Sun the Pilgrim brought his cloud down to earth and told his master, point by point, how the Bodhisattva had borrowed back her boys and how Lord Lao had carried off the treasures. Tripitaka gave thanks without end, and with a heart wholly settled he set himself to sincere devotion. Staking his very life on the road west, he gripped the saddle and mounted; Zhu Eight Rules shouldered the luggage, Sha the Monk led the horse by its head, and the Pilgrim, iron rod in hand, cleared the way and struck straight down the high mountain, pressing on. There is no telling all their nights lodged by the water and their meals taken in the wind, braving frost and breasting the dew.
When master and disciples had journeyed a good while, once more a mountain rose to bar the road. From his saddle Tripitaka called out: “Disciples! Look how craggy and towering the mountain stands there. We must be careful and on our guard — I fear some demon-obstacle may beset us again.”
“Master, don’t let your thoughts run wild,” said the Pilgrim. “Only steady your nature and keep your spirit whole, and of themselves there will be no troubles.”
“Disciple, why is the Western Heaven so hard to reach? As I recall, since we left the city of Chang’an spring has ended and summer come, autumn faded and winter arrived, four or five years running — and still we cannot get there.”
At that the Pilgrim laughed aloud. “Early days, early days. We haven’t even stepped out the front gate yet.”
“Brother, don’t tell tall tales,” said Eight Rules. “What house in the world has a gate that big?”
“Little brother, we’re still just wandering about in the main hall.”
Sha the Monk laughed too. “Elder brother, spare us the big talk meant to frighten us. Wherever would there be a main hall so vast — and nowhere could you buy a ridge-beam so huge.”
“Brothers,” said the Pilgrim, “the way old Sun sees it — take the blue sky for roof-tiles, sun and moon for window-lattices, the four mountains and five peaks for beams and pillars, and Heaven and Earth are like one open hall.”
Hearing this, Eight Rules said: “Enough, enough. Let’s just count it as strolling about a while and go home.”
“No need for idle chatter,” said the Pilgrim. “Just keep following old Sun and walk on.”
Now the Great Sage laid the iron rod crosswise on his shoulder, took the Tang Monk firmly in charge, opened a path through the hills and pressed straight on. From his horse the master gazed into the distance — what a mountain prospect it was. Truly it was:
Peaks jagged and sheer brush the Dipper’s handle;
treetops seem almost to touch the clouds of heaven.
Amid banked blue mist, now and then one hears gibbons wailing at the valley’s mouth;
in the shade of tangled green, ever one catches cranes crying among the pines.
Wind-shrieking mountain-sprites stand by the stream, teasing the woodcutter;
seasoned fox-spirits sit on the cliff’s edge, startling the hunter.
A fine mountain!
See how on all eight sides the crags loom high, and on every quarter the slopes are sheer.
Gnarled and ancient pines coil their kingfisher canopies;
withered, broken old trees hang with vine and creeper.
Spring-waters fly and pour; a cold vapour pierces one through, chilling the very hair;
the summits stand towering and sheer; a clear wind stings the eyes and startles the dreaming soul.
At times one hears the great beast roar;
ever one hears the mountain birds calling in their season.
River-deer and stags in herds thread the thorn-brakes, bounding to and fro;
roe-deer and wild sows band together to forage, scampering before and behind.
Stand awhile on the grassy slope — as far as the eye reaches, not a single traveller;
walk on into the deep hollows — on every side there are jackals and wolves.
Surely this is no place where the Buddha-patriarch cultivates the Way —
it is all a haunt of flying birds and running beasts.
The master, trembling and fearful, entered these deep mountains with a desolate heart. He reined in the horse and cried aloud: “Wukong! I —” And what followed came out as verse:
Since with sharpened wits I swore my mountain-vow,
the prince, not staying, saw me off from the city;
on the road I met a three-cornered fellow;
along the way I urged on the horse’s bell.
Over slopes and across ravines I sought the wild mint;
striding ridges and climbing peaks I paid court to the fu-ling fungus.
Guarding myself, my whole frame is like bamboo-sap —
and fennel, when will it return to pay court at the throne?
Hearing this, the Great Sage laughed coldly. “Master, you needn’t fret, and spare yourself this anxiety. Just set your mind at ease and press on — I’ll deliver you a success that comes of itself when the work is done.”
As master and disciples enjoyed the mountain scenery, strolling at an easy pace, before they knew it the red wheel was sinking in the west. Just so:
For ten lǐ the long wayside pavilions — no traveller walks;
in the ninefold heaven above, the stars come out.
On the eight rivers the boats have all put into harbour;
in seven thousand prefectures and counties the gates are all shut.
From the six palaces and five offices the officials return;
on the four seas and three rivers the fishing-lines are laid down.
From two towers the bell and drum resound;
one wheel of bright moon fills all Heaven and Earth.
From his horse the elder gazed into the distance, and saw there in a fold of the mountains tower upon tower, hall stacked upon hall. “Disciples, the sky grows late,” he said. “Luckily there are towers and halls not far off on that side — surely a convent or temple. Let us all go there to lodge for a night, and travel on again tomorrow.”
“Master is right,” said the Pilgrim. “But don’t be hasty — let me first look and see how good or ill it is.”
The Great Sage leapt up into the air, looked carefully, and sure enough it was a temple gate. He saw:
Brick walls flared like the graph for eight, plastered in red;
on the doors to either side, golden nails are driven.
Tier upon tier, towers nestle against the ridge;
rank upon rank, palace-gates lie hidden in the hills.
The Hall of Ten Thousand Buddhas faces the Tathāgata Shrine;
the Tower of the Morning Sun answers the Gate of the Great Hero.
The seven-storied pagoda gathers cloud and beds down mist;
the three holy Buddhas manifest a radiant glory.
Mañjuśrī’s terrace faces the Saṃgharāma hall;
Maitreya’s shrine leans on the Hall of Great Compassion.
Beyond the Mountain-Gazing Tower a blue light dances;
above the Void-Pacing Pavilion purple clouds arise.
At the pine-gate and bamboo-court, green on tender green;
in the abbot’s quarters and meditation halls, clear stillness everywhere.
Elegant and secluded, it furnishes its joys;
on stream after stream and path after path, gladness turns to welcome.
Where meditation is practised, Chan monks expound;
in the music hall, many instruments sound.
On the Sumeru terrace the udumbara petals fall;
before the preaching-altar the palm-leaf scriptures grow.
Truly, the grove screens a Land of the Three Treasures;
the mountains embrace a Palace of Brahmā-kings.
Halfway up the walls, lamp-smoke flickers and gleams;
a line of incense-haze blurs into misty dimness.
The Great Sage brought his cloud down and reported to Tripitaka: “Master, it is indeed a monastery, and a good place to lodge. Let us go.”
The elder gave the horse its head, came straight on, and arrived right before the temple gate. “Master,” said the Pilgrim, “what temple is this one?”
“My horse’s hooves have only just halted, the tips of my feet aren’t even out of the stirrups, and already you ask me what temple it is. What a want of sense!”
“You, sir, have been a monk from childhood; you must have lectured on the Confucian books before you went on to expound the scriptures — well-versed in letters and sense alike — and only then received King Tang’s gracious favour. There are such big characters over the gate. How can you not know them?”
“You reckless ape!” scolded the elder. “You talk without sense. I was just now urging the horse westward, dazzled by the sun’s glare; and though the gate has characters, they are blurred over with dust and grime, so I hadn’t yet made them out.”
Hearing this, the Pilgrim bent his waist, stretched up more than two zhàng tall, wiped away the dust with his hand, and said: “Master, please look.” Above were five great characters: Baolin Temple, Built by Imperial Decree.
The Pilgrim drew in his magic body. “Master, who is to go into this temple to ask for lodging?”
“I shall go in. Your faces are ugly, your speech coarse, your tempers hard and your manner haughty; should you offend the monks of this place and they refuse us lodging, that would turn out badly.”
“If that’s so, then please go in, Master — no need for more words.”
The elder set down his tin staff, unfastened his rain-cape, straightened his robe, pressed his palms together, and went straight in at the temple gate. He saw, within the red-lacquered railings to either side, a pair of vajra-guardians seated on high, sculpted with a fierce and forbidding majesty:
One, iron-faced and steel-whiskered, with a look as if alive;
one, with bristling brows and round eyes as though wrought clear.
The one on the left, his knuckled fist as knobbed as raw iron;
the one on the right, his open palm so ridged and rugged it would outmatch red bronze.
Golden armour of linked rings blazes with light;
bright helmets and embroidered sashes flutter and gleam in the wind.
In the West, truly, they make many offerings to the Buddha;
within the stone censer the incense-fire glows red.
Tripitaka, seeing them, nodded and sighed deeply. “In my Eastern Land, if anyone would fashion great bodhisattvas like these in moulded clay and burn incense in offering to them, then I, your disciple, need not have gone to the Western Heaven at all.”
Just as he was sighing, he came within the second gate, where he saw images of the Four Heavenly Kings — Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Vaiśravaṇa, Virūḍhaka and Virūpākṣa — set to east, north, west and south, in token of timely wind and seasonable rain. Passing within, he saw four tall pines, each with a kingfisher-green canopy so full and spreading it was shaped like a parasol; and looking up of a sudden, he found it was the Great Hero Treasure-Hall.
The elder pressed his palms together in refuge, stretched himself down and made his prostration. His bows finished, he rose, went round behind the Buddha-dais and came to the back door. There he saw an image of the reverse-seated Guanyin of the Southern Sea, delivering all beings; and on the walls there, fashioned by skilled artisans, were all manner of shrimp, fish, crabs and turtles, heads out and tails showing, sporting in the leaping tide and waves of the sea.
The elder nodded again several times and, sighing a thousand sighs, said: “How pitiable! Even the scaled and shelled creatures all worship the Buddha — why then would a human being be unwilling to cultivate the Way?”
Even as he was voicing his admiration, a servitor came out through the three gates. The fellow, suddenly struck by Tripitaka’s rare features and uncommon bearing, hurried forward, made a bow and asked: “Master, where do you come from?”
“This disciple is one dispatched by the throne of Great Tang in the Eastern Land, going to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Today I have come to your precious place; the sky grows late, and I beg the loan of a night’s lodging.”
“Don’t take it amiss, Master — I can’t decide such things. I’m only the fellow here who sweeps the floors, strikes the bell and does the drudgery. Inside there’s an old master who keeps the house; let me go in and report it to him. If he’ll have you stay, I’ll come out and respectfully invite you in; and if he won’t, I dare not keep you waiting.”
“I’ve put you to trouble,” said Tripitaka.
The servitor hurried to the abbot’s quarters and reported: “Your Reverence, someone has come outside.”
The abbot rose at once, changed his robe, settled his Vairocana cap, threw on his kāṣāya, hurried to open the door in welcome, and asked: “Where has this visitor come from?”
The servitor pointed. “Isn’t that a man there, behind the main hall?”
There stood Tripitaka, bare-headed, wearing a twenty-five-strip Dharma robe and, on his feet, a pair of mud-draggled monk’s sandals, leaning aslant by the back door. The abbot, seeing him, flew into a rage.
“You servitor, you’re asking for a beating! Don’t you know that I am the abbot, and come out only to receive gentlemen from the city who come to offer incense? A monk of this sort — why do you make so much of nothing and report him for me to receive? Look at that face of his: no honest man; most likely a wandering mendicant, and now the day’s late he’ll be wanting to beg a night’s lodging. Would I let him disturb our abbot’s quarters? Just send him to squat under the front verandah and be done. Why report to me?”
And he turned on his heel and went off.
The elder, hearing this, brimmed with tears. “How pitiful, how pitiful! This indeed is what it means: away from home, a man is held cheap. I, your disciple, left home as a small child and became a monk; never at my penances have I eaten meat or harboured evil thoughts, never at the scriptures have I nursed anger and spoiled the meditative mind; nor have I flung tile or hurled brick to damage a Buddha-hall, nor stripped the true gold from an arhat’s face. Alas! How pitiful! I know not in what former life I offended Heaven and Earth, that in this present life I so often meet with unkind men.
“Monk, if you won’t lodge us, well and good; but why speak such slovenly words and send us to squat under the front verandah? It’s just as well not to tell the Pilgrim this; for if I did, and that monkey came in, one round of his iron rod would snap the very ankle-bones of you.”
Then he rallied. “Well, let it be, let it be. As the common saying goes, a man puts rites and music first. Let me go in and ask him once, and see how his mind inclines.”
The master, treading in the servitor’s footsteps, followed him in through the door of the abbot’s quarters. He saw the abbot, robe now off, sitting there in a huff — whether reciting sūtras or drafting some ritual document for a patron there was no telling — with a heap of papers piled on the desk before him. Tripitaka, not daring to go far in, stood in the courtyard, bowed, and called out: “Venerable prior, this disciple pays his respects.”
The monk, plainly none too pleased that the visitor had come inside, returned the greeting half-heartedly. “Where are you from?”
“This disciple is one dispatched by the throne of Great Tang in the Eastern Land, bound for the Western Heaven to worship the living Buddha and seek the scriptures. Passing your precious place, and the day being late, I beg a night’s lodging; tomorrow I’ll be gone before daybreak. I earnestly beg the venerable prior to oblige me.”
Only then did the abbot half-rise. “Are you that Tang Tripitaka?”
“I dare not claim it — but I am he.”
“If you’re bound for the Western Heaven to fetch scriptures, how is it you can’t even find your way?”
“This disciple has never yet travelled the road of your honoured district.”
“Due west, only four or five lǐ off, there’s a Thirty-Lǐ Inn, with folk selling food — convenient, and good for lodging. Here it’s not convenient; I can’t lodge you monks come from afar.”
Tripitaka pressed his palms together. “Prior, the ancients had a saying: convents and abbeys, temples and cloisters are all the way-stations of us who travel; at the sight of a temple gate one is due three shēng of rice. Why then do you not lodge me? What feeling is this?”
“You wandering monk,” shouted the abbot, “you’ve a glib and oily tongue, that’s what.”
“What do you mean, a glib and oily tongue?”
“The ancients said: when a tiger comes into town, every household bars its door. Though he bites no one, his reputation was ruined long before.”
“How, his reputation was ruined long before?”
“Some years ago a party of itinerant monks came and sat down at our temple gate. Seeing how poor they were — every one in torn clothes and without shoes, bare-headed and barefoot — I pitied their raggedness, hastily asked them into the abbot’s quarters, seated them in the places of honour, served them a vegetarian meal, lent each an old garment of mine, and let them stay a few days. Who’d have known they’d covet their ease and their board, never once think of moving on, and end by staying seven or eight whole years? Their staying would have been one thing — but they went and did all manner of dishonest things besides.”
“What dishonest things?”
“Listen and I’ll tell you:”
At leisure, they flung tiles along the walls;
out of boredom, prised the nails from the plaster.
On cold days, for firewood, they broke up the window-lattices.
On summer days they hauled off doors to block the paths.
Temple banners they tore up for foot-bindings;
fine incense they filched and traded for turnips.
The glazed lamps they were forever tipping to pour off the oil.
And they’d snatch bowls and snatch pots to wager on their games.
Tripitaka, hearing this, thought to himself: “How pitiful! Am I, your disciple, that sort of spineless monk?” He wanted to weep, but feared the old monk of the temple would laugh at him; so he only secretly tugged his sleeve to wipe his tears, swallowed his anger in silence, hurried out, and found his three disciples.
The Pilgrim, seeing the anger in his master’s face, came forward. “Master, did the temple monks beat you?”
“They didn’t beat me.”
“They must have beaten you,” said Eight Rules. “If not, why the sound of blubbering?”
“Did they curse you?”
“They didn’t curse me either.”
“If they neither beat you nor cursed you, why are you so distressed? Could it be you’re homesick?”
“Disciple, it isn’t convenient here.”
The Pilgrim laughed. “The folk here must be Daoists, I suppose?”
“It’s abbeys that have Daoists,” said Tripitaka crossly. “A temple has only monks.”
“You’re no use at this. If they’re monks, then they’re of a kind with us. As the saying goes: all who are gathered beneath the Buddha’s assembly are people bound by affinity. You sit here; let me go in and have a look.”
The excellent Pilgrim gave a tug at the gold fillet on his crown, cinched the kilt at his waist, gripped his iron rod, went straight up into the Great Hero Hall and, pointing at the three sacred images, said: “You there — mere figures of moulded clay and gilded pretence: is there no efficacy within you? I, old Sun, am escorting the holy monk of Great Tang to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and fetch the true scriptures; tonight I have come here on purpose to lodge, so be quick and give me your name. But if you won’t lodge us, one round of my cudgel will smash your gilt bodies and turn you back into your true shape — clay and earth.”
Just as the Great Sage was venting his fury out front, storming and talking wild, a servitor who had come to burn the evening incense lit a few sticks and went to set them in the censer before the Buddha. At a bark from the Pilgrim he was so startled he tumbled over; and when he scrambled up and saw the face, he fell over again. Then, staggering and reeling in terror, he ran into the abbot’s quarters and reported: “Your Reverence, there’s a monk come outside.”
“You servitors all deserve a beating,” said the abbot. “I told you once already to send him to squat under the front verandah — why report again? Say it again and it’s twenty strokes.”
“Your Reverence, this monk is not like the other one: he’s fierce and rough, and has no backbone.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s got round eyes, splayed ears, a face all over hair, and a mouth like the Thunder Duke’s. He’s holding a cudgel, gnashing his teeth ferociously, looking for someone to hit.”
“Let me go out and look.”
He opened the door — and there was the Pilgrim, barging straight in. Truly he was hideous to behold: a rugged, jutting ankle-bone of a face, two yellow eyes, a knobbed forehead, and fangs growing outward. He was rather like a crab: the flesh on the inside, the bones on the out.
The old monk was so alarmed he shut the door of his quarters. The Pilgrim caught up, smashed the door-leaves open with a bang, and said: “Look sharp and sweep out a thousand clean rooms — old Sun means to sleep.”
The abbot, cowering in his room, said to the servitor: “No wonder he looks so hideous — it turns out that ugly face is what comes of talking big. All told — abbot’s quarters, Buddha-hall, bell-and-drum tower, and both galleries — we haven’t three hundred rooms, and he wants a thousand to sleep in. Where’s it to come from?”
“Master, I’m a man scared out of his wits already — answer him however you like.”
The abbot, trembling all over, called out in a loud voice: “That lodging-elder — this poor little hill of ours is not convenient; I dare not keep you. Go elsewhere to lodge.”
The Pilgrim made his cudgel swell to the thickness of a washtub and stood it bolt upright in the courtyard. “Monk, if it’s not convenient, then you move out.”
“We’ve lived in this temple since childhood,” said the abbot. “Grand-master handed it to master, master handed it to us, and we mean to pass it down to our disciples’ disciples for generations. Heaven knows what business of his this is, that so rashly he’d have us move out.”
“Your Reverence,” said the servitor, “it’s altogether awkward — moving out or not, the cudgel’s already come battering in at the door.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. There are four or five hundred of us monks, old and young — where are we to move to? Move out, and there’d be nowhere to live.”
Hearing this, the Pilgrim said: “Monk, if there’s nowhere to move to, then send one man out to take a sample blow.”
The old monk called to the servitor: “You go out and take a sample blow for me.”
The servitor was aghast. “My lord! A great club like that, and you’d send me to take a sample blow?”
“Rear a soldier a thousand days to use him for a single morning. Why won’t you go out?”
“Never mind its striking me — if that pole just toppled over, it would crush me to a pulp.”
“Never mind its crushing you. Say it just stands there in the courtyard, and walking about at night, if you forgot, you’d butt a great hole in your own head.”
“Master, you know yourself how heavy it is — and you’d still send me out to take a sample blow?”
And so among themselves they fell to squabbling.
The Pilgrim, hearing them, said: “It really can’t be borne — but if I killed one man with a single stroke, my master would blame me again for cruelty. Let me find something else to strike, and show you.” Raising his head, he saw a stone lion outside the abbot’s door, lifted his cudgel, and with a single crash smashed it to powder and crumbs.
The monk, watching through the window-hole, was so terrified his bones went soft and his sinews slack, and he scrambled under the bed; and the servitor burrowed into the stove-mouth, crying without pause: “My lord, the cudgel’s heavy, the cudgel’s heavy — I can’t bear it — mercy, mercy!”
“Monk, I won’t hit you,” said the Pilgrim. “Let me ask you: how many monks are there in this temple?”
“All told,” said the abbot, trembling, “there are two hundred and eighty-five quarters, with five hundred ordained monks holding ordination certificates.”
“Go quickly and muster all five hundred monks in neat order, put on their long robes, go out and welcome in that Tang master of mine — and I won’t beat you.”
“My lord, if there’s to be no beating, we’ll carry him in if need be.”
“Look sharp about it.”
The abbot called to the servitor: “Never mind your gall being burst — even if your very heart were burst, you’ll go and call these men for me, to come and welcome the Venerable Tang.”
The servitor, at his wits’ end, risked his neck: not daring the door, he wriggled out through the dog-hole in the back, went straight up to the main hall, and beat the drum on the east side and struck the bell on the west. As bell and drum sounded together, they startled the monks great and small in both galleries, who came up to the hall and asked: “It’s early yet, not late — what’s the bell and drum for?”
“Quick, change your robes, form ranks behind the old master, and go out the temple gate to welcome the lord come from Tang.”
The monks, sure enough, formed up in good order and marched out to welcome him. Some had draped on their kāṣāyas; some had put on the shoulder-robe; those with neither wore a bell-shaped gown; and the very poorest, having no long robe, joined two waist-cloths together and draped them over their bodies.
The Pilgrim, seeing this, said: “Monk, what sort of robe is that you’re wearing?”
The monk, seeing how fierce he looked, said: “My lord, don’t hit me — let me explain. This is cloth we begged in the city; there’s no tailor here, so we made it ourselves — a one-wrap poverty.”
The Pilgrim laughed to himself, herded the monks out the temple gate, and had them kneel. The abbot, knocking his head on the ground, called out: “Venerable Tang, please come and sit in the abbot’s quarters.”
Eight Rules, seeing this, said: “Master, you’re really no good at all: when you went in, you were all tears, your lip drooping fit to hang an oil bottle on. How is it Elder Brother has such cunning, to make them kowtow and come out to receive us?”
“You blockhead, how ill-versed in manners you are,” said Tripitaka. “As the saying goes: even ghosts fear a fierce man.”
Seeing them kowtow and bow, he felt quite unable to bear it, and stepped forward calling: “Gentlemen, please rise.”
The monks knocked their heads. “My lord, if you’d but say a kind word to your disciple not to wield the pole, we’d kneel a whole month and gladly.”
“Wukong, don’t beat them.”
“I haven’t beaten them,” said the Pilgrim. “If I had, by now their stock would be snapped off at the root.”
Only then did the monks rise: some leading the horse, some shouldering the loads, they bore Tripitaka along, carried Eight Rules, led Sha the Monk, and all together went in through the temple gate to the abbot’s quarters at the back, where they sat down in order of rank.
The monks then bowed once more. “Prior, please rise,” said Tripitaka. “No need for further bowing — it only abases this poor monk. You and I are alike disciples of the Buddha’s gate.”
“Your Lordship is an envoy of the superior kingdom; this humble monk failed to welcome you properly. Now that you’ve come to our poor hill — alas that these worldly eyes failed to know your honoured presence, and met your Lordship as if by mere chance. May I ask your Lordship: on the road, do you keep to a vegetarian diet, or do you eat meat, so that we may go and prepare the meal?”
“Vegetarian.”
The abbot turned to his disciples. “This lord here surely eats meat.”
“We eat vegetarian too,” said the Pilgrim. “Vegetarian from the womb.”
“My lord! A fierce fellow like this eats vegetarian too?”
One bolder monk came forward and asked further: “Since your Lordships eat vegetarian, how much rice must we cook for a meal to be enough?”
“You stingy little monk, why ask?” said Eight Rules. “Each household cooks up a whole dàn of rice.”
The monks were all thrown into a panic, and went off to scour the pots and stoves and lay out food in every cell. They raised the bright lamps, set out tables and chairs, and waited on Tripitaka.
When master and disciples had finished the evening meal, the monks cleared away the cooking things. “Venerable prior, I’ve troubled your precious mountain,” said Tripitaka.
“Not at all, not at all. We’ve been remiss, remiss.”
“And are we, master and disciples, to rest here?”
“Don’t trouble yourself, my lord; this humble monk has his own arrangements.” He called: “Servitor — over on that side, are there some men to take orders?”
“Master, there are.”
“Send two of you to see to fodder and feed the Venerable Tang’s horse. Send several to the three-bay meditation hall in front, sweep it clean, spread the bedding, and be quick to invite the lord to his rest.”
The servitors, at his command, each set all in readiness, and then came to invite the Venerable Tang to retire. Master and disciples led the horse and shouldered the loads, left the abbot’s quarters, and came to the door of the meditation hall to look — and there inside was bright lamplight, with four rattan-slat beds spread out in the two end-bays. The Pilgrim called the servitor who tended the fodder to carry it in, set it inside the hall, tethered the white horse, and told the servitors all to go out. Tripitaka sat down in the middle.
Beneath the lamps stood the five hundred monks drawn up in two ranks, all waiting in attendance, not daring to withdraw. Tripitaka half-rose. “Gentlemen, please withdraw, that this poor monk may rest at ease.”
The monks would by no means dare to withdraw. The abbot came forward and instructed the assembly: “Wait on his Lordship until he’s settled, then return.”
“This is settled enough,” said Tripitaka. “You may all withdraw now.”
Only then did they venture to disperse.
Tripitaka stepped out the door to relieve himself, and, seeing the bright moon filling the sky, called: “Disciples.” The Pilgrim, Eight Rules and Sha the Monk all came out and stood in attendance. Moved by the moon’s pure, bright radiance and the deep serenity of the jade heavens — a single orb hung high, and the whole earth was distinct beneath it — gazing at the moon and longing for home, he composed aloud a long poem in the old style. The poem ran:
The bright disc hangs in the void, a jewelled mirror suspended;
mountains and rivers shake their reflections, whole and complete.
Jade towers and halls brim with its clear light;
an icy mirror, a silver platter, the crisp air wheels about it.
For ten thousand lǐ, this hour, all share its purity;
of the whole year, this night it shines most fresh and bright.
Just like a frost-cake risen from the grey sea,
or an icy wheel hung in the sapphire sky.
By a cold window in a strange lodging, the lone traveller frets;
in a hill-village wayside inn, the old man sleeps.
Falling of a sudden on the Han gardens, it startles autumn temples grey;
just reaching the towers of Qin, it hastens the evening toilet-case.
Yǔ Liàng left verses that pass down in the Jin annals;
Yuán Hóng, unsleeping, drifted in his river-boat.
Its light floats on the cup’s face, cold and without force;
its clarity shines in the courtyard — vigorous, as though a spirit were there.
Everywhere at lattice and window they chant the White Snow;
in every courtyard they finger icy strings.
Tonight I quietly savour it, come to this mountain temple;
on what day, all together, shall we return to the old garden?
The Pilgrim, hearing this, came forward and answered: “Master, you know only the moon’s bright splendour, and your heart turns to your old home; you do not know that the moon’s inner meaning is a rule and measure of the pre-celestial symbols.
“When the moon reaches the thirtieth day, the metal of its yang-soul is wholly dispersed, and the water of its yin-anima fills the disc; so it is pure black and without light, and this is called the dark of the moon. At this time it conjoins with the sun, and in the two days of the dark and the new moon, being stirred by the sun’s yang it conceives. By the third day one yang appears, by the eighth two yang are born; the soul is half within the anima, level as a marking-line — and this is called the first quarter. By the fifteenth day the three yang are complete and full, and so it is round and whole — and this is called the full moon. By the sixteenth day one yin is born, by the twenty-second two yin; now the anima is half within the soul, level as a marking-line — and this is called the last quarter. By the thirtieth day the three yin are complete, and again it is the dark of the moon.
“This is the meaning of pre-celestial gathering and refining. If we can nurture the two-times-eight and bring the nine-times-nine to completion, then to see the Buddha will be easy, and to return to the old field easy as well.”
A poem says:
After the first quarter and before the last,
the flavour of the medicine is even and balanced, its aspect complete.
Having gathered it, bring it home to refine in the furnace;
set your heart on the work’s fruit, and that is the Western Heaven.
The elder, hearing this, in a moment grasped it and understood clearly the true words. Filled with joy, he thanked Wukong.
Sha the Monk, at his side, said with a smile: “Brother, though your words are apt, they tell only of how before the quarter belongs to yang and after the quarter to yin — the yang half within the yin, the metal that has got its water; but he does not go on to say:”
Water and fire mingle, each by its own affinity,
relying wholly on the Earth-Mother to match them so.
When the three houses meet together without contention —
water lies in the long river, the moon hangs in the sky.
The elder, hearing it, had his ignorance too unblocked. Just so:
When the principle is clear, one aperture opens a thousand;
expound the No-Birth, and that itself is immortality.
Eight Rules came forward and tugged at the elder. “Master, don’t listen to their wild talk and lose your sleep over it. As for this moon:”
Waned but a little while, it rounds out again —
like me, born never quite complete.
At meals they grudge me my big belly;
when I take up a bowl they say I slobber.
They’re all clever and have cultivated their blessings;
I’m just a dolt who’s piled up a bit of karmic merit.
I say your scripture-fetching just pays off the karma of the three evil paths —
then you’ll wag your tail and shake your head and go straight up to heaven.
“Well, so be it,” said Tripitaka. “Disciples, you’re worn out from the road; go and lie down first. Let me take this scroll of scripture and recite it a while.”
“Master, you’re mistaken,” said the Pilgrim. “You left home in your youth and became a monk — of the scriptures you learned as a boy, which volume aren’t you fluent in? And you’ve received the Tang Emperor’s command besides, to go to the Western Heaven, behold the Buddha, and fetch the true canon of the Great Vehicle. As it is, the work is not yet done, the Buddha not yet seen, the scriptures not yet fetched — which scroll of scripture is it you’re reciting?”
“Since I left Chang’an, morning after morning trudging, day after day toiling, I’m afraid the scriptures of my boyhood have grown rusty. Lucky to have this evening free, let me run over them once again.”
“If that’s how it is, we’ll go to sleep first.”
The three of them each lay down to sleep on a rattan bed. The elder closed the meditation-hall door, trimmed the silver lamp high, spread open the scripture, and read it silently. And it was just as:
At the tower-top the first drum sounds, the cooking-smoke grown still;
by the wild shore the fisher-boat’s fire is at its dying.
In the end there is no knowing how that elder came to leave the temple; so listen to the explanation in the next instalment.