God went straight back to his shrine.
But the Great Sage had a plan: he climbed the tree, worked the striker with one hand, and with the other pulled up the front of his brocade cassock to make a pouch and hold it ready; then, threading through the branches and parting the leaves, he knocked down three fruits and caught them in his lap. He jumped down from the tree and came straight to the kitchen. Bajie said with a laugh, “Brother, did you get any?” Pilgrim said, “And what are these? Old Sun catches them the instant his hand arrives. And these fruits — let us not keep them from Sha Monk either; give him a call.” Bajie beckoned and called, “Wujing, come here.” Sha Monk set down the baggage and ran into the kitchen: “Brother, what do you call me for?” Pilgrim opened his lap-pouch: “Brother, look — what thing is this?” Sha Monk looked and said, “It's a ginseng-fruit.” Pilgrim said, “Ha! So you know it — and where have you eaten it before?” Sha Monk said, “Though I never ate it, in the old days, as Curtain-Rolling Grand Marshal attending the phoenix-carriage to the Peach Banquet, I saw the immortals from over the seas present this fruit to the Queen Mother as a birthday gift. See it I did; but eat it I never did. Brother, might you give me a little to taste?” Pilgrim said, “No need to ask — one apiece, brothers.” The three of them each enjoyed a fruit. But Bajie, big of gullet and big of mouth, and already, from having heard the boys eating earlier, feeling the gluttony-worm astir, now that the fruit was before him took it up, opened wide, and with a gulp swallowed it whole down his throat. Then, rolling his eyes white and playing dumb, he asked Pilgrim and Sha Monk: “What is it you two are eating?” Sha Monk said, “Ginseng-fruit.” Bajie said, “What does it taste like?” Pilgrim said, “Wujing, pay him no mind. — you went and ate yours first, and now who are you asking?” Bajie said, “Brother, I ate mine in too much haste — not like you two, chewing fine and swallowing slow, tasting out the flavour. I don't even know if it had a stone or not — I just gulped it down. Brother — do a kindness, and do it to the end! You've set my gluttony-worm going; go get another, and old Pig will eat it slow.” Pilgrim said, “Brother, you have no sense of enough. This thing is not like rice or noodles, where you run into your fill. A thing like this, thirty fruits in ten thousand years — that we eat even one is a great karmic bond, no trifling matter. Enough, enough — that will do.” He rose, and through the window-hole tossed the golden striker back into the Daoist quarters, then paid Bajie no further heed.
The blockhead went on muttering and grumbling without cease. Just then the two boys came back into the room to fetch tea to serve — and heard Bajie still bawling something about “the ginseng-fruit not eaten to my content; I'd need another to be satisfied.” Pure-Wind heard it and grew suspicious: “Bright-Moon, listen to that long-snouted monk — 'the ginseng-fruit, he wants another'! Master charged us at parting to guard against his underlings making a rumpus — could it be they've stolen our treasure?” Bright-Moon turned and said, “Brother — this is bad, this is bad! How comes the golden striker to be lying on the ground? Let us go and look in the garden.” The two hurried off, and found the flower garden's gate standing open. Pure-Wind said, “This gate I shut myself — how is it open?” Hurrying on through the flower garden, they found the vegetable-garden gate open too. Rushing into the ginseng garden, they leaned beneath the tree, looked up and counted — over and over, back and forth — and got only twenty-two. Bright-Moon said, “Can you reckon accounts?” Pure-Wind said, “I can — say it out.” Bright-Moon said, “The fruits were thirty at first; when Master opened the orchard, two were shared and eaten, leaving twenty-eight; just now two were knocked down for the Tang Monk, leaving twenty-six; and now only twenty-two remain — are we not four short? No need to say more — it must be those wicked men who stole them. Let us go and rail at the Tang Monk.” The two came out of the garden and up to the hall, and pointing at the Tang Monk — 'bald this' and 'bald that' — reviled him without stop in filthy, foul language; 'thief-head, rat-brain,' 'stinking-short and reeking-long,' they raged and railed with no good temper. The Tang Monk, unable to bear it, said, “Immortal boys — what is this uproar you make? Calm yourselves a little; if you have something to say, say it slowly — no harm in that — but do not talk such loose nonsense.” Pure-Wind said, “Are your ears deaf? Am I speaking some barbarian tongue you don't understand? You stole and ate the ginseng-fruit — how can you not let me speak of it?” The Tang Monk said, “And what does a ginseng-fruit look like?” Bright-Moon said, “The very thing just brought for you to eat — did you not say it was like a child?” The Tang Monk said, “Amitābha! At the mere sight of that thing my heart quailed — how should I dare steal and eat it? Even were I sick with gluttony, I would not dare do so thievish a thing. Do not wrongly blame a man.” Pure-Wind said, “Even if you did not eat it, there are your underlings who would.”
The Tang Monk said, “There is something in what you say. Stop your shouting a moment, and let me question them. If they did steal it, I will have them make it good to you.” Bright-Moon said, “Make it good! Where would there be any to buy, even with money?” The Tang Monk said, “Even with money and no place to buy it — the old saying has it, 'Right conduct is worth a thousand in gold.' Let them make you an apology, and let that end it. And it is not yet even known whether it was they or not.” Bright-Moon said, “How could it not be them? Over there they're squabbling that the shares aren't even, still bawling away.” The Tang Monk called out: “Disciples — all of you, come here.” Sha Monk heard and said, “This is bad — the game's up. The old Master calls us, and the little Daoist boys are cursing all round — if the old business hasn't leaked, what else is it?” Pilgrim said, “Mortifying, this. This is only a matter of eating and drinking; but if it comes out, we'll be branded as filchers — so simply deny it.” Bajie said, “Just so, just so — deny it and be done.” So the three of them could only leave the kitchen and go up to the hall. In the end there is no telling how they will brazen it out — so listen to the telling of the next chapter.