Now the demon, having bound Sha the Monk fast, neither came forward to slay him, nor beat him, nor even flung a single curse his way. He snatched up his steel sabre and mused within himself: “Tripitaka is a man of a superior realm, one sure to know the rites and their proprieties. Surely it cannot be that, having spared his life, I should find his disciples set on to seize me? Ah — most likely my wife has sent some letter or other off to that kingdom of his, and the secret has leaked out. Let me go and put the question to her.” And the demon, his savagery flaring up all at once, made ready to kill the princess.
The princess, all unknowing, had just finished at her toilette and came stepping forward. She saw only the demon glaring wide-eyed, his brows knotted, grinding his teeth in fury. Even so she met him with a forced smile and greeted him: “My lord, what is it that vexes you so?”
With a snarling bark the demon cursed her: “You dog-hearted, base-born woman, utterly void of human decency! When first I carried you off to this place, you had not the slightest cause for complaint. The brocade you wear, the gold you don — and whatever you wanted, I went out and fetched. Through all four seasons you had your comforts, and every day my devotion ran deep. How is it, then, that you think only of your father and mother, and have not the least heart of a wife?”
Hearing this, the princess was so frightened that she dropped to her knees on the ground: “My lord, why do you speak today of parting?”
The demon said: “There is no telling whether it is I who would part from you, or you from me. I seized that Tang monk, reckoning to make my meal of him — how is it that, without a word to me first, you set him free? So it was you who secretly drew up a letter and had him carry it off for you! Otherwise, why would these two monks come pounding at my gate, demanding you be sent home? Is this not your doing?”
The princess said: “My lord, you wrong me with your blame — when did I ever send any such letter?”
The old demon said: “Still you talk back! I have one of the very adversaries seized and held right here — is that not proof enough?”
“Who?” asked the princess. “It is Sha the Monk,” said the old fiend, “Tripitaka's second disciple.”
Now when a person is brought to the very brink of death, who will confess to a capital crime? She could only stall him with flat denial. “My lord, quell your anger a moment; you and I will go and put the question to him. If there truly was a letter, then beat me to death and I shall die content; but if there was none — would you not have slain your own handmaid for nothing?”
At these words the demon, brooking no discussion, swung out a hand broad as a winnowing-basket and indigo-blue, seized the ten thousand strands of that jade-branch, gold-leaf hair, hauled the princess forward, and flung her down upon the ground. Then, gripping his steel sabre, he turned instead to interrogate Sha the Monk, barking out: “Sha the Monk! How is it you two dared, unbidden, to come pounding at our gate? Was it that this woman sent a letter off to that kingdom of his, and the king dispatched you here?”
Sha the Monk, bound where he lay, saw how murderously savage the fiend had grown — hurling the princess to the ground, blade in hand, bent on the kill — and thought within himself: “It is plain that she did send the letter, and thereby saved my master; this is a kindness beyond all measure. If I speak out with a single word, he will kill the princess on the spot — would that not be to answer kindness with enmity? Enough, enough! For all my time following my master, old Sha has rendered not an inch of merit's service; and now, bound here as I am, let me lay down this life of mine and repay my master's kindness.”
Then he shouted: “Demon, have done with your insolence! What letter did she ever send, that you should so wrong her and seek to take her life? There is a reason we came here to demand the princess of you. It is only because you had seized my master and held him in your cave, where he had seen the princess — her face and her bearing. And when we reached the Precious-Elephant Kingdom to have our travel-rescript endorsed, that king had the princess's likeness drawn and painted, and made inquiry far and wide; taking up her portrait, he asked my master whether he had seen her anywhere along the road, and my master thereupon spoke of the princess. Learning thus that she was his own child, he bestowed the imperial wine upon us and bade us come to seize you, that his princess might be returned to the palace. This is the truth of the matter — when was there ever any letter? If you would kill, then kill old Sha and have done — but do not wrongfully harm an innocent, and so grievously offend against the reason of Heaven.”
Seeing how stoutly Sha the Monk spoke, the demon flung down his blade, lifted the princess up in both arms, and said: “It was my own moment's coarseness — I gave much offense; do not hold it against me, do not hold it against me.” Then he smoothed her dark tresses for her and set her jeweled coiffure to rights, and — all gentleness and warmth, his face softened with pleasure — coaxed her back inside, inviting her to the seat of honor to make his amends.
The princess, being of a woman's yielding nature, saw his contrition and turned her heart about again: “My lord, if you have any regard for the love between husband and wife, you might loosen Sha the Monk's ropes a little.” Hearing this, the old fiend at once ordered his underlings to untie Sha the Monk's ropes, and had him locked up there instead. Finding himself unbound though still chained, Sha the Monk rose to his feet and rejoiced in secret: “As the ancients said, 'Do another a kindness, and you do yourself one.' Had I not obliged her, how would she ever have moved him to loosen my bonds a little?”
The old fiend then ordered a banquet laid out, to make his amends to the princess and calm her fright. When the wine had brought them half to merriment, he of a sudden changed into a bright, fresh robe, took up a treasured sabre and belted it at his waist, and then, turning, laid a hand on the princess and said: “Wife, stay here at home and drink your wine; keep watch over our two children, and do not let Sha the Monk go free. While that Tang monk is still in that kingdom, I too will go — good and early — to claim kinship with them.”
The princess said: “What kin would you claim?”
The old fiend said: “Your royal father, to be sure. I am his son-in-law and he my father-in-law — how should I not go and own the kinship?”
“You cannot go,” said the princess.
“Why can I not go?”
“My royal father's realm was not won by warhorse and force of arms; his is a domain and altar handed down from the ancestors. From his childhood he came to the throne as crown prince; never once has he ventured far beyond the city gates, and he has looked upon no such fearsome brute as you. With a face and features like yours, born so hideous, should he set eyes on you I fear you would frighten him — and that would turn out ill. Better, then, not to go and claim kin at all.”
“If that is how it stands,” said the old fiend, “I shall simply change into a handsome fellow and go.”
“Then try the change,” said the princess, “and let me see.”
A fine monster he was! There amid the banquet he gave his body a shake and transformed, becoming a handsome young man. Truly he was formed thus:
His form and features elegant and refined, his frame lofty and striking;
his speech much in the manner of a courtier, his bearing that of the very flower of youth.
In talent a Cao Zhi, to whom the making of verse came easily;
in looks a Pan An, at whom the tossed fruit flew light.
On his head a magpie-tail cap, his black cloud of hair gathered smooth beneath it;
on his body a robe of jade-white gauze and pleats, its wide sleeves fluttering as he came.
On his feet black boots with figured creases; at his waist a phoenix sash agleam.
In grace and spirit a truly rare figure of a man — towering, high-borne, a paragon of comely valor.
Seeing this, the princess was greatly pleased. The demon laughed: “Well, wife — is the change not well done?”
“Well done, well done,” said the princess. “Once you have gone in to court — for a father's kinship is never extinguished — my royal father will surely have the civil and military officials keep you for a feast. But in the midst of the drinking, be a thousand times careful and ten thousand times on your guard; do not let your true face show, do not let the horse's hoof slip out and give the game away, or all your refinement is undone.”
“No need to instruct me,” said the old fiend. “I have my own way of it.”
See how he sprang upon a cloud-head and in a trice reached the Precious-Elephant Kingdom. Setting the cloud down, he proceeded to the outer court gate and said to the gate-usher: “The Third Consort has come expressly to attend upon the throne; I beg you, convey it up, convey it up.”
The yellow-gate memorial officer came before the white-jade steps and reported: “Your Majesty, a Third Consort has come to attend upon the throne, and waits now beyond the court gate to be summoned.”
The king, then in conversation with Tripitaka, heard of a sudden of a Third Consort and asked his officials: “We have but two consorts — how comes there now a third?”
The officials said: “This Third Consort must surely be some demon come among us.”
“Would it be well to summon him in?” said the king.
The Elder, his heart in alarm, said: “Your Majesty — a demon indeed; and one that were not cunning would be no true demon. He can know things past and to come; he can ride the clouds and drive the mist. Summon him, and he comes in; summon him not, and still he comes in. Better, then, to summon him — and spare ourselves some loss of face.”
The king granted the petition and called for the summons, and the demon was ushered up to the golden steps. He too performed the ritual courtesies — the ceremonial dance, the shouted acclamation — like any true courtier. The officials, seeing how handsome he was formed, dared not take him for a demon. They were, one and all, creatures of fleshly eyes and mortal frame, and so mistook him for an honest man. The king, seeing him tower as though to overtop the ravines and mount the sky, took him for a roof-beam fit to save the age, and asked him:
“Consort, where does your household dwell? Of what region are you? When did you come to be matched with my princess? And how is it that only today you come to claim the kinship?”
The old fiend kowtowed and said: “My sovereign, your servant is of a household at the Moon-Waves Cave on Bowl-Son Mountain, to the east of the city.”
“How far is that mountain of yours from here?”
“Not far — a mere three hundred li.”
“Three hundred li — however did my princess come to be there, and be wedded to you?”
The demon, with artful words and flowering speech, all false feeling and feigned sincerity, replied: “My sovereign, from my youth your humble servant loved to practise bow and horse, and lived by the hunt. Some thirteen years ago, leading a few dozen household boys, loosing the hawks and coursing the hounds, I suddenly saw a fierce, brindled tiger, a woman borne upon its back, making down the mountain slope. It was your servant who drew the bow and, with a single arrow, shot the fierce tiger down; I bore the woman up to my own manor, revived her with warm water and warm broth, and saved her life. When I asked from what household she came, she never once let fall the two words ‘royal princess.’ Had she but said she was Your Majesty's Third Princess, how should I have dared, against all conscience, to wed her without leave? I should surely have delivered her up to the golden hall, and begged some office, great or small, to bring me honor. It was only because she said she was a commoner's daughter that your servant kept her at the manor. The maiden fair, the man of parts, and both of one willing mind — and so we have been matched these many years.
“After we were wed, I wished to slaughter that tiger and call all our kin to the feast; but it was Her Highness the princess who bade me spare it. For the reason she gave against the killing, she had some lines of verse — and very well she spoke them — saying:
By the warrant of Heaven, by the warrant of Earth, we were made husband and wife;
with neither matchmaker nor witness, our marriage was joined.
In a former life the red cord once bound our feet;
and now the old tiger is made our matchmaker.
“At these words your servant untied the tiger's rope and spared its life. The tiger, bearing its arrow-wound, went off at a gallop, its tail switching behind. Little did I know that, having got away with its life, it stayed in those mountains and, cultivating itself these several years, refined its body into a spirit — bent solely on beguiling and harming men. Your servant has heard that in years past there came several scripture-seekers, all said to be a Tang monk out of Great Tang. I surmise this tiger did the Tang monk to death, got hold of his travel-warrant, took on the very likeness of the pilgrim, and now, here at court, deceives my sovereign. My sovereign — the one seated there upon the embroidered stool is none other than that fierce tiger which, thirteen years ago, bore the princess on its back; he is no true scripture-seeker at all.”
See now this fickle-minded king: with his foolish, deluded eyes of flesh he could not tell the demon for what it was, but took its whole tissue of falsehood for the plain truth. He said: “Worthy Consort, how is it you know this monk to be the tiger that bore the princess away?”
The demon said: “My sovereign, in the mountains your servant ate tiger and wore tiger, and slept and rose in their very company — how should I not know one?”
“Since you know it so,” said the king, “have it show its true form, that we may see.”
The monster said: “Lend me but half a cup of clear water, and your servant will make it show its true form.” The king ordered an officer to fetch water, which was handed to the Consort.
The demon took the water in hand, sprang up, stepped forward, and worked a Black-Eye Body-Fixing Spell. He recited the incantation, took a mouthful of water and spat it toward Tripitaka, crying: “Change!” The Elder's true body was hidden away there upon the hall, and in its place appeared — in very truth — a fierce, brindled tiger. Now, as king and courtiers looked on with their eyes of flesh, that tiger was formed thus:
White-browed and round of head, patterned of body, with eyes like lightning;
four hooves straight and jutting; twenty claws, hooked and keen.
Saw-teeth ringing its maw, sharp ears joined to its brows.
Fierce and grim, stout as a great cat in shape; savage and mighty, like a tawny bull-calf.
Stiff whiskers straight as inserted silver wires; a barbed tongue, ruddy-red, breathing a foul vapor.
Truly a fierce brindled beast — gust upon gust its dreadful power blew through the treasure-hall.
At one sight of it the king's very soul scattered and his spirit took flight. The officials, frightened out of their wits, one and all shrank away to hide. A few bold military officers, leading generals and captains, rushed forward in a press and hacked with every kind of weapon. Had it not been that Tripitaka was fated to live and not to die, then a full score of monks would have been beaten to a pulp. But happily the Ding and Jia guardians, the Jiedi vajra-spirits, the Day-Sentinels, and the dharma-protecting gods were secretly warding him from the empty air above, so that none of those men's weapons could strike him. The assembled ministers clamored until nightfall before at last they took the tiger alive, chained it with iron cords, set it in an iron cage, and stowed it away within the court lodge.
The king then issued a decree, having the Court of Imperial Entertainments spread a great banquet to thank the Consort for the grace of his rescue — for otherwise, he thought, that monk had all but done him harm. That evening, when the ministers had withdrawn from court, the demon entered the Silver-Peace Hall. Eighteen palace maids and serving-girls were chosen besides — to pipe and strum, to sing and dance, and press wine on the demon in his revels.
The monster sat alone at the head of the feast, ranged to left and right by none but figures of lovely form and tender grace. See how he took his ease and drank; and when the second watch came on and the drunkenness rose in him, he could no longer hold back his wildness. He sprang up, gave one great roar of laughter, showed his true form, and — his savagery bursting out — spread a hand broad as a winnowing-basket, snatched over one of the girls who played the pipa, and with a crunch took a bite out of her head. The other seventeen palace maids, frightened for their very lives, fled and hid in wild disorder, this way and that. See them now:
The palace maids in dread, the serving-girls in sudden fright;
the palace maids in dread, like lotus blossoms lashed by rain and veiled in the rain of night;
the serving-girls in fright, like peonies tossed by the wind, dancing in the spring wind.
Smashing their lutes to save their lives, bruised and stumbling over zither and lyre as they flee;
out the doors, what heed for north or south; away from the hall, no minding west from east.
Their jade faces knocked and marred, their tender features bruised and torn;
each one fleeing for her life, every one running to save what remained of it.
Those women got outside, yet dared not raise a cry. The night was deep, and they dared not disturb the sovereign. All huddled beneath the eaves of a low wall, trembling — but of that no more.
Now the monster, seated above, poured and drank alone. He would drain a cup, drag the corpse over, and gnaw at it, dripping blood, two mouthfuls at a time. While within he took his fill, outside the whole company passed the word: “The Tang monk is a tiger-spirit.” The rumor spread and clamored abroad, until the clamor reached the Golden-Pavilion Hostel.
At that hour the hostel was empty of men; only the white horse stood at the trough, eating its grass and fodder. He was in truth the little Dragon-King of the Western Sea, who, for breaking the law of Heaven, had had his horns sawn off and his scales stripped away, and was made a white horse to bear Tripitaka westward on the scripture-quest. Suddenly hearing men say the Tang monk was a tiger-spirit, he too thought within himself: “My master is plainly a good man; surely some demon has changed him into a tiger-spirit and done him harm. What's to be done? What's to be done? The Eldest Brother has been gone this long while, and of Bajie and Sha Wujing there is no word.”
He held out only till the second watch, then sprang up at last and said: “If I do not save the Tang monk now, this whole work of merit is finished — finished!” Unable to hold back, he snapped his halter-rope with a jerk, shook loose the saddle and reins, sprang up in haste, worked his transformation, and became a dragon once more. Mounting a black cloud, he rose straight to the ninth heaven and looked down. There are lines of verse in witness; the poem says:
Tripitaka came westward to bow before the World-Honored One;
but along the way, as chance would have it, foul demon-vapors lay.
This night, changed to a tiger, from calamity he cannot break free;
and the white horse, letting fall its halter, goes to save its master.
The little Dragon-King, up in the middle air, saw only the Silver-Peace Hall ablaze with lamp and candle. It proved that upon the eight hall-fillers eight candles were burning. Lowering his cloud, he looked closely, and there was the demon, all alone above, brazenly drinking wine and eating human flesh. The little dragon laughed: “This wretch is done for — he's let the horse's hoof show, his cover is seen through, his balance is thrown all askew. Is eating people any way to better oneself? But I do not yet know what has become of my master, and instead I have run into this vicious brute. Let me first go and toy with him a while; if I gain the upper hand and seize the demon, it will not be too late then to save my master.”
A fine Dragon-King! He gave his body a shake and transformed — becoming a palace maid too, truly light and lissome of body, tender and winning of mien. With quick steps she went inside and made the demon a curtsy of greeting: “Consort, do not harm my life; I have come to hold the cup for you.”
“Pour the wine, then,” said the demon.
The little dragon took the pot and poured the wine into his cup, and the wine stood three to five fēn above the brim, yet did not spill over. This was the Water-Forcing Art the little dragon employed. The demon saw it but did not understand, and thought with delight: “You have such a skill?”
“I can pour it a good few fēn higher yet,” said the little dragon.
“Pour on, pour on!”
She raised the pot and poured without stint, and the wine rose ever higher, like a thirteen-storied treasure-pagoda, peaked and brimming, yet not the least drop spilled over.
The monster thrust his mouth over and drank off a cupful; then, pulling the dead woman to him, took a bite. He said: “Can you sing?”
“I know a little of it,” said the little dragon. Keeping to tune and rhyme, she sang a little air, and offered up another cup.
“Can you dance?” said the demon.
“I know a little of that too; but with empty hands, the dance would make no fine show.”
The demon lifted his robe, unfastened the treasured sword at his waist, drew it from the scabbard, and handed it to the little dragon.
The little dragon took the sword and, on his guard at once, went high and low, left and right before the very feast-table, and set going a flourishing sword-play. The demon watched, his mouth agape. Then the little dragon dropped the flourishes and slashed a blade straight at him. A fine monster! He dodged aside, thrown into a fluster, snatched up one of the hall-fillers, and blocked the treasured sword with it. That hall-filler was forged of wrought iron, and with its shaft weighed eighty or ninety catties.
The two went out of the Silver-Peace Hall; the little dragon showed his true form, mounted a cloud-head, and did battle with the demon there in the middle air. This was a fine slaughter, waged in the black of night. How may it be told?
The one, a monster bred of Bowl-Son Mountain; the other, a true dragon cast down from the Western Ocean.
The one shed a fine radiance, like spat white lightning;
the other bred a keen force, like bursting crimson cloud.
The one was as a white-tusked old elephant walking the world of men;
the other as a gold-clawed wildcat flying down to the mortal realm.
The one, a jade pillar propping heaven; the other, a golden beam bridging the sea.
The silver dragon soared and wheeled; the yellow fiend tumbled and reared.
To left and right the treasured sword never slackened;
back and forth the hall-filler swung without cease.
The two fought a full eight or nine rounds up among the clouds; but the little dragon's hands went weak and his sinews numb, while the old demon's frame was strong and his force unspent. Unable to hold his ground, the little dragon flung his sword flying at the demon. But the demon had a trick for catching blades: with one hand he caught the treasured sword, and with the other flung down the hall-filler to strike. The little dragon, caught off guard, took a blow upon his hind leg. In frantic haste he brought his cloud down, and — thanks to the Imperial Moat — saved his life, plunging headlong into the water. The demon gave chase but could not find him; so, gripping the treasured sword and taking up the hall-filler, he returned to the Silver-Peace Hall and, as before, drank and slept — but of that no more.
Now the little dragon lay hidden at the bottom of the water; and only after half a double-hour, hearing no sound above, did he grit his teeth and, enduring the pain of his leg, spring up and away. Treading a black cloud, he made straight back to the hostel, changed again into his former horse-shape, and lay down beneath the trough. Piteous — his whole body soaked, his leg gashed and scarred. At that hour:
The Horse of the Will and the Monkey of the Heart are all dispersed;
the Metal Lord and the Wood Mother are withered utterly away.
The Yellow Dame is hurt and marred, and all is set asunder;
the Way and its rightness dwindle and fail — how shall the work be brought to pass!
But let us say no more of Tripitaka's calamity and the little dragon's defeat in battle. Rather let us speak of Zhu Bajie, who, since parting from Sha Wujing, had buried himself head-first in a clump of brush and rooted out a hog's wallow. This one nap he slept clean through to the middle of the night before he woke. Waking, he could not tell where he was. He rubbed his eyes, collected his wits, and cocked an ear to listen. Ah! — it was just such a place: the mountains deep, with no dog's bark; the wilds empty, with few cocks' crows.
Seeing the stars shifted and the Dipper turned, he reckoned it about the third watch, and thought within himself: “If I go back to save Sha Wujing, then truly — ‘a single thread makes no cord, and one palm alone claps not.’ Enough, enough! Let me first go into the city to see the master, get the sovereign's leave, and pick out some brave troops to help old Pig come and rescue Sha Wujing tomorrow.”
The blockhead leapt hastily onto a cloud-head and made straight back to the city. In half a moment he reached the hostel. At that hour all was still and the moon was bright. Under the two galleries he sought his master and found him not; he saw only the white horse lying over yonder, its whole body soaked, and on its hind leg a bruise the size of a plate.
Bajie started in alarm: “Double ill-luck! This wretched thing hasn't been on the road — how comes it lathered with sweat, and bruised on the leg? Some robber must have set upon the master and beaten the horse.”
The white horse, knowing him for Bajie, suddenly uttered human speech and cried: “Brother!” The blockhead started so he fell in a heap, scrambled up, and made to bolt outside. But the white horse stretched forward and with one bite caught his black robe: “Brother, do not be afraid of me.”
Trembling, Bajie said: “Little brother, how is it you've begun to talk today? If you speak, there must be some great calamity afoot.”
The little dragon said: “Do you know the master is in peril?”
“I don't,” said Bajie.
“No, you don't. You and Sha Wujing showed off your skills before the emperor, thinking to seize and subdue the demon, and to beg merit and reward for it. You never reckoned the demon's powers were great, that your arts were no match, and that you could not withstand him. It would have been well to send one of you back with word — yet not a sound was heard.
That demon changed into a handsome man of letters, forced his way into the court, and claimed kinship with the emperor. He turned our master into a fierce, brindled tiger, who was then seized by the ministers and locked in an iron cage in the court lodge.
When I heard of this misery, it was as if my heart were cut with knives. You these two days were away and knew nothing; and I, fearing his life might in a moment be lost, had no choice but to take dragon-shape and go to the rescue — but when I reached the court, I could not find the master. Coming to the outside of the Silver-Peace Hall, I met the demon, and changed myself into the semblance of a palace maid to beguile the creature. The demon bade me dance with a sword for his pleasure; so I watched my chance and slashed a blade at him. But he dodged in time, raised a hall-filler in both hands, and beat me back. I flung the sword flying at him again, but he caught it, dashed down the hall-filler, and struck me a blow upon my hind leg. So I dived into the Imperial Moat and escaped with my life. This bruise on my leg is where his hall-filler struck me.”
Hearing this, Bajie said: “Can such a thing really be so?”
“Would I be deceiving you, then?” said the little dragon.
“What's to be done? What's to be done? Can you even struggle to your feet?”
“And if I can rise, what then?”
“If you can rise, then struggle off into the sea and be gone. Let old Pig carry the baggage back to Gao Village and take up being a son-in-law again.”
At this the little dragon caught his cassock in its teeth with one bite and would by no means let go, and, unable to hold back the tears in its eyes, said: “Brother, I beg you a thousand times — do not give way to sloth!”
Bajie said: “And if I'm not slothful, what of it? Brother Sha is already taken; I'm no match for him in a fight; if we don't break up the band now, what are we waiting for?”
The little dragon brooded a while, then wept again and said: “Brother, speak no talk of breaking up. If the master is to be saved, you have only to go and fetch a certain one.”
“And whom would you have me fetch?” said Bajie.
“Get you back, good and early, upon a cloud to the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, and fetch the Eldest Brother, Sun the Pilgrim. He has yet the great powers to subdue demons, and will surely save the master, and avenge for you and me this defeat besides.”
Bajie said: “Little brother, better fetch some other one. That monkey and I are on poor terms. Before, on White-Tiger Ridge, when he beat the White-Bone Lady to death, he blamed me for egging the master on to recite the Tight-Fillet Spell. I only meant it in jest, but that old monk took it in earnest and set to reciting, and so drove him away. There's no telling how he resents me; he'll surely never come. And if a word or two should fail to match, that mourning-staff of his is so heavy — should he lose all sense of measure and fetch me a few blows, how should I come off alive?”
The little dragon said: “He'll surely not strike you. He is a Monkey King of benevolence and right feeling. When you see him, say nothing of the master's peril; only say, ‘The master is thinking of you.’ Coax him along that way. When he comes here and sees this state of things, he'll surely take it ill, and be bound to match himself against the demon — and will assuredly seize that demon and save our master.”
Bajie said: “Well, well. Since you are so wholehearted in this, then if I don't go, it would show me the less wholehearted. This once I'll go; and if the Pilgrim truly consents to come, I'll come back along with him; but if he won't come, then you must not look for me, for I'll not come back either.”
The little dragon said: “Go, go — he'll surely come.”
The blockhead duly gathered up his nine-tooth rake, cinched his cassock, sprang aloft, trod a cloud, and headed straight east. This time too, Tripitaka was fated to live. The blockhead met a following wind, spread his two ears like a pair of sails, and was soon across the Eastern Ocean, where he set his cloud down. Before he knew it the sun had risen, and he made his way into the mountains to seek the road.
As he went along, he suddenly heard people talking. Looking closely, Bajie saw that it was the Pilgrim, in a mountain hollow, gathering his host of goblins. He sat upon a slab of stone-cliff, and before him were some twelve hundred monkeys, drawn up in rank and file, crying out: “Ten thousand years, Great Sage, our Lord!”
Bajie said: “What ease and plenty! What ease and plenty! No wonder he wouldn't be a monk and only wanted to come home — with such good things here, so grand an estate, and all these little monkeys to wait on him. If old Pig had a mountain-domain like this, he'd give up being a monk too. Now that I've come this far, what's the best way? I really must see him.”
The blockhead, being somewhat afraid of him and not daring to show himself openly, slipped and slunk along by the grassy cliff-edge, wormed his way in among the twelve or thirteen hundred monkeys, and kowtowed along with them.
But little did he know that Sun the Great Sage, seated on high and sharp of eye, saw him plainly, and asked: “That stranger bowing out of turn there in the ranks — where is he from? Bring him up.” Before the words were out, the little monkeys swarmed like a nest of bees, shoved Bajie forward, and pressed him down to the ground.
The Pilgrim said: “What outlander are you, and where from?”
Bajie, head lowered, said: “By your leave — much obliged for the asking. No outlander I, but an old acquaintance, an old acquaintance.”
The Pilgrim said: “The monkeys under this Great Sage are all of one likeness. But your snout and face are of quite another cut, your features somewhat lumpish — you must be some demon come from elsewhere. Since you come from elsewhere, if you'd join my ranks, first hand up a note of your particulars and give your name, that I may keep you here, mustered with the rest. And if I don't keep you — how dare you bow here out of turn?”
Bajie, head lowered and snout thrust out, said: “Shameless — putting on this face at me! You and I have been brothers these several years, and now you make out not to know me, calling me some outlander.”
The Pilgrim laughed: “Lift up your head and let me look.”
The blockhead thrust his snout upward: “There, look! If you don't know me, surely you know the snout.”
The Pilgrim could not help laughing: “Zhu Bajie!”
Hearing his name called, he rolled straight up onto his feet: “The very one, the very one — I am Zhu Bajie!” And he thought: “Now that he knows me, it'll be easier to talk.”
The Pilgrim said: “Instead of going with Tripitaka to fetch the scriptures, what brings you here? I suppose you crossed the master, and he has sent you packing too. If there's an expulsion-letter, bring it here and let me see.”
Bajie said: “I never crossed him; there's no expulsion-letter, and he never drove me off.”
“If there's no letter, and he didn't drive you off, then what brings you to me?”
“The master is thinking of you, and sent me to invite you.”
The Pilgrim said: “He's not inviting me, and he's not thinking of me. That day he swore an oath to Heaven and wrote out the letter with his own hand — how should he now be willing to think of me, or to send you all this way to invite me? I certainly can't very well go.”
Bajie, then and there, spun a lie and said quickly: “He truly is thinking of you, truly thinking of you.”
“How is he thinking of me, then?”
Bajie said: “The master, riding along, called out ‘Disciple!’ — I didn't hear, and Sha Wujing made himself out deaf. Then the master thought of you, saying we others were no good, and that you were a clever, quick-witted fellow — ever answering the moment you're called, replying tenfold to a single question. For thinking of you so, he sent me expressly to invite you. I do beg you to come along: first, so as not to disappoint his longing hope; and second, not to make vain my coming so far.”
At these words the Pilgrim leapt down from the cliff, took Bajie by the hand, and said: “Worthy brother, you've come a long way for my sake — come, play a while with me first.”
Bajie said: “Brother, this place is far off — I fear the master will be watching for us and we'll be late; I'll not stop to play.”
The Pilgrim said: “Since you've come all this way, at least look at my mountain scenery — how do you find it?”
The blockhead dared not refuse outright, and could only go along with him.
The two, hand in hand and arm in arm, with all the little monkeys following after, climbed to the topmost peak of the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit. A fine mountain! For since the Great Sage had come home, in these few days he had set it all to rights, restored to its old state and as good as new. Behold:
Green as if of carved kingfisher-jade, high as though brushing the clouds;
all round it, tigers crouch and dragons coil; on every side, gibbons cry and cranes call.
At dawn, clouds come to seal the peak; at dusk, one sees the sun hung in the woods.
The flowing streams, murmuring, chime like jade girdle-pendants;
the gorge-springs, dripping, play like a jasper zither.
Before the mountain are cliffs and crags and sheer walls; behind it, flowers and trees in lush profusion.
Above, it joins the Jade Maiden's washing-basin; below, it takes the branching waters of the River of Heaven.
Heaven and Earth have knit their beauty here, outdoing Penglai;
the pure and the turbid, refined, have bred a true grotto-heaven.
The finest brush of the painter would be hard put to render it;
an immortal's own inspiration could not trace it out.
Fantastic rocks all delicately wrought, and wrought rocks fantastic;
a delicate splendor crowns the ridge and peak.
As the sunlight stirs, a thousand strands of purple glory;
as the auspicious vapors sway, ten thousand shafts of red cloud.
A grotto-heaven, a blessed land, here in the world of men —
all over the mountain, new trees and new flowers.
Bajie, gazing his fill and more, said in high delight: “Brother, what a place! Truly the first famous mountain under Heaven.”
The Pilgrim said: “Worthy brother, could one pass one's days here?”
Bajie laughed: “Listen to my brother! This treasure-mountain is a grotto-heaven, a blessed land — how can you speak of merely ‘passing the days’?”
The two talked and laughed a good while, then came down the mountain. By the roadside were a few little monkeys, holding up richly purple grapes, fragrant pears and jujubes, golden loquats, and bright-red bayberries, who knelt by the way and called: “Great Sage, our Lord — pray take your morning meal.”
The Pilgrim laughed: “My brother Pig has a great belly — fruit will hardly serve him for a meal. Well, well — don't scorn the meager fare; make do with a bite or two as a snack.”
Bajie said: “Big-bellied I may be, but I'll do as they do in this country. Bring them, bring them — I'll eat a few and try the fresh ones.”
The two ate the fruit, and by and by the sun climbed high. The blockhead, afraid of failing the rescue of Tripitaka, kept urging: “Brother, the master is over there watching for you and me. I beg you, let's be off good and early.”
The Pilgrim said: “Worthy brother, do come along to the Water-Curtain Cave and amuse yourself a while.”
Bajie firmly declined: “Much obliged for my elder brother's kindness — but the master has waited so long, there's no need to trouble to enter the cave.”
The Pilgrim said: “If that's how it is, I won't presume to keep you — let us take our leave here, then.”
Bajie said: “Brother — you won't come, then?”
The Pilgrim said: “Where should I go? Here Heaven doesn't claim me and Earth doesn't rule me; I'm free and my own master. If not to enjoy myself, why be a monk at all? I'll not go; go by yourself. Only report to Tripitaka: having driven me off, let him think no more of me.”
At this the blockhead dared not press him hard, fearing that if pushed, his temper might flare and he'd fetch him a couple of blows. With no help for it, he could only make his obedient farewells and set off to find the road.
Seeing him gone, the Pilgrim at once dispatched two nimble little monkeys to follow Bajie and hear what he might say. Sure enough, the blockhead had gone down the mountain not three or four li when he turned back, pointed at the Pilgrim, and cursed: “This monkey — instead of being a monk, he plays the demon! This ape — I came in good faith to invite him, and he won't go. Well, then, don't go!” He'd walk a few steps and curse a few more.
The two little monkeys ran hurrying back to report: “Great Sage, our Lord — that Zhu Bajie isn't very honest; he walks a bit and curses a few times.”
The Pilgrim, in a great rage, cried: “Bring him here!” The whole troop of monkeys came flying over the ground, overtook him, hoisted Bajie up and knocked him flat, and — seizing his mane, tugging his ears, hauling his tail, and yanking his bristles — carried him off back again.
In the end there is no knowing how the matter will be dealt with, nor whether his life is to be spared — so listen to the next chapter for the telling.