拘喚土地 Summoning the Earth-God
行者道：「蹺蹊，蹺蹊。想是有腳的會走，就走也跳不出牆去。我知道了，想是花園中土地不許老孫偷他果子，他收了去也。」他就捻著訣，念一口「唵」字咒，拘得那花園土地前來，對行者施禮道：「大聖呼喚小神，有何吩咐？」行者道：「你不知老孫是蓋天下有名的賊頭，我當年偷蟠桃、盜御酒、竊靈丹，也不曾有人敢與我分用。怎麼今日偷他一個果子，你就抽了我的頭分去了？這果子是樹上結的，空中過鳥也該有分，老孫就吃他一個，有何大害？怎麼剛打下來，你就撈了去？」土地道：「大聖錯怪了小神也。這寶貝乃是地仙之物，小神是個鬼仙，怎麼敢拿去？就是聞也無福聞聞。」行者道：「跷蹊，跷蹊。想是有脚的会走，就走也跳不出墙去。我知道了，想是花园中土地不许老孙偷他果子，他收了去也。」他就捻着诀，念一口「唵」字咒，拘得那花园土地前来，对行者施礼道：「大圣呼唤小神，有何吩咐？」行者道：「你不知老孙是盖天下有名的贼头，我当年偷蟠桃、盗御酒、窃灵丹，也不曾有人敢与我分用。怎么今日偷他一个果子，你就抽了我的头分去了？这果子是树上结的，空中过鸟也该有分，老孙就吃他一个，有何大害？怎么刚打下来，你就捞了去？」土地道：「大圣错怪了小神也。这宝贝乃是地仙之物，小神是个鬼仙，怎么敢拿去？就是闻也无福闻闻。」
逐句解 Line by line
Pilgrim said, "Strange, strange!
蹺蹊, odd — the same word the narrator used of the fruit's keeping qualities, now in Pilgrim's mouth about its disappearance.
Maybe, having feet, it can walk off — but even so it couldn't leap out over the wall.
His first hypothesis is that it walked. Given that it has legs and was waving them a moment ago, this is not as silly as it sounds.
I have it — surely the Earth-God of this flower garden won't let Old Sun steal his fruit, and has taken it away."
His second is theft, and he accuses the resident deity. The 土地, tǔ dì, Earth-God, is the lowest rung of the Chinese celestial civil service — a local spirit attached to a specific patch of ground, closer to a parish official than a god. Every garden has one.
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?"
唵, ǎn, is the Sanskrit syllable oṃ, and Pilgrim uses it as a summoning-spell — a Buddhist mantra deployed to compel a Daoist land-spirit, which is the kind of cheerful syncretism the novel never bothers to explain. 捻著訣, pinching a hand-sign, with the durative zhe; 拘得 takes the resultative de, summoned-so-as-to-come. 小神, "your humble godlet," the Earth-God's self-deprecating self-reference.
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.
The accusation is magnificent and completely upside-down: I am the most famous thief under Heaven, and nobody has ever dared take a cut. The three thefts he lists — the Immortal Peaches, the imperial wine, Lord Lao's elixir — are the crimes of chapter 5 that got him buried under a mountain for five hundred years, and he recites them as credentials. 當年 takes 當 as dāng, "in that year." 分用 takes 分 as fēn, the verb "to divide."
How is it that today I steal a single fruit of his, and you go drawing off my share?
頭分 — here 分 is fèn, a share or portion, the noun, against the verb fēn in the line before. A minimal pair one sentence apart.
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?
The theology of theft, Monkey style: it grew on a tree, so a passing bird would have a right to it, so why not me. 有分 takes the noun fèn again.
Why, the moment I knocked it down, you scooped it away?"
撈了去, scooped it away.
The Earth-God said, "Great Sage, you wrong your humble servant.
錯怪, cuò guài, to blame wrongly. The Earth-God is going to say this phrase, and then Pilgrim is going to say it back to him.
This treasure is a thing of the Earthly Immortals; your servant is but a ghost-immortal — how should I dare take it?
And here the hierarchy is stated outright. The fruit is 地仙之物, a thing belonging to the order of Earthly Immortals — Zhènyuán's rank. The Earth-God is a 鬼仙, a "ghost-immortal," the lowest of the five grades of transcendent in Daoist reckoning: a spirit that achieved deathlessness without a body. The distance between the two is roughly that between a parish clerk and an archbishop.
I have not even the fortune to smell it."
And the closing flourish: he does not even have the merit to be allowed to smell it. 無福, wú fú, lacking the good fortune — with the implication that a whiff is worth three hundred and sixty years, and he has not earned one.
Baffled, Pilgrim reasons it out and gets it wrong. It cannot have walked over the wall, so somebody took it, and the only somebody available is the garden's Earth-God — the lowest rung of the celestial civil service, a local spirit attached to one patch of ground, closer to a parish official than to a deity. He summons him with the syllable oṃ, a Buddhist mantra used to compel a Daoist land-spirit, which is the sort of thing this novel does without comment.
The accusation is glorious and entirely upside-down. I am the most famous thief-chief under Heaven — the Immortal Peaches, the imperial wine, Lord Lao's elixir — and nobody ever dared take a cut from me. He is reciting the crimes that got him crushed under a mountain for five hundred years as though they were references on a job application. Then the argument from natural justice: it grew on a tree, a passing bird would have a right to it, what harm in one?
The Earth-God's answer is a lesson in rank. The fruit belongs to the 地仙, the order of Earthly Immortals — Zhènyuán's grade. He is a 鬼仙, a ghost-immortal, the lowest of the five Daoist grades of transcendent. He would not dare touch it; he has not even the merit to be allowed a sniff. Which is a pointed remark, since a single sniff is worth three hundred and sixty years, and Pilgrim has just knocked one into the ground.