The Great Sage, his head splitting past all endurance, pleaded piteously: “Master, stop chanting, stop chanting — let me heal him.”
“Cure him — how?” the elder asked.
“Only by crossing into the Region of Darkness,” said Pilgrim, “to search out which King Yama's registry holds his soul, and fetching it back to save him.”
“Master, don't trust him,” said Eight Rules. “He himself said there was no need to cross into the shades — that he could cure him alive in the world of the living, and only then would we see his skill.”
The elder, credulous of this heresy, once more chanted the Tight-Fillet Spell. Flustered, Pilgrim blurted out his whole surrender: “I'll cure him in the world of the living, cure him in the world of the living!”
“Don't let up,” said Eight Rules. “Keep chanting, keep chanting!”
“You blockheaded beast of burden,” Pilgrim swore at him, “egging the Master on to curse me!”
Eight Rules laughed till he tumbled over. “Brother! Brother! You only know how to make sport of me — you didn't know I could make a bit of sport of you too!”
“Master, stop chanting, stop chanting,” said Pilgrim. “Let old Sun cure him in the world of the living.”
“Cure him in the world of the living,” said Tripitaka. “But how?”
“I'll ride one somersault of cloud and drive in through the Southern Heaven Gate — not entering the Dipper-Ox Palace, not going up to the Hall of Numinous Mist — straight to the topmost of the Thirty-Three Heavens, into the Tuṣita Court of the Heaven of Parted Sorrows. There I'll see the Most High Lord Lao, beg from him a single grain of his Nine-Cycle Soul-Reverting Elixir, and be sure to bring the king back to life.”
Tripitaka, hearing this, was overjoyed. “Go then, and come back quickly.”
“It's about the third watch now; by the time I'm back it should be near daybreak,” said Pilgrim. “Only, this man lying here so cold and forlorn hardly looks the part. We shall need mourners to keep watch over him and weep, and then it will do.”
“No need to spell it out,” said Eight Rules. “This monkey is surely going to make me do the weeping.”
“Afraid you won't weep? If you won't weep, I can't work the cure.”
“Brother, you go on yourself; I'll do my own weeping, and that's that.”
“There are several kinds of weeping,” said Pilgrim. “If you bawl dry-mouthed with never a tear, that is called bellowing; if you squeeze out a few tears, that is called snivelling; but to weep and have real tears, and to weep and have real heart in it — that alone counts as true, wracking lamentation.”
“Let me weep you a sample, then, and you'll see.”
From somewhere or other he tore off a paper strip, twisted it into a spill, ran it up his nostrils a time or two and sneezed out a few sneezes — and look: his eyes brimmed streaming, sticky and slobbering, and he broke out weeping. From his mouth came an unbroken muttering and grumbling, reckoning the yellow and cursing the black, truly just like a man who has had a death in the house. As his weeping reached the point of real grief, even the Tang elder let fall tears and ached at heart.
Pilgrim laughed. “Just so — that is grievous mourning. Now on no account let up the sound. You blockhead, once you've fooled me off, you'll stop weeping. I'll still be listening — if you weep like this, well and good; but if you so much as slacken the sound a little, I'll give you twenty on the ankle-bones.”
“Off you go, off you go,” Eight Rules laughed. “Once I get this weeping of mine going, I've two days' worth of weeping in me.”
Sha Monk, seeing him scolded on, went off to find a few sticks of incense to burn as an offering, and Pilgrim laughed again. “Good, good, good — the whole household has a bit of reverence in it now, and old Sun can set to work.”
The fine Great Sage — it being now the depth of night — took leave of his master and the two others, called up his somersault cloud, and drove straight in through the Southern Heaven Gate. Indeed he neither called at the Precious Hall of Numinous Mist nor went up to the Dipper-Ox Heaven-Palace, but on a single road of cloud-light came straight to the Tuṣita Palace, in the Heaven of Parted Sorrows, at the top of the Thirty-Three Heavens.
The moment he entered the gate he saw the Most High Lord Lao seated squarely in his elixir-chamber, together with his throng of immortal lads, plying a plantain-leaf fan and fanning the fire to refine cinnabar. Seeing Pilgrim come, he at once charged the elixir-tending lads: “Each of you be careful — the thief who steals the elixir has come again.”
Pilgrim made a bow and laughed. “Old sir, what a graceless way to carry on — why guard against me? Nowadays I don't do that sort of thing.”
“You monkey,” said Lord Lao. “Five hundred years ago you made your great uproar in Heaven, filched and ate my sacred elixir past all counting, and I had the Little Sage Erlang seize you and haul you up to the courts, and set you in my elixir-brazier to be refined nine-and-forty days — no telling how much charcoal it cost. Now you've had the luck to slip free, taken refuge in the Buddha-fruit, and guard the Tang Monk on his way west to fetch the scriptures. Before, on Level-Top Mountain, when you were subduing demons and running into trouble, you wouldn't give me back my treasures — and today here you come again. What for?”
“That business the other day — old Sun caused you no delay at all; I handed back your five treasures on the spot. And you still doubt me and hold it against me?”
“You aren't on your road,” said Lord Lao. “So what are you doing, sneaking into my palace?”
“Since we parted, west along our way we came on a certain country, named Wūjī. Its king had been done to death by a fiend disguised as a Daoist priest, who summoned wind and rain and secretly destroyed him; the fiend then falsely took the king's own shape and now sits upon the golden-belled throne. My master was sitting by night over the scriptures in the Precious-Grove Monastery when that king's ghost came to do him homage, earnestly begging old Sun to subdue the fiend for him and set right the false from the true. Just so, old Sun, thinking he had no solid proof, went with my brother Eight Rules by night into the garden, broke into the flower-garden, and searched out the place of burial — a single well of eight-cornered coloured glaze. We fished up his corpse, and its features were unaltered. Brought back to the monastery and shown to my master, he was moved to pity and charged old Sun to heal and save him, forbidding me to go down to the shades to seek out the soul, and bidding me cure him only in the world of the living. Thinking I had nowhere to work the return to life, I came expressly to call on you. My one hope is that the Daoist Patriarch will take pity and lend me a thousand pellets of the Nine-Cycle Soul-Reverting Elixir, to give to old Sun and rescue him.”
“This monkey talks nonsense,” said Lord Lao. “'A thousand pellets,' 'two thousand pellets' — as if they were rice to be eaten by the bowl? Where is there clay to be kneaded up like this, so easily? Pah! Off with you! There aren't any!”
“A hundred or ten pellets would do just as well,” Pilgrim laughed.
“Those there aren't, either.”
“Ten or so pellets would do.”
“This wretched ape is a real pest,” said Lord Lao angrily. “None, none, out with you, out with you!”
“Truly none, then,” Pilgrim laughed. “I'll go ask elsewhere.”
“Go, go, go!” Lord Lao barked; and the Great Sage swung round on his heel and made off toward the front.
Then Lord Lao fell to thinking of a sudden. “This monkey is a sly one — says he'll go and off he goes; only I fear he'll slip back in and steal.” So he ordered an immortal lad to call him back. “You monkey — your hands are none too honest. I'll make you a present of one pellet of the Soul-Reverting Elixir.”
“Old sir, since you know old Sun's skill, be quick and bring out the golden elixir. Split it with me four-six, and it'll still be your good fortune; otherwise, I'll make you a present of a leather skimmer — one scoop and I clean you out.”
The old patriarch took down his gourd, tipped it upside down, and poured out a single grain of golden elixir, handing it to Pilgrim. “That's all there is — take it, take it. I make you a present of this one grain; revive that emperor with it, and just reckon it to your merit.”
Pilgrim took it. “Wait, don't be hasty — let me have a taste of it first; I'm only afraid it's a fake, that he's fooling me.” And with a plop he tossed it into his mouth.
In a fluster the old patriarch sprang forward and seized him, grabbed a fistful of his scalp-skin at the crown, and clenched his fist, cursing: “If this wretched ape means to swallow it down, I'll strike him dead on the spot!”
Pilgrim laughed. “What a face — small-house manners! Who'd be eating yours? How much can it be worth? All show and little substance. Isn't it here?”
Now this monkey had, below his chin, a throat-pouch, and he had lodged that golden elixir inside the pouch. Caught at it, the old patriarch pinched him and said: “Off with you, off with you — never come pestering here again.” Only then did the Great Sage take his leave of the old patriarch and pass out of the Tuṣita Heaven-Palace.
Look at him: a thousand strands of auspicious haze parting from the Jade Portals, ten thousand shafts of blessed cloud descending to the world of dust. In an instant he was down through the Southern Heaven Gate, back to the eastern prospect, and soon saw the sun-star rising. He pressed down his cloud-head and came straight to the gate of Precious-Grove Monastery, where he could still hear Eight Rules weeping. Coming up close, he called out: “Master.”
“Wukong's back,” said Tripitaka gladly. “Do you have the elixir?”
“I have.”
“How could there be none?” said Eight Rules. “Even if by stealing, he'd have gone and filched some from somebody.”
“Brother, you may go now — I've no use for you,” Pilgrim laughed. “Wipe your tears and go weep elsewhere.” Then he bade Sha the monk: “Fetch some water for me to use.”
Sha Monk hurried to the well at the back, where there was a handy draw-bucket, and at once brought half an alms-bowl of water and handed it to Pilgrim. Pilgrim took the water, spat out the elixir from his mouth, and set it within the emperor's lips; with both hands he pried open the teeth, and with a mouthful of clear water washed the golden elixir down into the belly.
After half an hour, he heard only a gurgling and churning within the belly, but the body still could not stir. “Master,” said Pilgrim, “if my golden elixir can't even bring him back to life, aren't you just badgering old Sun to death?”
“How could there be no reviving him?” said Tripitaka. “For a corpse so long dead as this, how could it swallow water down? This is the immortal power of the golden elixir. Once the golden elixir enters the belly, at once the bowels sound; the sounding of the bowels is the blood and pulse stirring into harmony — but the breath is cut off and cannot yet run its course. Never mind that the man was steeped three years in the well — even wrought iron would have rusted over. Only, his primal breath is utterly spent; get someone to convey a mouthful of breath into him, and it will do.”
That Eight Rules stepped up meaning to convey the breath, but Tripitaka caught him fast. “That won't do — better have Wukong come.” That master had good reason: Zhu Eight Rules, since childhood, had killed and sinned and eaten men — his was a single breath of turbid air. Only Pilgrim, cultivating from his youth, gnawing pine and chewing cypress, living on peaches and fruit, had a single breath of clear air.
This Great Sage stepped up, put his thunder-god's snout to the emperor's lips, and blew a mouthful of breath with a puff down into the throat — down through the Double Storey, round the Bright Hall, straight to the Cinnabar Field, and up from the Bubbling Spring back to the Mud-Wall Palace. With a resounding puff, that sovereign's breath gathered and his spirit returned; he turned over, threw out his fists and flexed his feet, and cried out: “Master.” Kneeling both knees in the dust he said: “Last night I remember doing homage as a ghost — who'd have known that this morning at daybreak my yang-spirit would return?”
Tripitaka hastily helped him up. “Your Majesty, this is no doing of mine — you should thank my disciple.”
“Master, what a thing to say,” Pilgrim laughed. “As the old saw goes, 'A household has no two masters.' You'll take no harm from receiving a bow from him.”
Tripitaka, much abashed, helped the emperor up and they went together into the meditation hall, where once more the king made his bows to Eight Rules, Pilgrim and Sha Monk before he would take his seat.
Just then the monks of the monastery, having set out the morning fast and coming to offer it, suddenly caught sight of that water-robed emperor, and every one of them was startled, everyone in doubtful murmur. Sun Pilgrim sprang out. “You monks, don't be so alarmed and suspicious. This is none other than the King of Wūjī, your own true sovereign. Three years ago a fiend took his life, and old Sun revived him this very night. Now we'll enter his city to set right the false from the true. If the fast is ready, lay it out — let us eat and be on our way.”
The monks at once presented broth and water, washed his face for him and changed his clothes. They stripped off that emperor's ochre-yellow robe, and the monastery's clerics put two lengths of cloth cassock on him to wear; they undid his indigo-jade belt and girded him with a length of yellow silk cord; they slipped off his care-free shoes and gave him an old pair of monk's sandals to shuffle on. Only then had they all eaten the morning fast, and they saddled and strapped the horses.
“Eight Rules,” Pilgrim asked, “how heavy is your baggage?”
“Brother, this baggage I shoulder day after day — I really don't know how heavy it is.”
“Divide that one load of yours into two: one load you carry, and one load give this emperor to carry. We'll press on early into the city and see to our business.”
“What luck, what luck!” said Eight Rules gleefully. “When we carried him here on our backs, no telling what it cost in effort; now that he's cured, it turns out he's a stand-in!” That blockhead played his tricks: he split the baggage apart, then asked the monastery for a flat pole, shouldered the lighter load himself, and had the emperor carry the heavier.
“Your Majesty,” Pilgrim laughed, “dressed up like that, shouldering a load, keeping pace with us — does it wrong you?”
That king hastily knelt. “Master, you are to me as parents who gave me second birth — never mind shouldering a load, I would gladly ply the whip and hold the stirrup, and serve you all the way to the Western Heaven.”
“I don't want you going to the Western Heaven — there's a reason within it. You need only carry it forty lǐ into the city; once we've caught the fiend, you go back to being your emperor, and we go on fetching our scriptures.”
“By that reckoning,” said Eight Rules on hearing this, “he only carries forty lǐ of road, and old Hog is still the long-term hand!”
“Brother, no nonsense,” said Pilgrim. “Get out front quickly and lead the way.”
Sure enough, Eight Rules led that emperor ahead, Sha Monk attended the master onto his horse, and Pilgrim came behind. Then the five hundred monks of the monastery, in trim array, struck up a delicate music and saw them all out beyond the mountain gate.
“Reverends, no need to see us far,” Pilgrim laughed. “Only I fear the palace folk may have someone who gets wind of it, leaking my scheme, which would turn out badly. Get back quickly, get back quickly. Only, take that emperor's clothes, cap and belt, put them in order and clean, and send them into the city tonight or early tomorrow, and I'll get you some grant of reward and thanks.”
The monks obeyed the order and each withdrew. Pilgrim strode out, caught up with the master, and came straight on. Indeed:
In the West there is a secret, good for seeking the True;
when Metal and Wood are joined in accord, the Spirit is refined.
The Cinnabar Mother vainly cradles a muddled dream;
the Infant forever grieves its worthless, stunted frame.
One must, at the bottom of the well, seek the enlightened lord;
one must also, in the halls of Heaven, do homage to Lord Lao.
Awaken to Form-and-Emptiness and revert to the original nature;
truly this is the Buddha delivering those of karmic affinity.
Master and disciples on the road — in less than half a day they descried the city walls close at hand.
“Wukong,” said Tripitaka, “up ahead I suppose is Wūjī Kingdom.”
“Just so — let's press quickly into the city and see to our business.”
As that master and disciples got into the city, they saw the market streets with people trim and orderly, the scene bustling and lively, and soon they saw phoenix-towers and dragon-galleries, splendid in the extreme. There is a poem in witness. The poem says:
Palaces and towers beyond the seas, like a sovereign realm;
songs and dances among men, as in the Tang of old.
Flowers greet the jewelled fans, red clouds encircling;
sun lights the fresh robes, a kingfisher haze aglow.
Peacock screens spread open, fragrant vapours issuing;
pearl curtains rolled high, coloured banners unfurled.
A scene of Great Peace, truly to be hailed;
ranged in quiet, the many officials with never a memorial to present.
Tripitaka dismounted. “Disciples, let's enter court here and get our rescript exchanged, so we won't have to trouble that yamen, the local government office, again and put ourselves to expense.”
“Well reasoned,” said Pilgrim. “Let us brothers all go in — with more of us, it's easier to do the talking.”
“All go in,” said the Tang Monk, “but no coarse manners — first perform the rites of ruler and subject, and then speak.”
“To perform the rites of ruler and subject means bowing down.”
“Just so — one must perform the great rite of five prostrations and three kowtows.”
“Master, that won't do,” Pilgrim laughed. “If we perform the rite to him, it would truly be unwise. Just let me walk in front first, and I'll manage it my own way. If he has anything to say, let me answer. If I bow, you bow; if I squat, you squat.”
Look at that trouble-making Monkey King: he led them to the court gate and said to the gate-usher, “We are sent from the court of Great Tang in the Eastern Land, going up to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek scriptures. Now we've come here to exchange our rescript; trouble you, sir, to pass word on — this is called not spoiling a good outcome.”
That yellow-gate officer entered the Duan Gate, knelt at the vermilion terrace, and reported: “Beyond the court gate are five monks who say they are imperial envoys of the Tang state in the Eastern Land, going up to the West to worship the Buddha and seek scriptures; now they've come here to exchange their rescript, and dare not enter unbidden — they wait outside the gate for the summons.” That demon-king at once ordered them summoned in.
The Tang Monk then went in together through the court gate, the revived sovereign following behind. As he walked, he could not hold back the tears falling at his cheeks, and thought in secret: “How pitiful! My realm of copper-bucket firmness, my altars ringed with iron — who'd have known they'd been stolen from me by his treachery.”
“Your Majesty, on no account show grief — I fear it may leak the news,” said Pilgrim. “This cudgel is leaping in my ear; today I'm sure to see it do its work — I'll surely beat the fiend to death and sweep the crooked thing away. This realm before long will revert to you.”
That sovereign dared not go against his word; he could only tug his clothes and wipe his tears, and, resigned to death, followed along straight to below the golden-belled throne-hall. He saw, too, those two files of civil and military officers, four hundred courtiers, every one stern and grave, of imposing mien.
This Pilgrim led the Tang Monk to stand before the white-jade steps, holding himself erect and unmoving. The officers below the steps, one and all in dread, said: “This monk is utterly dull and coarse — how is it that, seeing our king, he does not bow down? Nor opens his mouth to invoke a blessing? Nor chants a single greeting? What great insolence and discourtesy!”
Before they had finished, he heard that demon-king open his mouth and ask: “That monk — from what quarter has he come?”
Pilgrim answered proudly: “I am from the Tang state in the Eastern Land, in the Southern Jambū Continent, bearing an imperial commission to go west to the Great Thunderclap Monastery in the country of India, to worship the living Buddha and seek the true scriptures. Now, arrived in this land, I dare not pass through for nothing, and have come expressly to exchange my through-rescript.”
That demon-king, hearing this, grew angry at heart. “You of the Eastern Land — what of it? I pay no tribute at your court, hold no dealings with your state — how is it you flout ceremony before me and won't perform the homage?”
“My Eastern Land founded a heavenly court of old, long styled a suzerain realm,” Pilgrim laughed; “you and yours are but a border state of the lower land. As the old saying goes: 'The emperor of a suzerain realm is father and is lord; the emperor of a vassal realm is subject and is son.' You've not so much as received me — and yet you dare dispute my not bowing?”
That demon-king, in a great rage, told the civil and military officers: “Seize this wild monk and take him away!” At the shout of “Seize!” — look — that host of officers surged forward all at once. This Pilgrim gave a shout, pointed with his hand, and cried: “Stay back!” At that one pointing, he worked a body-fixing spell, and the whole host of officers could not stir. Truly: the corps-captains before the steps like wooden puppets, the generals upon the hall like men of clay.
That demon-king, seeing him fix the civil and military host in place, sprang up in haste, leapt down from the dragon-couch, and made to seize him himself. The Monkey King rejoiced in secret. “Good — that suits old Sun exactly. This once, even were it a head cast of wrought iron, let it but graze my cudgel and I'd knock a hole in it.”
Just as he stirred to act, unexpectedly from the side stepped out a life-saving star. Who do you suppose it was? None other than the crown prince of Wūjī, who rushed up, caught hold of that demon-king's court robe, and knelt before him. “Father-king, stay your anger.”
“What have you to say, child?” the fiend asked.
“May it please my father-king to know: three years ago I heard tell that there was a saintly monk, imperially commissioned from the Tang court in the Eastern Land, going to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek scriptures — and now today he's come at last to our realm. My father-king's nature is stern and fierce; if you have this monk taken off and beheaded, I only fear that should Great Tang one day get such news, it would surely breed wrath. Consider: that Li Shimin, who styles himself to the throne and has unified the realm, is still not satisfied at heart, but crosses the seas on campaigns; if he learned that our king had killed his imperial younger brother, the saintly monk, he would surely raise troops and dispatch cavalry to come and do battle with our king. Then, with soldiers few and generals weak, that would be the time to repent too late. Let my father-king follow what your son advises: hold those four monks, question them clearly as to their history, first pin on them the charge of not paying homage to the throne, and only then may you put them to trial.”
This whole speech, you see, was the prince's careful device — fearing harm might come to the Tang Monk, he deliberately held the fiend back, never knowing that Pilgrim was arranging things and meaning to strike.
That demon-king, taking his word for it, stood before the dragon-couch and cried out: “That monk — when did he leave the Eastern Land? For what cause did the Tang king have you seek scriptures?”
Pilgrim answered proudly: “My master is the Tang king's imperial younger brother, styled Tripitaka. Because under the Tang king there was a chancellor, surnamed Wei and named Zheng, who by Heaven's decree beheaded the old dragon of the Jing River in a dream. The Great Tang king dreamed his spirit roamed the dark courts of the underworld, and after he regained life, he opened a grand Land-and-Water Mass to deliver in full the wronged souls and orphaned ghosts. Because my master expounded the scripture-texts and spread abroad his compassion, he was suddenly granted the guidance of the Bodhisattva Guanshiyin of the Southern Sea, sent to come west. My master made a great vow, glad in feeling and fair in intent, repaying the state with utmost loyalty, and received from the Tang king a written rescript. That was in the thirteenth year of Zhenguan of Great Tang, three days before the fifteenth of the ninth month, when he left the Eastern Land. Coming first to Twin-Frontier Mountain, he took me as his eldest disciple, surnamed Sun, named Wukong the Pilgrim; coming again to the Gao Farmstead on the border of Wusi, he took a second disciple, surnamed Zhu, named Wuneng the Eight Rules; at the River of Flowing Sand, he took a third disciple, surnamed Sha, named Wujing the monk; and just the other day, at the imperially-built Precious-Grove Monastery, he newly took on this load-carrying acolyte, a Daoist novice.”
The demon-king, hearing this, and having no way to search out the Tang Monk, spun clever words to cross-question Pilgrim, and asked with glaring eyes: “That monk — when you first set out, one man left the Eastern Land, and you took on four followers; the three monks may pass, but this one Daoist won't do. That acolyte is surely one you've kidnapped. What is his name? Has he an ordination-certificate or not? Bring him up here and take his testimony.”
That frightened the emperor into trembling and shaking. “Master! How ever am I to testify?”
Sun Pilgrim gave him a pinch. “Don't be afraid — let me testify for you.”
The fine Great Sage stepped briskly forward and cried out sharply to the monster: “Your Majesty, this old Daoist is a mute, and moreover somewhat deaf. It's only that in his young years he once travelled through to the Western Heaven, and knows the roads. The whole rise and fall of his affair I know entirely; I beg Your Majesty's indulgence, and will testify for him.”
“Testify for him at once, truly,” said the demon-king, “and spare yourself a charge.”
Pilgrim said:
The accused acolyte is a man far gone in years,
dull, deaf, dumb and mute, his fortunes wrecked.
His forebears' home was here in this very land;
five years ago it met with ruin.
Heaven sent no rain, the people parched and failing;
king and commons, all kept the fast.
Burning incense, bathing, they prayed to the Lord of Heaven;
ten thousand lǐ, and never a cloud of overcast.
The people, famished, hung as if head-down;
from Zhongnan there suddenly came down a Quanzhen fiend.
He summoned wind and called up rain to show his powers,
and then in secret did the king to death.
Shoved him down into the garden's sky-well,
usurped the dragon-throne — a wrong none could unriddle.
Happily I came, and my merit was great:
raising the dead to life, with never a hindrance.
Willingly he takes refuge as an acolyte,
to go with the monks toward the Western realm.
The false-changed king is the Daoist himself;
the Daoist, in turn, stands in the true king's stead.
That demon-king, up on the golden-belled hall, hearing this whole speech, was so frightened that his heart pounded like a startled deer and red clouds rose in his face. In haste he made to slip away, but had no weapon in his hands. Turning his head, he saw a hall-guarding general, a precious sword slung at his waist, held fast by Pilgrim's body-fixing spell, dull as an idiot, mute as a stone, standing right there. He stepped up, snatched away this precious sword, and mounting a cloud-head shot up into the void.
It so angered Sha the monk that he raged like thunder, and Zhu Eight Rules cried out at the top of his voice, blaming Pilgrim for being a hasty ape: “If you'd only spoken more slowly, wouldn't you have held him fast? Now he's fled on a cloud — where are we to chase and find him?”
“Brothers, don't raise a clamour,” Pilgrim laughed. “Let's have that crown prince come down to bow to his father, and the consorts come out to bow to their husband” — then he chanted a spell again and released the body-fixing charm — “and have those many officers wake and return to bow to their king, so all may know he is the true emperor. Have them tell the whole prior tale, and only then will the truth come clear — and I'll go after him again.”
The fine Great Sage charged Eight Rules and Sha Monk: “Guard them well — sovereign and subject, father and son, and the consorts, together with my master.” At the mere word that he was off, he vanished, form and shadow gone.
He had, in fact, leapt up into the ninth-heaven clouds, and with wide eyes gazed all around, watching that demon-king. He saw that the beast had indeed fled for his life, making off straight to the northeast. Pilgrim chased until he had all but come up on him, and shouted: “That monster — where are you off to? Old Sun is come!”
That demon-king spun his head about, whipped out his precious sword, and cried aloud: “Sun the Pilgrim, you rascal! I came to seize another man's throne — it's no concern of yours; why come meddling to right a wrong, and leak out my secret?”
Pilgrim laughed aloud. “I'll get you, you great bold vile monster! Is the throne yours to sit on, then? Since you know I'm old Sun, you should have fled far off — how is it you still harass my master and demand some deposition? That deposition just now — was it so or not? Don't run — if you're a stout fellow, take this cudgel of old Sun's.”
That fiend dodged aside and, whipping his precious sword, slashed back in his face. The two of them locked hands, and this was a fine fight indeed. Truly:
The Monkey King fierce, the demon-king strong:
sword met, cudgel warded, each daring to match the other.
One sky of cloud and mist bewildering the Three Realms —
all for the setting-up of a king over the reigning court.
When they had fought several bouts, that fiend, unable to withstand the Monkey King, spun about and by the old road leapt back into the city, plunging in before the white-jade steps among the two files of civil and military men, and with a shake of his body changed into the very likeness of the Tang Tripitaka, and stood, hands folded together with him, before the steps.
This Great Sage caught up and was about to raise his cudgel to strike. “Disciple, don't strike — it's me,” said that monster. He hastened to raise the cudgel to strike that other Tang Monk, who also said: “Disciple, don't strike — it's me.” One and the same, two Tang Monks, truly hard to tell apart. “If with one blow I kill the Tang Monk the fiend has turned into, that would be a merit accomplished; but if with one blow I kill my own true master, what then?”
He could only stay his hand, and called to Eight Rules and Sha Monk: “Truly now — which one is the monster, and which is my master? Point him out to me, and I'll strike him.”
“You were fighting and shouting away up in mid-air,” said Eight Rules. “I blinked and saw two masters — I've no idea which is true and which false.”
Pilgrim, hearing this, pinched a magic sign and chanted a spell, and called upon those Dharma-guarding devas, the Six Ding and Six Jia, the Guardians of the Five Quarters, the Four Duty-Officers, the eighteen escort-Sangharamas, the local ward-god and the mountain-god of this precinct: “Old Sun has come here to subdue a fiend, and the fiend has changed into my master — their breath and bodies are the same, and truly hard to tell apart. Let those of you who know in secret bring my master up onto the hall, and let me take the fiend.”
Now that fiend, being skilled at riding cloud and mist, heard Pilgrim's words, and hastily let go and leapt up onto the golden-belled precious hall. This Pilgrim raised his cudgel and struck straight at the Tang Monk. Pitiful! Had he not called those several spirits, this one blow — even were there twenty Tang Monks — would have beaten them into meat-paste! It was thanks to the many spirits' warding off the iron cudgel: “Great Sage, that monster can ride the clouds — he's gone up onto the hall first.” Pilgrim chased up onto the hall, and the fiend leapt down again, caught hold of the Tang Monk, mixed once more into the crowd of people, and as before could not be told apart.
Pilgrim, ill at ease in his heart, saw again that Eight Rules smirking off to the side, and cried in a great rage: “You lump — what's the matter with you? Now there are two masters — you've got someone to call, someone to answer, someone to wait on; that's why you're so pleased!”
“Brother, you call me a fool — but you're an even bigger fool,” Eight Rules laughed. “If Master can't be told apart, why put yourself to the trouble? Just bear your headache a while, have my master recite that spell, and Sha Monk and I will each hold one and listen. Whichever can't recite it must be the fiend — what's so hard in that?”
“Brother, I'm obliged to you,” said Pilgrim. “Just so — that spell only three men know. It was first sent forth from the heart-sprout of our Buddha Tathāgata, passed to the Bodhisattva Guanshiyin, and the Bodhisattva passed it again to my master — and then no one else knows it. Well, then — Master, recite it.”
Sure enough, that Tang Monk began to recite. How was that demon-king to know it? In his mouth he only mumbled and droned at random. “The one droning is the fiend, then!” said Eight Rules; and he let go his hold, raised his rake, and made to strike. That demon-king sprang up with a leap, and treading a cloud-head, made off.
The fine Eight Rules gave a shout and, mounting a cloud-head too, gave chase. In alarm that Sha the monk dropped the Tang Monk and also drew his precious staff to strike. Only then did the Tang Monk stop the spell. Sun the Great Sage, bearing his headache and gripping his iron cudgel, gave chase in mid-air. Aha! This bout: three fierce monks ringing one vile fiend. That demon-king was held off on left and right by Eight Rules and Sha Monk with their nail-rake and precious staff.
“If I go again and strike him to his face, he's a bit afraid of me — I only fear he'll run off once more,” Pilgrim laughed. “Let old Sun leap up high and give him a garlic-pounding blow, and finish him off.”
This Great Sage sprang up on his auspicious light, rose into the ninth heaven, and was just about to bring down a chopping stroke, when he saw, off to the northeast, from within a bank of coloured cloud, a stern voice cry out: “Sun Wukong, stay your hand a moment.” Pilgrim turned his head to look, and there was the Bodhisattva Mañjuśrī. He hastily withdrew his cudgel, stepped up and made a bow. “Bodhisattva, where are you bound?”
“I've come to collect this monster for you.”
“Sorry to trouble you,” Pilgrim gave thanks.
That Bodhisattva took from his sleeve a demon-revealing mirror, and held the monster's original form fixed in it. Pilgrim then called Eight Rules and Sha Monk to come together and see the Bodhisattva. And looking into the mirror, that demon-king was of a hideousness past telling:
Eyes like bowls of coloured glaze,
a head like a smelting-crucible.
Its whole body indigo as the dog-days' dye,
its four claws frost of the ninth-month autumn.
Two ears hanging drooping down,
a single tail as long as a broom.
Green fur bristling with a keen force,
red eyes shooting a golden light.
Flat teeth ranked like tablets of jade,
round whiskers stiff as hard spears.
In the mirror behold the true form:
none other than Mañjuśrī's own Lion King.
“Bodhisattva,” said Pilgrim, “this is a green-furred lion you keep beneath your seat — how is it he came walking off to turn into a spirit, and you didn't subdue him?”
“Wukong, he didn't run off — he was sent by the Buddha's decree.”
“This beast turned spirit, seized a throne, and yet was sent by the Buddha's decree? The way old Sun guards the Tang Monk and suffers hardship, I ought to be given a few decrees myself!”
“You don't know,” said the Bodhisattva. “In the beginning this king of Wūjī was good and gave alms to monks, and the Buddha sent me to deliver him to the West, to attain betimes the golden body of an arhat. Because I could not appear to him in my true form, I changed into an ordinary monk and asked him for some alms of vegetarian fare. Nettled by a few of my words, and not knowing I was a good spirit, he had me bound with a rope and thrown into the royal moat-river, and soaked me there three days and three nights. It was thanks to the Six-Jia spirits, who saved my golden body back to the West, that I reported it to the Tathāgata. The Tathāgata sent this monster with orders to come here and push him down the well, and soak him three years, in requital for my three days' water-woe. 'A single sip, a single peck — none is not fore-ordained.' Now that you and the rest have come here, the merit is accomplished.”
“Even granting you've requited some private grudge of a 'sip and a peck,'” said Pilgrim, “still that monster has done to death no telling how many people.”
“He did no harm to anyone, either. Since he came, in these three years the winds have been timely and the rains in season, the land at peace and the people secure — what harm to anyone is there in that?”
“Granted it's so — but the three palace consorts have slept and risen with him, defiling their bodies and wrecking no end of the bonds and moral order. Do you still call that harming no one?”
“He could not have defiled them — he is a gelded lion.”
Eight Rules, hearing this, went up close and had a feel — a single grope. He laughed: “This fiend is truly a 'red-nose that drinks no wine' — he's borne the name for nothing.”
“If that's so, take him off, then,” said Pilgrim. “Had you not come in person, Bodhisattva, I'd surely not have spared his life.”
That Bodhisattva then chanted a spell and cried: “Beast — will you not return to the right, and what are you waiting for?” Only then did that demon-king show his original form. The Bodhisattva loosed his lotus-flower to cover and pin the fiend, sat upon its back, and treading his auspicious light took leave of Pilgrim. Ah!
Straight he turned back up to Mount Wutai;
beneath the precious lotus-throne, to hear the preaching of the scriptures.
After all, there is no knowing how that Tang Monk and his disciples got out of the city — so listen to the telling in the next chapter.