Now Tripitaka sat beneath the lamp in the meditation hall of Baolin Temple, reading a while in the Litany of Emperor Liang, reading a while in the True Sutra of the Peacock; and when his sitting had reached the hour of the third watch, he wrapped his scripture-book back into its wallet. He was just about to rise and go to sleep when he heard, beyond the door, a rustling, crackling burst of sound, and a swirling gust of wild wind came sweeping in. Fearing the lamp would be blown out, the elder hastily drew the sleeve of his cassock across to shield it; and he saw, too, that the lamp now brightened, now dimmed, and he felt his heart start with a shiver of dread.
By now weariness had come over him as well, and he slumped across the sutra-desk in a doze. Though his eyes were shut in a haze, his mind within was still clear. In his ears there was a faint humming as he listened to the shadowy wind soughing beyond the window. A fine wind indeed! Truly it was like this:
Pattering and sighing, drifting and swirling.
Pattering and sighing, it sends the fallen leaves flying;
drifting and swirling, it rolls the floating clouds.
The stars that crowd the sky are all dimmed to gloom;
the dust and sand across the earth are flung in scattering confusion.
One gust drives fierce, one gust drives pure.
In its pure moments pine and bamboo strike a clear tune;
in its fierce reaches the rivers and lakes churn their waves to turbid confusion;
It blows till the mountain birds, unable to roost, cry with a choking sob,
and the sea fish, unable to hold, leap spouting and gasping;
East and west, the doors and windows of hall and lodge are wrenched loose;
front and back, in corridor and chamber the very spirits glower;
In the Buddha-hall the flower-vase is blown to the floor;
the glazed lamp is shaken down, and the lamp of wisdom dims;
The censer tilts and topples, its incense-ash bursting out;
the candle-stand leans awry, its flame guttering to smoke.
Banners and pennants, jewelled canopies all sway and split apart;
the bell-and-drum tower is shaken to its very roots.
The elder, in his clouded dream, listened as the sound of the wind swept by for a moment; and then he heard, faintly, from beyond the Chan hall, a voice calling out, “Master!” Lifting his head abruptly, he looked about within the dream: beyond the door stood a fellow, drenched and dripping from head to foot, tears falling from his eyes, crying out ceaselessly only, “Master!”
Tripitaka rose a little and said, “Are you not some goblin or sprite, some spirit-fiend or heterodox demon, come in the dead of night to sport with me? I am not of that sort given over to greed and to wrath. I am at heart a monk upright and true, who by the decree of the Great Tang in the Land of the East goes up to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Under my hand are three disciples, heroes all who subdue dragons and tame tigers, stalwarts who sweep away monsters and rid the world of demons. Should they set eyes on you, they would grind your corpse and pound your bones to powder, and scatter you as fine dust. This I say out of my great compassion, my heart of expedient mercy. Betimes now hide yourself away and flee afar; do not come up to my Chan gate.”
The man, leaning firm against the Chan hall, said, “Master, I am no demon or ogre, nor any goblin or heterodox spirit.”
“If you are not of that kind,” said Tripitaka, “then for what do you come here in the deep of night?”
“Master,” said the man, “spare a glance and take one look at me.”
The elder looked indeed, with fixed and careful gaze — ah! — and he saw only this of him:
On his head a sky-piercing crown;
round his waist a belt of green jade;
on his body a russet-yellow robe of soaring dragons and dancing phoenixes;
on his feet a pair of cloud-toed, embroidered-mouthed “sorrow-free” shoes;
in his hand a white-jade tablet set with the Dipper and arrayed stars.
His face like the Long-Life Emperor of the Eastern Peak;
his form like Lord Wenchang, opener of civilization.
When Tripitaka saw this, he was struck with alarm and lost all colour; hastily bowing, he cried out in a sharp voice, “Of which court are you the sovereign? Pray, be seated.” He reached out a hand in haste to help him up, only to clutch at empty air. Turning back and settling into his seat, he looked once more — and there was still the same man.
The elder then asked, “Your Majesty, of what land are you emperor? Sovereign of what realm? Surely your realm is unquiet, slandering ministers oppress and abuse, and you have fled for your life in the dead of night to come here. Whatever you have to say, say it and let me hear.”
Only then did the man, tears dropping along his cheeks, speak of things past, and, with sorrow gathered upon his brows, pour out the cause behind it. “Master, my home lies due west, only some forty lǐ distant from here. In that quarter stands a walled city — the very place where I raised my domain.”
“And what is the place called?” said Tripitaka.
“I will not deceive you, Master: it is the very realm I once founded and established, which I renamed the Kingdom of the Black Rooster.”
“Your Majesty being so alarmed and distraught — for what matter have you come to this pass?”
“Master, five years ago here the seasons brought a drought; the grass and its seed would not grow, the people all starved to death — a most grievous thing.”
Hearing this, Tripitaka nodded and said with a smile, “Your Majesty, the ancients said: 'When the realm is upright, the mind of Heaven is compliant.' It must be that you failed to cherish and relieve your myriad people; and having met with dearth and famine, how could you then slink away and abandon your city walls? Rather go and open your granaries, relieve the black-haired folk, repent your former wrongs and revive present good; pardon those wronged by the perversion of law, and of itself the mind of Heaven will be brought into accord, with rains timely and winds temperate.”
“Within my kingdom the granaries stood empty,” said the man, “the money and grain wholly exhausted. The two ranks of civil and military officers had their stipends suspended, and I, the solitary one, took no meat even at my table. In imitation of King Yu taming the floods, I shared sweet and bitter alike with my myriad people; I bathed and fasted, and burned incense in prayer by day and by night. So it went for three years, until it was dry indeed — the rivers withered, the wells run dry.
“Just when all was at its most perilous, of a sudden there came from Mount Zhongnan a Quanzhen adept, who could summon wind and call up rain, and turn stone to gold at a touch. He first met my many civil and military officers, and afterwards had audience with me; I straightway invited him to mount the altar and pray, and truly there was a response: no sooner had his command-tablet cracked than in an instant the great rain came pouring down. I had hoped only for three chǐ of rain to suffice; but he said that after so long a drought it would not soak deep enough, and let fall two cùn more. Seeing him so devoted to righteousness, I made him my sworn friend with the eight bows, and addressed him as a brother.”
“This, Your Majesty, is cause for a thousand, ten thousand congratulations,” said Tripitaka.
“Whence should any joy come?”
“Since that Quanzhen adept had such powers — when you wanted rain, you had only to bid him send rain; when you wanted gold, you had only to bid him make gold. What was still wanting, that you should leave your city walls and come to this?”
“I shared bed and board with him for a bare two years. Then, meeting the balmy weather of spring — red apricots and tender peaches bursting into flower — family upon family with its ladies and gentlemen, and everywhere the sons of nobility, all went out to roam the spring and take their pleasure. At that season, the civil and military officers returned to their offices, and the palace consorts withdrew to their courts.
“I and that Quanzhen adept walked hand in hand at a slow pace, until we came to the garden, and of a sudden reached the eight-cornered glazed-tile well; I know not what he cast down into it, but within the well there rose ten thousand shafts of golden light. He coaxed me to the well's edge to look at some treasure; then, his cruel heart rising, with a splash he pushed me, the solitary one, down into the well, laid a stone slab over its mouth, heaped earth upon it, and moved a plantain to plant above. Pity me — three years already dead, a wronged ghost drowned in a well, my life cut short.”
When the Tang Monk heard he was a ghost, he was so startled his sinews went limp and his hair stood on end. There was no help for it; he could only put words to it and question him once more. “Your Majesty, what you say is altogether against reason. Having been dead three years, would not your many civil and military officers, your three palaces of empresses, at the court audiences before the throne, then seek after you?”
“Master, when it comes to that one's arts, they are rare indeed in this world. Ever since he did me to death, he then and there in the garden shook himself and transformed, and became my very likeness, without the least difference. Now he holds my rivers and hills, and secretly usurps my land. My two ranks of civil and military officers, my four hundred court officials, my three palaces of empresses, my six courts of consorts — all are become his.”
“Your Majesty, you are far too meek.”
“How, meek?”
“Your Majesty, since that fiend does have some powers — transformed into your likeness, usurping your realm, so that the officials cannot tell and the consorts cannot know, and only you, in death, see it clearly — why do you not lay a complaint before King Yama in the courts of the shades, and pour out the wrong done you?”
“His powers are vast, and the officials of the shades are on close terms with him: the Metropolitan City-God often takes wine with him, the Dragon King of the sea is wholly his kin, the Equal-to-Heaven of the Eastern Peak is his good friend, and the Ten Kings of Yama are his sworn brothers. For this reason, I too have no gate at which to lay my plaint.”
“Your Majesty, if in the courts of the shades you have no means to accuse him, then for what do you come to my world of the living?”
“Master, how should this single wisp of a wronged soul dare come up to your gate? Before the mountain gate stand those dharma-guarding devas, the Six Ding and Six Jia, the Warders of the Five Quarters, the Merit-Officers of the Four Watches, and the eighteen guardians of the Sangha — close about the saddle and horse. It was only because the Night-Roaming Spirit, with a gust of divine wind, sent me in here. He said my three years' water-doom was now fulfilled, and had me come to pay my respects to you, Master. He said that under your hand is a great disciple, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, most able to slay monsters and subdue demons. I come now with all my heart to entreat you: I beg you, come to my kingdom, seize the demon, and make plain the false from the true. I shall knot grass and bear rings to repay your kindness, Master.”
“Your Majesty,” said Tripitaka, “have you come to ask my disciple to go and rid you of that fiend?”
“Just so, just so.”
“My disciple is of little use at other tasks, but at subduing fiends and catching monsters he is exactly suited. Yet, Your Majesty, though I might set him to seize the fiend, I fear that in principle it cannot well be done.”
“Why can it not be done?”
“Since that fiend has powers so vast that he has transformed into your very likeness; the whole court, civil and military, is with him to a man, in word agreeing and in heart compliant; the consorts of the three palaces, every one, are of one mind and one accord with him. Though my disciple has his arts, he would never dare lightly to raise shield and spear. Were he seized by the throng of officials, charged with cheating the realm and destroying the state, arraigned on a count of high treason, and trapped within the city — would that not be to paint a tiger and carve a swan?”
“There is yet someone within my court.”
“Good, good. It must be some prince of the reigning line, a senior of the court — has he been sent off to garrison somewhere?”
“It is not so. In my own palace I have a crown prince, the heir of my own begetting.”
“That crown prince — surely the fiend has demoted him?”
“He has not. He stays only in the Hall of the Golden Bells and the Tower of Five Phoenixes, now expounding texts with the academicians, now attending upon the Quanzhen adept at court. For three years now the prince has been forbidden the inner palace, unable to meet with the queen his mother.”
“And what is the reason for this?”
“This is a stratagem the fiend has laid. He fears only that mother and son, meeting, might in idle talk let out the ins and outs of it, and so the secret escape. And so the two do not meet, and he gets to dwell forever and abide unmoved.”
“Your calamity, I suppose, was Heaven's own assigning,” said Tripitaka, “and it is much like my own. In that time my own father was slain by a water-bandit; my mother was seized and forced by the bandit, and after three months gave birth to me. I escaped with my life upon the water, and by good fortune the kind master of Jinshan Monastery reared me to manhood. I recall that in my own childhood I had neither father nor mother; and here this crown prince has lost both his parents — truly pitiable!” He asked further, “Even if you have a crown prince at court, how am I to meet with him?”
“How should you not get to meet him?”
“Held in the fiend's grip, he cannot even see the mother who bore him — how then should a mere monk find a way to see him?”
“He comes out from court tomorrow at dawn.”
“Out from court to do what?”
“Tomorrow at the morning court he will lead three thousand horse and foot, take hawk and hound, and go out from the city to hunt; there, Master, you will surely get to meet him. When you meet, if you will but take my words and tell them to him, he will then believe.”
“He is but flesh-and-blood of mortal eye, deceived by the fiend upon the throne — which day does he not call him 'father-king' many times over? How should he be willing to believe my words?”
“If you fear he will not believe, then let me leave a token with you.”
“What object is it?”
The man set down the gold-mounted white-jade tablet he held in his hand, and said, “This object may serve as a proof.”
“What of this object?”
“Ever since the Quanzhen adept took on my likeness, this one treasure alone he failed to counterfeit. Come into the palace, he gave out that the rain-summoning Quanzhen adept had made off with this tablet. For three years since, the thing has still been wanting. Should my crown prince see it, then, the object recalling the man, this wrong will surely be avenged.”
“Very well; let me keep it, and set my disciple to deal with the matter for you. But where shall I await him?”
“I dare not wait, either. Going now, I shall further entreat the Night-Roaming Spirit to raise once more a gust of divine wind and send me into the inner courts of the palace, there to lodge a dream with my own principal queen — that mother and son may be brought to one mind, and you, master and disciples, to one heart.”
Tripitaka nodded in assent. “Go, then.”
The wronged soul kowtowed and took his leave; and as Tripitaka stepped forward to see him off, somehow he stubbed his foot and tumbled head over heels — which startled Tripitaka awake, and it proved, after all, but a Dream of Nanke. Flustered, facing that dim lamp, he called out in haste, “Disciples! Disciples!”
Bajie woke and said, “What is this 'earth-god, earth-god'? Back when I was a stout fellow, I lived by eating men and nothing else, feasting on rank flesh — truly a merry life; but you, of all people, left the world, and set us to guard you and run the roads. It was said I would only be a monk, and now I am made a slave — by day shouldering the baggage and leading the horse, by night fetching the piss-pot and tending your feet! At this hour, not sleeping, what do you call your disciples for now?”
“Disciple, just now, dozing over the desk, I had a strange dream.”
Pilgrim sprang up and said, “Master, dreams come out of one's thoughts. You have not yet gone up the mountain, and already you fear monsters; you fret, too, that the road to Thunderclap is long and cannot be reached; you long for Chang'an, not knowing what day you will turn homeward: and so, the more the heart frets, the more it dreams. As for old Sun's single true heart, set wholly on seeing the Buddha in the West — not one dream ever comes to me.”
“Disciple, this dream of mine is no dream of homesickness. No sooner had I closed my eyes than, as a gust of wild wind swept past, beyond the Chan-chamber door there stood an emperor of some court, who called himself the king of the Black-Rooster Kingdom. Drenched from head to foot, his eyes brimming with tears.” Thus and thus, so and so — he told Pilgrim, one by one, all the words of the dream.
Pilgrim laughed and said, “No need to say more — his coming to lodge a dream with you is plainly a piece of business thrown old Sun's way. Surely it is some fiend there, usurping the throne and seizing the state; let me sort out for him the true from the false. I fancy that where old Sun's cudgel reaches that fiend, the work will be done and the deed accomplished.”
“Disciple, he says that fiend's powers are vast.”
“What do I care how vast his powers? Let him but learn old Sun has come, and I will make him bolt with nowhere to run.”
“And I recall, too, that he left a treasure behind as a token.”
Bajie answered, “Master, do not talk nonsense; it was only a dream and there is an end of it — why keep taking it for real?”
Sha Seng said, “'Trust not the straight within the straight; be wary of the kindly-that-is-unkind.' Let us strike a light, open the door, and take a look — that will settle it.”
Pilgrim did indeed open the door, and as they looked together, there in the light of stars and moon, upon the step beneath the eaves, truly there lay a gold-mounted white-jade tablet. Bajie stepped up and took it. “Elder brother, what thing is this?”
“This is the treasure the king held in his hand, called the jade tablet. Master, since we have this object, I think the matter must be true. Tomorrow's catching of the fiend rests wholly upon old Sun. Only, it will call for three turns of low luck on your part.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” said Bajie, “it was only a dream, and yet you told him of it. When does he ever not make sport of folk? And now he would have you suffer three turns of low luck.”
Tripitaka went back inside and said, “Which three turns?”
“Tomorrow you must carry the crock, take the blame, and meet with the plague.”
Bajie laughed. “Even one turn would be hard — how am I to bear all three?”
The Tang Monk, a shrewd elder, then asked, “Disciple, how are these three matters to be understood?”
“No need to explain; let me first give you two things.”
The fine Great Sage plucked a hair, blew on it a breath of immortal air, and cried, “Change!” It became a box of red-gold lacquer, and setting the white-jade tablet inside it, he said, “Master, take this thing and cradle it in your hands; when day breaks, put on the brocade cassock, go and sit in the main hall to chant the sutras, and let me go take a look at that city of his. If he is truly a fiend, then to strike him dead would be to set up a merit here; but if he is not, do not go courting disaster.”
“Just so, just so,” said Tripitaka.
“If that crown prince does not come out of the city, let it rest; but if indeed, answering the dream, he does come out, I will surely bring him to see you.”
“When he has seen me, how am I to receive him?”
“When he comes, I will report to you first. You pull open the lid of that casket a little, and let me change into a little monk two cùn tall, set inside the casket, and you cradle me together with it in your hands. When that crown prince enters the temple, he will surely bow to the Buddha. Let him bow however he will — only, take no notice of him. Seeing you will not stir, he is certain to have you seized. Let him seize you as he pleases: beat you if he will, bind you if he will, kill you if he will.”
“Aiya!” said Tripitaka. “His military authority is great; should he really kill me, what then?”
“No matter — I am here; when it comes to the truly critical moment, I will of course protect you. Should he ask, say you are a monk sent by imperial commission from the Eastern Land, going up to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha, fetch the scriptures, and present treasures. He will say, 'What treasures have you?' You then take the brocade cassock and tell him of it at length, saying, 'This is a treasure of the third grade. There are yet finer things of the first grade and the second grade.' And whenever he asks, say that within this casket is a treasure that knows five hundred years above, five hundred years below, and five hundred years between — one thousand five hundred years of things past and to come, all fully known. Then let old Sun out. I will tell that crown prince the words of the dream. If he is willing to believe, he will go and seize that fiend — first, to avenge his father the king, and second, that we may make a name for ourselves; and if he does not believe, show him the white-jade tablet again. Only I fear that, being young in years, he may still not recognize it.”
Hearing this, Tripitaka rejoiced greatly. “Disciple, this plan is exquisite! But of these treasures, one is called the brocade cassock, and one is called the white-jade tablet; the treasure you have become — by what name is it called?”
“Let it be called Establish-the-Emperor Ware.”
Tripitaka, following his words, kept it in mind. All that night, master and disciples, when did they ever get to sleep? They longed to nod the sun of Fusang out with a nod of the head, and with a puff of breath to blow away the sky full of stars.
In a little while, the east grew white. Pilgrim once more charged Bajie and Sha Seng, bidding the two of them: “Do not disturb the monks, nor go running about outside. Wait till I have succeeded, and I will go on together with you all.” Just then he took his leave, gave a whistle, and with one somersault sprang into the air.
Opening his fiery eyes and looking level toward the west, he did indeed see a walled city. You ask how he could see it just so? In those days it was said the city lay but forty lǐ from the temple, and so, from his height, he glimpsed it at once. Pilgrim drew near and looked carefully, and again he saw that fiendish mist and mournful cloud lay thick, that a demon wind and rancorous vapour swirled. Pilgrim, up in the air, gave voice to praise:
If a true king mounts the throne of treasure, of itself there is auspicious light and five-coloured cloud;
only because a fiend has usurped the dragon-seat, roiling black vapours lock the golden gate.
Pilgrim was still sighing when suddenly he heard the crash of cannon-fire, and saw the east gate open and a train of horse and men burst forth — truly a hunting host, and mighty in its might. One saw only this:
At dawn they issue from the east of the forbidden city,
dividing their ring amid the shallow grass.
Bright banners unfurl, mirroring the sun;
white horses gallop, breasting the wind.
Alligator-drums boom and thunder;
lances, pair upon pair, thrust forward.
The hawk-bearing troops are fierce and fiery;
the hound-leading generals, bold and valiant.
Fire-cannon shake the very sky;
lime-poles glow red in the sun.
Every man draws his crossbow-bolt;
each one slings a carved bow.
Nets are spread below the hillside;
snares laid out along the little paths.
A single cry startles like a thunderclap;
a thousand riders throng like panther and bear.
The cunning hare can scarce save its skin;
the wary river-deer's wit, too, is spent.
For fox and vixen the allotted span is done;
the elk and deer perish in the midst of it.
The mountain pheasant can hardly wing free;
how should the wild fowl escape the peril?
They all pick out and seize the mountain grounds to take the fierce beasts,
and break and blast the forest trees to shoot the flying things.
Those men, once out of the city, spread out across the eastern outskirts. In a little while, some twenty lǐ on, upon the high ground, they saw within the central camp a small young commander: helmet on his head, mail upon his body, a flowered belly-guard and eighteen plates of armour, a green-edged precious sword in his hand, a yellow-dappled horse beneath him, and a full-strung bow at his waist. Truly it was thus:
Faint and dim, the semblance of a sovereign;
lofty and proud, the mien of an imperial lord.
His bearing is of no common sort;
his every motion shows the true dragon.
Pilgrim, up in the air, rejoiced in secret and said, “No need to say it — that one is the emperor's crown prince. Let me play him a trick.” The fine Great Sage pressed down his cloud-head, rushed into the host before the prince's horse, shook himself and changed into a white rabbit, and went darting about right before the prince's horse. The prince, seeing it, was pleased to the heart; he fitted an arrow, drew the bow to the full, and one arrow struck the rabbit square.
It was, in truth, that the Great Sage had on purpose let it strike him; then, sharp of eye and quick of hand, he caught the arrowhead in one grasp, let the arrow's feather-vanes fall to the fore, and, breaking into a run, sped off. That prince, seeing the arrow had struck the jade rabbit, gave his horse the rein and, all alone, pressed forward foremost in pursuit. Little did he know: when the horse ran fast, Pilgrim went like the wind; when the horse ran slow, Pilgrim walked slow, staying always not far before him. See him, over one stage and one lǐ, luring the prince to below the mountain gate of Baolin Monastery, where Pilgrim showed his true form. The rabbit was nowhere seen, only an arrow stuck in the gate-threshold. Straightway he rushed in and, seeing the Tang Monk, said, “Master, he is coming, he is coming!” Then he changed once more, into a little monk two cùn tall, and slipped inside the red casket.
Now that prince, having ridden up to the mountain gate, saw no jade rabbit, only an arrow stuck upright in the gate-threshold. Greatly startled and losing colour, he said, “How strange! How strange! Plainly my arrow struck the jade rabbit — how is it the rabbit is nowhere seen, and only the arrow is here? It must be that, with the length of years, it has become a sprite.” He pulled out the arrow, raised his head to look, and on the mountain gate were five great characters, written: “Baolin Monastery, Built by Imperial Decree.”
“I know it now,” said the prince. “In a former year I recall my father the king, in the Hall of Golden Bells, sent officers to bring gifts of gold and silk to these monks for the repair of the Buddha-hall and Buddha-images — little thought I to come here this day. Truly it is said: passing the cloister he met the monk and talked, and gained again a half-day's leisure of this floating life. Let me just go in and take a look about.”
That prince leapt down from his horse and was about to go in, when he saw the escorting officers and the three thousand horse and men come up behind, thronging in a press, and all pour in through the mountain gate. So flustered were the monks of the monastery that they all came to kowtow and receive him, ushering him into the middle of the main hall to make obeisance to the Buddha-images.
He had just lifted his eyes to look about, and was minded to stroll the galleries and enjoy the scene, when suddenly he saw, seated right in the middle, a monk. The prince said in great anger, “This monk is without manners! I come today with half the court and the imperial carriage into these hills; though no decree gave notice, and he need not come far to receive me, yet now that horse and men are at the gate, he ought at least to rise — how is it he still sits and does not stir?” He commanded, “Take him down!”
At the word “Take!”, the yeomen on either side laid hands on him together, seized the Tang Monk and hauled him down, and quickly readied cords to bind him. Pilgrim, within the casket, silently recited a spell and enjoined: “Dharma-guarding devas, Six Ding and Six Jia — I now work to subdue a fiend, and this prince, unable to know it, would take cords to bind my master; do you protect him at once; if he be truly bound, the guilt shall fall upon you all.” At the Great Sage's secret command, who dared not obey? They held Tripitaka fast, so that those men, grope as they might, could not so much as touch his bald head — as if a wall stood blocking them, and they could not close upon his body.
“From what quarter do you come,” said that prince, “that you use such a hiding-spell to make sport of me?”
Tripitaka came forward, made his bow, and said, “This poor monk has no hiding-spell; I am the Tang Monk of the Eastern Land, a monk going up to Thunderclap Monastery to worship the Buddha, seek the scriptures, and present treasures.”
“Though your Eastern Land is the Central Plain, its poverty is beyond compare; what treasures have you? Tell me and let me hear.”
“This cassock I wear upon my body is a treasure of the third kind. There are yet finer things of the first grade and the second.”
“That garment of yours, covering half the body and baring half the arm — how much can it be worth, that you dare call it a treasure?”
“Though this cassock does not clothe the whole body, there are some lines of verse upon it. The verse says:”
The Buddha-robe, bared at one shoulder, needs no debate;
within it hides the True Suchness, freed from worldly dust.
Ten thousand threads and a thousand stitches make the true fruit;
nine pearls and eight jewels join the primal spirit.
Immortal maids and holy women reverently wrought it,
bestowed on the Chan monk to still and cleanse his body.
To fail to rise before the sovereign might yet be borne;
but your father's wrong unavenged — in vain, then, are you a man!
Hearing this, the prince, in a great rage of heart, said, “This rascally monk talks nonsense! That half-piece of cloth of yours — relying on your glib mouth and ready tongue, you praise it high and praise it mighty. From whence comes this 'father's wrong unavenged'? Tell me and let me hear.”
Tripitaka stepped one pace forward, joined his palms, and asked, “Your Highness, to be a man born between heaven and earth — how many debts of kindness can there be?”
“There are four kindnesses.”
“Which four kindnesses?”
“The kindness of heaven and earth that cover and sustain us; the kindness of sun and moon that shine upon us; the kindness of the king's land and water; the kindness of father and mother who rear us.”
Tripitaka said with a smile, “Your Highness speaks with an error. A man has only heaven and earth to cover and sustain him, sun and moon to shine upon him, the king's land and water — whence should he get a father and mother to rear him?”
The prince said angrily, “You, monk, are one of those idle-handed, idle-eating, head-shaving, sovereign-defying sorts! If a man got no rearing from father and mother, whence should his body come?”
“Your Highness, this poor monk does not know. But within this red casket is a treasure called Establish-the-Emperor Ware; it knows five hundred years above, five hundred years between, and five hundred years below — one thousand five hundred years of things past and to come; it will know whether there be no kindness of parents' rearing, and has kept this poor monk here waiting a long while.”
Hearing this, the prince commanded, “Bring it here and let me see.” Tripitaka pulled open the lid of the casket, and Pilgrim sprang out, scampering with a bá-bá patter this way and that.
“This speck of a little manikin — what can it know?” said the prince.
Pilgrim, hearing himself called small, was displeased, and at once worked a spell: stretching his waist with a single stretch, he grew to some three chǐ, four or five cùn. The soldiers, startled, said, “If he grows this fast, in a few days he will burst the very sky.” But Pilgrim grew back to his own true size, and then grew no more.
Only then did the prince ask, “Establish-the-Emperor Ware, this old monk says you can know the fortunes of things to come and gone by — but have you a tortoise-shell for your divining? Have you milfoil for your yarrow-casting? Do you rely on the words of a book to judge men's weal and woe?”
“I use not a hair of them; I rely wholly on my three-cùn tongue, and all ten thousand matters are entirely known to me.”
“This fellow talks nonsense again. From of old, the Book of Changes has been most subtle and profound, judging to the full the fortunes of all under heaven, and letting men know what to seek and what to shun; thus the tortoise-shell is the means of divining, and the milfoil the means of yarrow-casting. To hear your words — on what principle do they rest? You speak recklessly of weal and woe, inciting and deluding men's hearts.”
“Your Highness, be not in haste; let me tell you and you shall hear. You are at root the crown prince of the king of the Black-Rooster Kingdom. There in your land, five years ago, the seasons brought drought and dearth, the myriad people suffered, and your royal father, with his ministers, prayed with all their hearts. Just when there was not a drop of rain, there came from Mount Zhongnan a Daoist who was skilled at summoning wind and calling rain, and at turning stone to gold. The king, too fond of petty gain, then bowed with him to become sworn brothers. Was there such a matter?”
“There was, there was, there was — say on, say more.”
“In the three years after, the Quanzhen adept was seen no more — then who is it that calls himself the Solitary One?”
“There was indeed a Quanzhen adept; my royal father bowed with him to be sworn brothers, ate when he ate, and slept when he slept. Three years ago, taking his pleasure in the royal garden, my father was caught by a gust of that one's divine wind, and the gold-mounted white-jade tablet in his hand was carried off back to Mount Zhongnan. To this day my father still longs for him. Because he saw him no more, he lost all heart for pleasure, shut the garden fast, and so it has been for three years. And he who is emperor — who should he be, if not my royal father?”
Hearing this, Pilgrim smiled a mocking smile without cease. The prince asked again, but he gave no answer, only smiling on. The prince said angrily, “This fellow — when he should speak, he speaks not; why does he smile so?”
“There is yet much to tell, but with so many attendants to left and right, this is no place to speak.”
The prince, seeing there was ground to his words, gave a wave of his robe-sleeve and bade the soldiers withdraw. The officers of the escort quickly passed the order, and took the three thousand horse and men all out beyond the gate to encamp. Now, with none upon the hall, the prince sat above, the elder stood before, and at his left hand stood Pilgrim beside him; the monks of the monastery had all withdrawn. Only then did Pilgrim, with a grave face, step forward and say, “Your Highness, the one who went off upon the wind was the father who begot you; and the one you see upon the throne is that rain-praying Quanzhen adept.”
“Nonsense, nonsense. Since the Quanzhen adept left, my father's reign has had timely rains and temperate winds, the realm at peace and the people content. By your account, then, he is not my royal father at all. It is only because I am young in years that I bear with you; were my royal father to hear these treasonous words of yours, he would have you seized and hacked to ten thousand pieces.” With a snort he shouted Pilgrim down.
Pilgrim said to the Tang Monk, “What did I say? I said he would not believe — and truly, truly, so it is. Now let us just present that treasure to him, exchange our travel-rescript, and be off to the West.” Tripitaka thereupon handed the red box to Pilgrim. Pilgrim took it, gave his body a shake, and that little box vanished all at once — it had been made from one of his hairs, and he drew it back up onto his body. Then he raised the white-jade tablet in both hands and presented it to the prince.
The prince, seeing it, said, “A fine monk, a fine monk! Five years ago you were a Quanzhen adept, come to cheat my house of its treasure; and now you play the monk and come to present it back!” He cried, “Seize him!”
At the word of command, the elder, in his fright, hastily pointed at Pilgrim and said, “You Protector of Horses — always running into groundless disasters, and dragging me down with you!”
Pilgrim came forward and stopped them all, saying, “Do not shout — let not the secret out! I am not called Establish-the-Emperor Ware; I have a true name yet.”
The prince said angrily, “Come up here. I will ask you your true name, the better to send you to the law-officers for sentence!”
“I am the eldest disciple of that elder, named Wukong, Pilgrim Sun. Because I go with my master up to the West to fetch scriptures, we came here last night to seek lodging. My master, reading the sutra-scrolls by night, at the third watch had a dream. He dreamed your royal father told him: he had been wronged and slain by that Quanzhen adept, pushed into the eight-cornered glazed-tile well in the royal garden, and the adept had changed into his very likeness. The whole court of officials could not know it. You, being young, had no discernment either; he forbade you the palace and shut the garden, chiefly for fear the secret should leak. Your royal father came this very night to ask me to subdue the fiend. Fearing it might not be a fiend, I looked from the air, and it was indeed a demon. I was just about to lay hands on him when, unlooked-for, you came out of the city to hunt. The jade rabbit your arrow struck was old Sun himself. Old Sun drew you to the temple to see my master and pour out these inmost matters — every word is true. Since you do recognize the white-jade tablet, how can you not think of the kindness of your rearing, and avenge your parent?”
That prince, hearing this, was stricken to the heart, and grieved within himself, saying, “If I believe not these words — yet there are three parts of truth in them; and if I do believe — how then, when he I see upon the throne is my royal father?” This indeed was the strait of advance-and-retreat: the heart questioning the mouth, and thrice pondering in patience, the mouth questioning the heart.
Pilgrim, seeing him wavering in doubt, came forward again and said, “Your Highness need not doubt in your heart. Let Your Highness drive back to your kingdom and ask the queen your mother a word — see how the love between husband and wife compares with three years ago. By this one question alone, the true and false will be known.”
That prince, his heart turning, said, “Just so. Let me first go and ask my mother.” He sprang up, tucked away the white-jade tablet in his sleeve, and made to go.
Pilgrim held him back. “If all these horse and men of yours return, will the secret not leak, and my work be hard to accomplish? You must enter the city single, one man on one horse; you must not make your name known or show off. Enter not by the Zhengyang Gate; you must go in by the Houzai Gate. When you come into the palace to see your mother, take care not to speak loud or high — you must whisper low and soft. For fear that fiend's powers are vast, and the secret should of a sudden leak, when neither you nor your mother's lives could be saved.”
The prince respectfully obeyed the command. Going out the mountain gate, he charged his officers: “Camp firmly here, and do not stir. I have a matter; wait until I have gone and returned, and we will enter the city together.” See him:
He gave command and order to station the soldiers,
then, mounting as if in flight, turned at once for the city.
In this going, whether he saw the queen, and what words there were — listen to the next chapter for the telling.