Now when the immortal lads had reviled them a good long while, Clear Wind said, "Bright Moon, these monks take a scolding well enough; we have railed at them as one rails at chickens, cursed them this half-hour, and not a peep of protest have they made—likely they never stole and ate at all.

The boys have run out of steam. 罵雞, mà jī, "cursing chickens," is the homeliest possible image for shouting that gets you nowhere — the village scold at the hen-run. 這半會, zhè bàn huì, is "a good long while," and 招聲, zhāo shēng, is a word of reply, a peep. Getting none is what starts Clear Wind doubting.

"Or it may be that the tree is tall and its leaves dense, so that we miscounted. Let us not curse him wrongly—you and I shall go and look again."

倘或, tǎng huò, is "supposing that, just in case." 數 has two readings and this chapter uses both: here it is the verb shǔ, "to count," so 數得不明 is "we counted badly"; a few passages on, when Clear Wind claims 還是原數, it is the noun shù, "the number." 枉罵, wǎng mà, is to abuse someone who did not deserve it.

Bright Moon said, "That is well said."

說得是, shuō de shì, "well said" — a stock nod of agreement, with the toneless linking 得, de.

The two of them, sure enough, went back into the garden—and there they saw the tree toppled and its boughs split, the fruit gone and the leaves fallen.

果 here is the adverb guǒ, "sure enough," the same character that has meant "fruit" in every line so far, which gives the sentence a grim little echo. What they see comes in four flat beats: tree down, boughs split, fruit gone, leaves fallen.

It so terrified them that Clear Wind's legs turned to water and he tumbled headlong, while Bright Moon's waist went slack and he shook to the very bones; the two of them were frightened out of their souls.

諕 is the printer's stand-in for 嚇, "to frighten," and reads xià all the same. Then two colloquialisms, one clear and one murky: 跌根頭, diē gēn tóu, is going head over heels, while 打骸垢 defeats even the editors — something along the lines of crumpling or shuddering with fright. The clincher is 魂飛魄散, hún fēi pò sàn: Chinese tradition gives a person two kinds of soul, the 魂 that rises and the 魄 that stays with the body, and when both bolt at once you are as frightened as the language can say. It is still the phrase people reach for.

There is a poem in witness of it. The poem says:

有詩為證, yǒu shī wéi zhèng, "there is a poem to bear witness," is the storyteller's standard hinge into verse — the spoken equivalent of a camera pulling back for the wide shot. 為 here is wéi, "to serve as," fixed by the phrase.

Sanzang, journeying west, drew near the Mount of Ten Thousand Years; / Wukong has made an end of the herb of the reverted elixir.

萬壽山 is Wànshòu Shān, the Mount of Ten Thousand Years, where the Five-Villages Abbey stands — a name promising long life, in a chapter about wrecking the thing that grants it. 斷送, duàn sòng, is to ruin something past recovery; it is still the word for throwing away a career. 草還丹 names the tree in its alchemical dress once more.

The boughs split wide, the leaves fell, the immortal root lay bared; / Bright Moon and Clear Wind—their very hearts and gall turned cold.

Here is the poem's trick. 明月清風 stands in the line as the boys' names and as plain night scenery at once — bright moon, clear wind — so the three characters that close it, 心膽寒, xīn dǎn hán, "heart and gall turn cold," chill a fine evening and two terrified children in the same breath. 仙根, xiān gēn, is the "immortal root," the tree's roots hauled up into the air.