山神訴苦 The Mountain Spirits' Plaint
那行者打了一會，打出一夥窮神來，都披一片、掛一片，褌無襠、褲無口的跪在山前，叫：「大聖，山神、土地來見。」行者道：「怎麼就有許多山神、土地？」眾神叩頭道：「上告大聖：此山喚做六百里鑽頭號山。我等是十里一山神，十里一土地，共該三十名山神、三十名土地。昨日已此聞大聖來了，只因一時會不齊，故此接遲，致令大聖發怒，萬望恕罪。」行者道：「我且饒你罪名。我問你：這山上有多少妖精？」眾神道：「爺爺呀！只有得一個妖精，把我們頭也摩光了，弄得我們少香沒紙，血食全無，一個個衣不充身，食不充口，還吃得有多少妖精哩。」行者道：「這妖精在山前住，是山後住？」眾神道：「他也不在山前山後。這山中有一條澗，叫做枯松澗。澗邊有一座洞，叫做火雲洞。那洞裡有一個魔王，神通廣大，常常的把我們山神、土地拿了去，燒火頂門，黑夜與他提鈴喝號。小妖兒又討甚麼常例錢。」那行者打了一会，打出一伙穷神来，都披一片、挂一片，裈无裆、裤无口的跪在山前，叫：「大圣，山神、土地来见。」行者道：「怎么就有许多山神、土地？」众神叩头道：「上告大圣：此山唤做六百里钻头号山。我等是十里一山神，十里一土地，共该三十名山神、三十名土地。昨日已此闻大圣来了，只因一时会不齐，故此接迟，致令大圣发怒，万望恕罪。」行者道：「我且饶你罪名。我问你：这山上有多少妖精？」众神道：「爷爷呀！只有得一个妖精，把我们头也摩光了，弄得我们少香没纸，血食全无，一个个衣不充身，食不充口，还吃得有多少妖精哩。」行者道：「这妖精在山前住，是山后住？」众神道：「他也不在山前山后。这山中有一条涧，叫做枯松涧。涧边有一座洞，叫做火云洞。那洞里有一个魔王，神通广大，常常的把我们山神、土地拿了去，烧火顶门，黑夜与他提铃喝号。小妖儿又讨甚么常例钱。」
逐句解 Line by line
When that Pilgrim had thrashed away a while, he beat out a crowd of ragged spirits, who — draped in a patch here and a patch there, breechclout with no seat and trousers with no waistband — knelt before the mountain and cried: "Great Sage, the mountain-gods and earth-spirits come to see you."
And out they come, in rags. The joke is in the clothing: 褌無襠 is an undergarment with no crotch, 褲無口 trousers with no leg-openings — the 口 being the "mouth" where the leg comes out. These are gods, and they are dressed worse than beggars. 那行者 takes the pointing nà; 打了一會 takes the completed 了, le, and shifts 一 to yí before the falling tone of 會; 都 is dōu; both 一片 shift 一 to yí before the falling tone of 片. 土地 are the earth-spirits, the lowest rank of the celestial civil service — one per locality, like a parish clerk.
Pilgrim said: "How is it there are so many mountain-gods and earth-spirits?"
Sixty deities on one mountain is a lot, and Wukong says so.
The assembled spirits kowtowed and said: "We report to the Great Sage: this mountain is called the Six-Hundred-Li Auger-Head Sentinel Mountain.
The mountain is named at last: 六百里鑽頭號山. 號 is hào, "styled"; 鑽頭 is an auger-head, a drill-bit, which suggests something that bores upward into the sky. Six hundred 里 is something over three hundred kilometres of it.
We are a mountain-god every ten li and an earth-spirit every ten li — thirty mountain-gods and thirty earth-spirits in all.
The arithmetic is bureaucratic and exact: one god and one earth-spirit every ten 里, so sixty over six hundred. Both 一 shift to yì, before the level tone of 山 and the dipping tone of 土.
Yesterday we already heard the Great Sage had come, but because we couldn't assemble in time, we were late to greet you and so provoked the Great Sage's wrath — we beg ten thousand pardons."
They apologise for being late to a meeting nobody called. 一時 shifts 一 to yì before the rising tone of 時; 不 keeps the plain bù before the rising tone of 齊.
Pilgrim said: "I'll pardon your offense for now.
Granted, with the air of a magistrate. 饒你罪名 is to pardon a fault.
Let me ask you: how many demons are there on this mountain?"
The question the whole search exists to ask. 少 is shǎo.
The assembled spirits said: "Oh Father!
爺爺呀 — "oh, Father!" — is a cry of alarm, and the doubled word takes a light second syllable, yé ye, as reduplicated family words do throughout the book.
There's but the one demon, who has rubbed our very heads bald, left us short of incense and paper, with no blood-offerings at all — every one of us with clothes that won't cover the body and food that won't fill the mouth — and you ask how many more demons there could be!"
The complaint is a small masterpiece of official self-pity, and every item is a lost perquisite: no incense, no paper offerings, no 血食 (the blood-sacrifice of meat that keeps a local god in business), clothes that will not cover them and food that will not fill them. 摩光, "rubbed bald," is what happens to a god who is worked instead of worshipped. 只有得一個 takes the full-weight 得, dé, and shifts 一 to yí before the falling tone of 個; 弄得 uses the light hinge 得, de; 還吃得 takes 還 as hái and the full-weight 得, dé; both 少 are shǎo and 沒 is méi.
Pilgrim said: "Does this demon live before the mountain, or behind it?"
Wukong wants an address, and asks for it like a man narrowing a search.
The assembled spirits said: "He's neither before the mountain nor behind it.
Neither, as it turns out. 不 lifts to bú before the falling tone of 在. (The sealed note here was left mid-correction, first saying 不 stays bù and then correcting itself; bú is the reading in the text and the right one.)
In this mountain there is a gully, called the Withered Pine Gully.
And there it is. 枯松澗, the Withered Pine Gully — the exact place the false child named as his home when he was spinning his story about bandits. The lie was built on his own address. 這山中 takes zhōng.
By the gully there is a cave, called the Fire-Cloud Cave.
火雲洞, the Fire-Cloud Cave. The name is the warning: this is where the red cloud came from at the start of the chapter, and fire is what the party will have to face.
In that cave there is a demon-king of vast magic powers, who is forever seizing us mountain-gods and earth-spirits, making us stoke his fires and tend his gate, and in the black of night ring his bell and call his watches for him.
The gods' grievance turns out to be forced labour. 燒火頂門 is stoking his fires and holding his gate; 提鈴喝號 is carrying the bell and calling the night watches — the duties of a night porter, imposed on deities. 號 is hào, to cry the watch. 那洞裡 takes the pointing nà; 拿了去 the completed 了, le.
And the little imps keep dunning us for some 'customary fee' besides."
And the final indignity: a protection racket. 常例錢 is the "customary fee," the informal levy that Ming clerks extracted as a matter of routine — the novel is being pointed here, not fanciful. 小妖兒 takes the weightless 兒, er; 甚 is shén.
The thrashing bears fruit in a piece of pure comedy: the local pantheon dragged out of hiding, thirty mountain gods and thirty earth-spirits, a whole tier of the celestial civil service reduced to rags by one demon — breechclouts with no crotch, trousers with no leg-holes, heads rubbed bald. The novel's satire of heavenly administration is never sharper than in these ragged officials, who grovel and beg pardon of the Great Sage for the offence of arriving late, and whose complaint is a small masterpiece of aggrieved bureaucratic self-pity: no incense, no paper offerings, no blood-sacrifice, clothes that will not cover them, food that will not fill them, and now this monkey asking how many more demons there might be. The detail that lands hardest is the 常例錢, the "customary fee" the imps extract — the exact term for the informal levy that Ming clerks squeezed out of everyone who dealt with them.
Beneath the comedy the passage delivers the search's crucial intelligence, and delivers it with a chill. The demon's lair is the Fire-Cloud Cave by the Withered Pine Gully — and the Withered Pine Gully is precisely the home the false child invented for himself in his sob-story. The lie was stitched out of the truth: he named his own ravine, trusting that a real place would make a false tale hold. The mountain's name is given here too, and the cave's fire-name quietly prepares what the next passage will state outright. The geography of the coming ordeal is now fixed. What remains is to learn who the demon is.