The tale tells how the Tang Monk, having regained Pilgrim Sun, master and disciples were now of one heart and one body, and pressed on together toward the West. Since delivering the princess of the Precious-Image Kingdom they had been escorted by its lord and ministers out past the western wall of the city, and there is no telling all the hunger they ate through and thirst they drank down along the road, lodging by night and setting out at dawn. It fell, moreover, in the season of the three spring months, and at that very time:
A light wind combs the willows, green as floss of silk;
such fair scenery is most fit to be sung.
The hour hastens the birdsong; warmth coaxes the blossoms open; over all the ground the fragrance spreads.
To the crab-apple courtyard come a pair of swallows — this is the very time to delight in spring.
Red dust upon the purple lanes; damask silks, strings and pipes; the grass-battle played, the wine-cup passed around.
As master and disciples went along savouring the view, once again a mountain rose to block their way. Said the Tang Monk, “Take care, disciples. A high mountain lies ahead, and I fear tigers and wolves may bar our passage.”
Said Pilgrim, “Master, one who has left the household life should not talk as householders do. Do you recall the words of that Crow’s-Nest monk’s Heart Sūtra? ‘In the mind there is no obstruction; being without obstruction, one is then without dread, and leaves far behind all inverted, dreamlike thinking.’ It is only this: ‘Sweep away the grime upon the mind; wash clean the dust beside the ear. He who will not bear the bitterest of bitters can never be a man above other men.’ Breed no anxieties. So long as Old Sun is here, even were the sky to come crashing down I can keep you from harm — what are a few tigers and wolves to fear?”
The Elder reined his horse about and said, “I —
In that year I bore the decree and set out from Cháng’an,
mindful only of coming west to bow before the Buddha’s face.
In lands of relics the golden images blaze with colour;
within the stūpa towers the jade brow-tuft gleams and flecks.
I have sought to the ends of the earth its nameless waters,
passed through all the human world to mountains none has reached.
On and on through misted waves, fold upon fold heaped high —
when shall I ever win this body a moment’s rest?”
When Pilgrim heard this he laughed aloud and said, “If the Master wants his body at rest, where is the difficulty in that? Once the work is achieved, the ten-thousand ties all cease, and the dharmas are one and all empty. At that time, of itself and so of itself, will the body not then be at rest?”
Hearing these words, the Elder could do no more than take such joy as forgets all care. Loosing the reins, he urged on the silver steed; gathering the halter, he hastened the jade dragon.
Master and disciples made their way up the mountain — utterly precipitous it was, and truly craggy and towering. A fine mountain!
Lofty, lofty, the steep ranges; sheer, sheer, the pointed peaks.
Below, deep ravines coil and wind; at the brink, lone crags rise sheer.
Below the coiling deep ravines, one hears only the splash and churn as a water-sporting python rolls its bulk;
at the lone sheer crag-edge, one sees only, jutting and jagged, a tiger come out of the wood, its tail snapping.
Look upward: the peak-crowns thrust abruptly through the blue empyrean;
turn the eye: the gorge-depths sink profound, bordering the azure void.
Climbing high, it is like a ladder, like a footstool;
descending low, it is like a moat, like a pit.
Truly these are weird and wondrous summit-ranges; sure enough, these are serried points and sheer-cut cliff-walls.
On the summit-ranges the herb-gatherer, pondering, dreads to go;
before the sheer cliff-walls the woodcutter finds each inch of ground hard to tread.
Wild sheep and feral horses dart and shuttle in confusion; cunning hares and mountain oxen stand as if drawn up in ranks.
The mountain’s height veils the sun and screens the Dipper’s stars; ever and again one meets goblin-beasts and grey wolves.
The grassy path, blurred and overgrown, is hard to urge a horse along — how shall one reach the Thunderclap, to look upon the Buddha-King?
The Elder reined his horse and gazed at the mountain; and just where the going was hardest, he saw, upon a green sedge slope, a woodcutter standing. Consider now how he was got up:
On his head an old indigo felt hat; on his body a coarse black patched robe.
The old indigo felt hat, that fends off haze and shades the sun — a rare thing indeed;
the coarse black patched robe, taking such joy as forgets all care — a thing seldom seen.
In hand a steel axe, freshly whetted bright; his blade fells the dry wood and binds it tight.
Spring’s hue upon his eaves, serene, the four seasons blending mild;
beyond his person an idle mood, ever the three stars faint and still.
To his last days he lives but as his lot allows — what glory or disgrace need touch these hills for a moment?
That woodcutter —
Just as before the slope he hewed at rotten wood,
of a sudden he met the Elder, come from the east.
Staying his hand and stilling his axe, he came out of the wood,
and with hurried steps brought himself up onto the stone crag.
In a stern, loud voice he called to the Elder, “You there, monk journeying west — halt a moment; I have a word to offer you. On this mountain is a pack of venomous fiends and savage monsters that feed on none but you travellers passing east and west.”
Hearing this, the Elder was scared out of his wits; trembling, he could not sit steady in his carved saddle. Quickly he turned his head and hastily called to his disciples, “Did you hear that woodcutter’s report — ‘On this mountain are venomous fiends and savage monsters’? Who dares go and question him closely?”
Said Pilgrim, “Set your mind at ease, Master. Let Old Sun go and get the whole truth of it from him.”
Good Pilgrim! He strode out and went straight up the mountain, hailed the woodcutter with an “Elder Brother,” and made him a greeting. The woodcutter returned the courtesy and said, “Reverend, what business brings your party here?”
Said Pilgrim, “I’ll not deceive you, Elder Brother — we are those sent from the Eastern Land to fetch scriptures in the West. The one on the horse there is my master, and he is a little timid. Just now I had the benefit of your warning, that there are venomous fiends and savage monsters hereabouts; and so I come to put a question. That fiend — how many years a fiend? and the monster — how many years a monster? Is he an old hand, or a mere fledgling? Be so good, Elder Brother, as to tell me plainly, that I may have the mountain-gods and the local earth-gods escort him off under guard.”
Hearing this, the woodcutter laughed up at the sky and said, “So you are a crazy monk after all.”
Said Pilgrim, “I am not crazy — this is honest talk.”
Said the woodcutter, “You call it honest — then how dare you speak of having him escorted off under guard?”
Said Pilgrim, “You, puffing up his prestige like this, talking wild nonsense as you block the road to bring word — could it be you are kin to him? If not kin, then surely a neighbour; if not a neighbour, then surely a friend.”
The woodcutter laughed. “You crazy, brazen monk — you make no sense at all. I, on the contrary, meant well, coming specially to warn you, so that on your road you might be on guard morning and night; and you turn it round and lay the blame on me. And say nothing of my not knowing where the fiends come from — even if I did know, how would you dare have him escorted off? Escorted off to where?”
Said Pilgrim, “If he be a sky-fiend, I deliver him to the Jade Emperor; if an earth-fiend, to the Earth Bureau. Those of the West go to the Buddha, those of the East to the Sage; those of the North I deliver to the Perfected Warrior, those of the South to the Fire Power. A flood-dragon sprite I deliver to the Lord of the Sea; a haunting goblin I deliver to King Yama. Each has its own quarter and its own direction. Old Sun is known to folk in every place; I issue a single warrant, and have him escorted off at a flying run through the night.”
The woodcutter could not hold back a cold, snorting laugh. “You crazy, brazen monk — you have been roaming the regions, I suppose, and picked up some tricks of writing charms and conjuring with water, good enough to drive off sprites and bind ghosts; but you have never yet run up against fiends as fell as these.”
Said Pilgrim, “How are they so fell?”
Said the woodcutter, “This mountain measures some six hundred lǐ across, and is called the Level-Top Mountain. Within the mountain is a cave, called the Lotus-Flower Cave. In the cave are two demon-chiefs. They paint likenesses and draw forms, meaning to seize monks; they copy down names and inquire after surnames, meaning to eat the Tang Monk. Had you come from anywhere else, it would be well enough; but bear the one word ‘Tang,’ and you may give up all thought of getting through — getting through at all.”
Said Pilgrim, “We are the very ones come from the Tang court.”
Said the woodcutter, “Then it is precisely you they wish to eat.”
Said Pilgrim, “What luck, what luck! But I wonder — in what manner do they eat?”
Said the woodcutter, “And how would you have them eat you?”
Said Pilgrim, “If they eat the head first, that is still good sport; but if they eat the feet first, then it is a wretched business.”
Said the woodcutter, “What do you mean, head first? What do you mean, feet first?”
Said Pilgrim, “You have never yet been through it. If they eat the head first, one bite and I am gnawed clean off — I am already dead, and let them fry, sauté, stew, or boil me as they please, I shall feel no pain. But if they eat the feet first, gnawing off the ankle-bones, chewing the shanks, working up to the hip-joint, I am not so quickly dead — is that not to suffer bit by little bit? That is why it is a wretched business.”
Said the woodcutter, “Monk, where would they find so much leisure? They will simply take you, bind you in a basket, and steam you whole to eat.”
Pilgrim laughed. “That is better still, better still. As for pain, there would be no pain to bear — only a little stuffiness to put up with.”
Said the woodcutter, “Monk, do not wag your tongue. Those fiends carry five treasures upon them, and their powers are vast beyond measure. Were you the very jade pillar that props up the sky, the golden beam that spans the sea, to see a monk of Tang through safely you would still have to swoon a good few times.”
Said Pilgrim, “Swoon how many times?”
Said the woodcutter, “You would have to swoon three or four times.”
Said Pilgrim, “No matter, no matter. In a single year we commonly swoon some seven or eight hundred times; these three or four are easily had — a swoon or two and it will all be over.”
The great Sage, wholly without fear, was single-mindedly bent on nothing but guarding the Tang Monk. Shaking off the woodcutter, he strode back and came straight to the horse’s head at the foot of the slope, and said, “Master, there is nothing much to it. There may be a sprite or two, that is all; it is only that the folk hereabouts are timid and take it to heart. With me here, what is there to fear? On with the road, on with the road.”
Hearing this, the Elder could only set his mind at ease and ride on with him. As they went along, the woodcutter had already vanished from sight.
Said the Elder, “How is it that woodcutter who brought the warning is gone so suddenly?”
Said Eight Rules, “Our luck is low — we have met a ghost in broad daylight.”
Said Pilgrim, “He has likely slipped into the wood to gather firewood. Let me go and take a look.”
The great Sage opened wide his fiery eyes and golden pupils, and looked all across the mountains and over the ridges — yet there was no trace. Of a sudden he raised his head and looked into the edge of the clouds, and saw that it was the Merit-Officer on duty for the day. Leaping upon a cloud, he overtook him, cursed him a few times for a hairy imp, and said, “Why did you not come and speak plainly, instead of transforming yourself so and making sport of Old Sun?”
Flustered, the Merit-Officer made obeisance and said, “Great Sage, I was late in bringing word — pardon me, pardon me. Those fiends have indeed great and far-reaching powers, and their transformations are manifold. It rests only on your deft manoeuvring and the working of your wits: guard your master with care. Should you grow the least bit slack, you may give up all thought of the road to the Western Heaven.”
When Pilgrim had heard him out, he dismissed the Merit-Officer with a rebuke, took the warning earnestly to heart, pressed down his cloud, and came straight up the mountain. There he saw the Elder pressing forward, closely attended by Eight Rules and Sha Monk. But he thought to himself, “If I tell the Master the Merit-Officer’s words plainly, he is of no use — he will surely fall to weeping; yet if I do not tell him, but lead him on muddle-headed, then, as the saying goes, ‘Newly come to the reed-marsh, one knows not its depths’ — should he be snatched off by the fiends, would that not again put Old Sun to trouble? Better let me take a little care of Eight Rules — set him out first to put his head forward and try a bout with the fiend. If he can beat him, we will count it a merit to his name; and if he has no skill and is carried off by the fiend, it will not be too late for Old Sun to go and rescue him then — and that will nicely show off my own powers and make my name.”
Just as he was reckoning it out with himself, questioning his own heart with his heart, he said, “My only fear is that Eight Rules will shirk and be unwilling to put himself forward, and that the Master, too, is a little apt to shield him. Let Old Sun bridle him a bit.”
The great Sage — watch him now work up a sham: rubbing his eyes with a rub, he squeezed out a few tears. Facing the Master, he walked straight forward.
Eight Rules, seeing this, hastily called out, “Sha Monk, set down the load and get out the baggage — let the two of us divide it and be done.”
Said Sha Monk, “Second Brother, divide it — whatever for?”
Said Eight Rules, “Let us divide it. You go back to the Flowing-Sands River and be a monster again; Old Hog will go to the Gao Village to see how his wife fares. We’ll sell the white horse, buy a coffin, and see the Master off in his old age. Let everyone break up the fire — still go on to the Western Heaven, would we?”
The Elder, hearing this from horseback, said, “You blockhead — here we are walking along, and how is it you talk nonsense again?”
Said Eight Rules, “It’s your own son who talks nonsense. Do you not see Sun the Pilgrim coming yonder in tears? He is a fellow who bores into the sky and burrows through the earth, who fears neither the axe’s blow nor the fire’s burning nor the cauldron of oil; and now he has put on a cap of woe and comes weeping, eyes streaming — it must be that the mountain is steep and the fiends fierce. How are weak folk like us to get through?”
Said the Elder, “Stop your idle talk; let me put him a question, and see what he says.” He asked, “Wukong, whatever there is to say, let us reckon it out face to face — why do you fret to yourself? With such a woebegone, crumpled face, are you trying to frighten me with talk of tigers?”
Said Pilgrim, “Master, the one just now who brought the warning was the Merit-Officer on duty for the day. He says the fiends are fierce and the way here hard to travel; and indeed the mountains are high and the roads sheer, so that we cannot go forward. Let us go another day.”
Hearing this, the Elder was seized with dread and, clutching at his tiger-skin kilt, said, “Disciple — of the three stages of our road we have already come a stage and a half. Why do you speak words of retreat and regret?”
Said Pilgrim, “It is not that I am anything but wholehearted; I only fear that the fiends are many and our strength slight, our marching-force too solitary. ‘Even were one a lump of iron, how many nails could it forge in a single furnace?’”
Said the Elder, “Disciple, you speak rightly — one man alone would indeed find it hard. The book of war says, ‘The few cannot withstand the many.’ Here I have Eight Rules and Sha Monk, both disciples; deploy and dispose of them as you will. Let them serve as guardian-generals and helping hands, and, joining strength and heart as one, sweep clean the mountain-paths and lead me over the mountain — would we not then all attain the right fruit?”
That Pilgrim, with this whole show of coyness, had drawn out just these few words from the Elder. He wiped away his tears and said, “Master, if we are to get past this mountain, then Zhu Eight Rules must comply with me in two matters — only then have we three parts’ chance of getting through; but if he will not heed my words, nor take my place at need, there is not half a chance of passing at all.”
Said Eight Rules, “Elder Brother, if we’re not going, then let’s break up the fire. Don’t drag me into it.”
Said the Elder, “Disciple, just ask your elder brother, and see what he would have you do.”
The blockhead did indeed say to Pilgrim, “Brother, what would you have me do?”
Said Pilgrim, “The first is to mind the Master; the second is to go patrol the mountain.”
Said Eight Rules, “To mind the Master is to sit; to go patrol the mountain is to walk. Surely you would not have me sit a while, then walk, walk a while, then sit? How could I attend to both at once?”
Said Pilgrim, “I am not asking you to do both together — only to take on the one and be done.”
Eight Rules laughed again. “That’s a fair reckoning too. But I don’t yet know what minding the Master involves, or what patrolling the mountain involves. Explain them to me first, and let me pick whichever suits me better to go and do.”
Said Pilgrim, “As for minding the Master — when the Master goes to relieve himself, you attend him; when the Master would walk, you support him; when the Master would take his fast-meal, you go beg it. And if he grows the least bit hungry, you are to be beaten; if his face yellows the least bit, you are to be beaten; if his frame wastes the least bit, you are to be beaten.”
Eight Rules took fright. “That’s hard, hard, hard! Attending and supporting are no trouble at all; even carrying him on my back without leaving his side would still be easy. But suppose you send me down to the villages to beg — on these western roads they will not know me for a scripture-seeking monk, but take me for some half-grown fat hog come out of the hills; a crowd of them will gang up with pitchforks and brooms, surround Old Hog and knock him down, haul him home to be slaughtered, and salt him away for the New Year. Would that not be the death of me?”
Said Pilgrim, “Then go patrol the mountain.”
Said Eight Rules, “And what does patrolling the mountain amount to?”
Said Pilgrim, “Just go into this mountain and find out how many fiends there are, what mountain it is, what cave it is, so that we may pass through.”
Said Eight Rules, “That’s a small matter — Old Hog will go patrol the mountain.”
The blockhead then hitched up his robe, brandished his nine-tooth rake, and — valiant and bold — went straight into the deep mountains, striding high-spirited up the great road.
Pilgrim, standing by, could not help a snickering, cold laugh. The Elder scolded, “You brazen ape! You have no least tenderness toward your brothers, but harbour a heart forever envious. You put on these roebuck tricks, these artful words and ingratiating looks, to wheedle him off on some mountain-patrol — and then stand here laughing at him.”
Said Pilgrim, “I am not laughing at him — there is a meaning in this laugh. You watch: once Zhu Eight Rules is gone, he will surely not patrol the mountain, nor dare face the fiends; he will slip off somewhere to hide a while, cook up a lie, and come back to fool us.”
Said the Elder, “How is it you know him so well?”
Said Pilgrim, “I reckon this is his way. If you don’t believe it, let me follow after him and take a look, and give a listen: first, to lend a hand to his fiend-quelling; and second, to see whether he has any sincere heart to bow before the Buddha.”
Said the Elder, “Good, good, good — only do not go and play tricks on him.”
Pilgrim assented, and, going straight up the mountain slope, gave his body a shake and changed into a little jiaoliao insect. Truly he had transformed nimbly — behold him now:
Wings so thin they dance on the wind with no effort at all; a waist tapered fine and small as a needle.
Threading the rushes, skimming the grass, passing through the flowers’ shade; swift as a shooting star, and swifter yet.
Its eyes bright and glinting; its voice faint and all but mute.
Of all the insect kind he alone is smallest; slender and unhurried, yet deep in cunning.
Many an idle day he rests in the secluded wood; his whole body quite invisible, a thousand eyes could not find him.
With a whir of his wings he flew off, caught up with Eight Rules, and fixed himself behind his ear, at the root of the bristles. The blockhead just kept walking, never guessing he carried a rider.
When he had gone seven or eight lǐ, he flung down his rake, turned his head about, and, gesturing back toward the Tang Monk, railed, “You spineless old monk; you nit-picking Bimawen; you soft-faced Sha Monk — they are all back there at their ease, while they put Old Hog to tramping the road. We are all fetching scriptures, all hoping to attain the right fruit — and yet it’s just me they send off to patrol some mountain or other. Ha, ha, ha! Knowing there are fiends, one ought to give them a wide berth — and that’s not the half of it: instead they send me to go looking for them. What wretched luck! I’ll go off somewhere and sleep — have a nap, then go back and fob him off with something vague, just say I’ve patrolled the mountain, and the whole business is settled.”
For the moment the blockhead was well pleased with himself; shouldering his rake, he walked on, until he spied, in a hollow of the hills, a curving slope of red grass. He bored straight in, spread out a bed on the ground with his rake, rolled himself down, gave his back a good stretch, and said, “Bliss! Not even that Bimawen could be as free and easy as I am.”
Now Pilgrim, behind his very ear, had been listening to every word; unable to hold back, he flew up to peck at him once more. Again he gave his body a shake and changed into a little woodpecker. Behold:
Iron beak pointed and sharp, glossy red; kingfisher plumes gorgeous and gleaming bright.
A pair of steel talons keen as nails.
Belly empty — what matter, in the quiet of the wood?
Fondest of rotten stumps decayed and crumbling; disdaining most the old tree standing bare and lone.
Round eyes, flicking tail — a nature quick and nimble.
The rat-a-tat of its pecking, a sound worth the hearing.
This bird was neither big nor small — set on the scale to weigh, it came to but two or three taels. A beak of red copper, feet of black iron. With a rush of its wings it came flying down. Eight Rules, his head flung down, was fast asleep — and got a sharp peck square on the lip.
The blockhead, flustered, scrambled up, bawling, “A fiend, a fiend! It jabbed me with a spear and made off — how my mouth hurts!” He reached up and felt about — blood was welling out. Said he, “Wretched luck! I’ve had no happy occasion — so how is it my mouth is hung with red?”
Staring at his bloodied hand, muttering and grumbling, he looked wildly to either side — but saw nothing stirring. Said he, “No fiend about — so what jabbed me with a spear?” Suddenly he raised his head and looked up — and there was a woodpecker, flying about in mid-air.
The blockhead gnashed his teeth and railed, “You cursed thing! It’s bad enough that the Bimawen bullies me — now you come and bully me too. I have it now. It surely does not take me for a man, but takes my snout for a length of black, rotten, crumbling wood with grubs bred inside; hunting a grub to eat, it gave me that peck. I’ll just tuck my snout into my bosom and sleep.”
The blockhead rolled over and lay down to sleep as before. Pilgrim flew over again and pecked once more, there behind his ear. The blockhead, flustered, scrambled up. “That cursed thing — it plagues me sorely. It must be that this is its nest, where it lays its eggs and rears its young, and it fears I’ve taken its place — that’s why it plagues me so. Enough, enough, enough — I’ll sleep here no more.”
Shouldering his rake, he went straight out of the red-grass slope and set off to find the road again. Was this not pure delight to Sun the Pilgrim! — it fairly doubled up the Handsome Monkey King with laughter. Said Pilgrim, “This blockhead, with both eyes wide open, cannot even recognise his own kin.”
The great Sage gave his body another shake and changed back into a jiaoliao gnat, fixing himself behind the pig’s ear, never leaving his person. The blockhead went into the deep mountains, and after another four or five lǐ, he saw in a hollow of the hills three squarish blue rocks, each the size of a tabletop. The blockhead set down his rake and made the rocks a great bow of greeting.
Pilgrim laughed to himself. “This blockhead! The rocks are not men, cannot speak, cannot return his salute — what’s the good of bowing to them? Isn’t it a piece of blind nonsense?”
Now the blockhead was taking the rocks for the three — the Tang Monk, Sha Monk, and Pilgrim — and rehearsing his part before them. Said he, “When I go back and see the Master, if he asks whether there are fiends, I’ll say there are fiends. If he asks what mountain it is, and I say it’s clay-pinched, earth-made, tin-beaten, copper-cast, dough-steamed, paper-pasted, or brush-painted — they’ll only think me a dolt; talk like that would prove me a dolt outright. I’ll just say it’s Stone Mountain. If he asks what cave, I’ll just say Stone Cave. If he asks what gate, I’ll say an iron-plated gate studded with nails. If he asks how far it runs inside, I’ll just say there are three chambers within. And if he presses harder still and asks how many nails are in the gate, I’ll just say Old Hog was too flustered to count them right. With the tale here got up in good order, I’ll go fool that Bimawen.”
The blockhead, having patched it all together, dragged his rake and went straight back the way he had come.
Little did he know that Pilgrim, behind his ear, had heard it all, point by point, clear as day. Seeing him start back, Pilgrim beat his two wings and hurried on ahead, resumed his true form, and came before the Master.
Said the Master, “Wukong, you’ve come — how is it Wuneng is not yet back?”
Pilgrim laughed. “He’s over there cooking up his lies — he’ll be along presently.”
Said the Elder, “With his two ears drooping over his eyes, he’s a dull, clumsy fellow — what lies could he invent? Here you are again, patching together some nonsense to lay against him.”
Said Pilgrim, “Master, you do nothing but shield him so. This is a matter that can be put to the test.” And he told in advance the whole of it — how the pig had burrowed into the grass to sleep, been pecked awake by a woodpecker, bowed to the rocks, and made up his tale of a Stone Mountain, a Stone Cave, an iron-plated gate, and fiends within.
When he had done speaking, before long the blockhead came walking up. Afraid he might forget his lie, he kept his head down, rehearsing it under his breath. Pilgrim gave him a shout. “Blockhead — what are you muttering?”
Eight Rules lifted his ears to look, and said, “Have I reached the place already?” The blockhead went forward and knelt down. The Elder raised him up. “Disciple, you’ve had a hard time of it.”
Said Eight Rules, “Just so. Of all men, the road-walker and the mountain-climber have the hardest time.”
Said the Elder, “Are there fiends, then?”
Said Eight Rules, “There are fiends, there are fiends — a whole heap of fiends!”
Said the Elder, “And how did they send you off?”
Said Eight Rules, “They called me Grandsire Hog and Great-Uncle Hog, laid out noodle-soup and vegetarian fare, gave me a good meal, and said they’d escort us over the mountain with flags and drums.”
Said Pilgrim, “He must have fallen asleep in the grass, and this is his sleep-talk.”
At these words the blockhead shrank two cùn in fright. “Good heavens! I was asleep — how does he know?”
Pilgrim stepped up, seized him with one grab, and said, “Come here — let me question you.”
The blockhead panicked again and said, trembling, “Ask, then, and be done — what’s all this grabbing and pulling?”
“What mountain is it?”
“It’s Stone Mountain.”
“What cave?” “It’s Stone Cave.”
“What gate?” “It’s a nail-studded iron-plate gate.”
“How far does it run inside?” “Within, there are three chambers.”
Said Pilgrim, “You needn’t go on — the latter half I remember exactly; and lest the Master doubt it, let me say it for you.”
Said Eight Rules, “The cheek of it! You never even went — what do you know of any of it, that you’d speak for me?”
Pilgrim laughed. “‘And how many nails are in the gate? — just say Old Hog was too flustered to count them right.’ Is that it?”
At once the blockhead knelt down in a fluster.
Said Pilgrim, “You bowed to the rocks, took them for us three, and put question and answer to them — is that it? And you said, ‘When I’ve got my lie up in good order, I’ll go fool that Bimawen.’ Is that it?”
The blockhead hastily did nothing but kowtow. “Elder Brother — I went to patrol the mountain; you couldn’t have followed to eavesdrop on me?”
Pilgrim railed, “You chaff-brained blockhead! At so critical a spot, I sent you to patrol the mountain, and off you went to sleep instead. Had a woodpecker not pecked you awake, you’d be sleeping there yet. And pecked awake, you go and spin so great a lie — would that not have wrecked the whole enterprise? Stick out your ankle-bone this instant — five strokes to fix it in your memory.”
Eight Rules panicked. “That mourning-staff is heavy — a mere graze splits the skin, a mere brush wrenches the sinew; five strokes and I’m a dead pig.”
Said Pilgrim, “If you fear a beating, then why tell lies?”
Said Eight Rules, “Brother, just this once — I’ll never dare again.”
Said Pilgrim, “For this once, then, three strokes.”
Said Eight Rules, “Good heavens! I couldn’t bear even half a stroke.”
The blockhead, at his wits’ end, clutched the Master. “Put in a good word for me.”
Said the Elder, “When Wukong said you’d made up lies, I did not believe it; but now it proves so, and you do indeed deserve a beating. But just now, in crossing the mountain, we’re short of hands to send; Wukong, spare him for the present — beat him after we’ve passed the mountain.”
Said Pilgrim, “The ancients said, ‘To yield to a parent’s wish is called great filial piety.’ Since the Master says not to beat you, I’ll spare you for now. Go patrol the mountain for him again; and if you lie and wreck things once more, I’ll not let you off by a single stroke.”
The blockhead could only pick himself up and go off again. See him now, striding up the high road, his suspicious heart breeding phantoms: at every step he fancied Pilgrim had transformed and was dogging him, so that at the sight of any thing he took it for Pilgrim.
After seven or eight lǐ, he saw a tiger come running across the hillside; and, unafraid, he brandished his rake and said, “Elder Brother, have you come to listen for my lies? This time I’ll make up none.”
As he went on, a mountain wind blew up exceeding fierce, and with a roar it toppled a dead tree, which rolled to a stop before him. Stamping and beating his breast, he cried, “Brother! What’s this now? I’ve said all along I dare not lie — so why turn into a tree to strike me?”
Going still further, he saw a white-necked old crow that cawed several times right over his head; and he said again, “Brother, shame on you, shame on you! I said I wouldn’t make up tales, and I won’t — so why keep turning into a crow? Have you come to listen?”
Now this time Pilgrim had not in fact followed him at all; it was the pig himself who took fright at his own shadow and guessed wildly, so that nowhere did he go but he suspected Pilgrim was at his side. Of the blockhead’s alarm we say no more for now.
Now that mountain, be it said, was called the Level-Top Mountain, and that cave the Lotus-Flower Cave. In the cave were two fiends: one called Great King Golden-Horn, the other Great King Silver-Horn.
Golden-Horn, sitting at his ease, said to Silver-Horn, “Brother, how long is it since we patrolled the mountain?”
Said Silver-Horn, “Half a month, I should think.”
Said Golden-Horn, “Brother, go make a round for me today.”
Said Silver-Horn, “Why patrol the mountain today?”
Said Golden-Horn, “You don’t know. I’ve lately heard that the Tang court of the East has sent its imperial younger-brother, the Tang Monk, west to bow before the Buddha — a party of four, called Sun the Pilgrim, Zhu Eight Rules, and Sha Monk, five counting the horse. Find out whereabouts he is, and bring him to me.”
Said Silver-Horn, “If it’s men we want to eat, where can’t we snatch a few? Wherever this monk is bound, let him pass.”
Said Golden-Horn, “You don’t understand. When I left the celestial realm in years past, I heard it said among men that the Tang Monk is the Elder Golden Cicada come down into the mortal world, a good man of ten lifetimes’ cultivation, whose primal yang has never once been spent; and whoever eats his flesh will have his years prolonged and his life extended.”
Said Silver-Horn, “If eating his flesh can prolong our years and extend our lives, then why sit in meditation, why build up merit, why refine the dragon and tiger, why mate the female and male? We ought simply to eat him and have done. Let me go and fetch him.”
Said Golden-Horn, “Brother, you’re a bit hasty — don’t rush off just yet. If you go out the gate and, heedless of good or ill, seize any monk you find, then should it not be the Tang Monk, it would not do at all. I remember his likeness, and once had the master and his disciples drawn — a portrait made, a figure sketched. Take it with you, and whenever you meet a monk, check him against it.” And he told him, one by one, which figure bore which name.
Silver-Horn, having got the portrait and learned the names, went out of the cave at once, mustered thirty little fiends, and came up onto the mountain to patrol.
Now as ill luck would have it, just as Eight Rules was going along he ran smack into the pack of fiends, who barred his way and demanded, “What folk are you, come from where?”
The blockhead had but to lift his head and raise his ears — and, seeing they were fiends, he took fright, thinking to himself, “If I say I’m a scripture-seeking monk, they’ll snatch me off.” So he said only that he was a traveller.
The little fiends reported back, “Great King, it’s a traveller.”
Among those thirty little fiends, some knew him and some did not. One standing by, who had heard the descriptions pointed out, said, “Great King, this monk looks like the Zhu Eight Rules in the picture.” They called for the portrait to be hung up.
Eight Rules saw it and cried in alarm, “No wonder I’ve felt out of sorts all this while — it’s that he had my very likeness brought here!”
A little fiend held it up on a spear, and Silver-Horn pointed with his finger. “This one on the white horse is the Tang Monk; this hairy-faced one is Sun the Pilgrim.”
Eight Rules, overhearing, muttered, “City God — leave me out of it, and there’ll be a pig’s head and the three sacrifices, and a purification-rite of twenty-four shares for you.” So he mumbled on, doing nothing but make vows.
The fiend went on. “This dark, tall one is Sha Monk; this long-snouted, big-eared one is Zhu Eight Rules.”
Hearing himself named, the blockhead took fright and tucked his snout away into his bosom to hide it. The fiend called, “Monk, stick out your snout.”
Said Eight Rules, “It’s a birth defect — I can’t stick it out.”
The fiend ordered a little fiend to hook it out. The blockhead, in a fright, stuck his snout out and said, “What a petty fuss! Here it is, isn’t it? Look if you want to look — what’s the good of hooking?”
The fiend, knowing him for Eight Rules, drew his precious sabre and came forward to hack at him. The blockhead raised his rake to fend it off and said, “My boy, mind your manners — mind the rake!”
The fiend laughed. “This monk took up the cloth halfway through life.”
Said Eight Rules, “Good boy, you’ve some wit about you. How did you know your lordship took the cloth halfway?”
Said the fiend, “You know how to wield that rake — surely you were tamping earth in some man’s garden-plot and stole the rake away.”
Said Eight Rules, “My boy, how would you know your lordship’s rake? Mine is nothing like that earth-tamping sort. This is —
Its great teeth cast like a dragon’s claws; wrought and gold-inlaid to a tiger’s form.
Meeting a foe, it sends a cold wind flying; joined in the fray, it makes the fire-flames leap.
It can clear the Tang Monk’s obstacles away, and on the western road seize fiend and sprite.
Swung, it stirs mist and cloud to veil the sun and moon; wielded, it raises dark vapours to dim the Dipper’s stars.
It tamps down Mount Tai till the old tiger quails; it heaves up the great sea till the old dragon starts.
For all your fiendish skill, one blow of this rake — and nine bloody holes.”
The fiend, hearing this, was in no way minded to yield. Wielding his seven-star sword and opening up his fighting forms, he traded blows with Eight Rules back and forth, and they contended on the mountain some twenty rounds without decision. Eight Rules worked himself into a fury and met him with reckless abandon. The fiend, seeing him shake his ears, spew sticky slobber, brandish his rake, and holler and shout, felt no little dread himself, and turned at once to call up the little fiends to fall on him all together.
Had it been one against one, all would have been well enough. But when he saw the little fiends come on all at once, he lost his nerve, could not ward them off, broke and gave way, and turned to run.
Now the ground was uneven, and, not having looked carefully, he was of a sudden tripped by a trailing vine into a stagger. Struggling up and setting off again, he was brought down by a little fiend lying flat on the ground, who caught him by the heel, so that he pitched forward — flop! — into a dog’s-dinner sprawl. A whole troop caught up and pinned him — clutching his bristles, yanking his ears, hauling his feet, dragging his tail — and, heaving and lugging, bore him captive into the cave.
Ah! Truly it was a case of:
A body’s worth of demon-troubles, hard to be undone;
ten thousand kinds of calamity arising, not easily removed.
In the end, whether Zhu Eight Rules’s life was saved or no — listen to the telling in the next chapter.