He had not finished speaking when, in the very middle of the sea, the waves churned and the billows leapt, and a vase came thrusting up out of the water.

The sea answers before he has finished complaining. 了 in 說不了 is liǎo, to finish — "had not done speaking" — not the light le. 那 in 那海當中 points, so nà, and 當中 is dāng zhōng, in the very middle.

It turned out to be a strange creature bearing it up on its back.

Something is carrying it up. 馱 is tuó, to bear on the back; 著 is zhe, showing the action going on.

Pilgrim looked closely at the vase-bearing creature — and what was its likeness?

怎生模樣 — "and what was it like?" — is the storyteller's cue that a descriptive poem is coming. 仔 in 仔細 is zǐ, closely; 看 is kàn; 那 in 那馱瓶的怪物 points, so nà.

Sprung from a source of ancient stock, it bears the name Bang-ni; / at the water's floor it swells the light and shows its might alone.

The poem is a riddle: eight couplets describe the creature, and only the ninth will name it. 號 is hào, bears the name; 幫泥 is an old appellation for the tortoise. 處 in 出處 is chù, origin or source.

Hidden from the world, it knows the nature of heaven and earth; / secreted in repose, it fathoms the springs of gods and ghosts.

The tortoise's fabled knowledge of what heaven, earth and the spirits are up to. 藏 in 安藏 is cáng, hidden away.

Drawing in its body at a shrink, it shows no head or tail; / stretching out its feet to walk, it goes as swift as flight.

Head and tail pulled in, and no seam left showing. 藏 in 藏身 is cáng; 似 in 快似飛 is sì, swift as flight.

King Wen, drawing the hexagrams, once cast the primal augury; / long welcomed in hall and terrace, it kept Fu Xi company.

Two of the founding figures of Chinese divination. King Wen of Zhou is credited with working out the sixty-four hexagrams of the Book of Changes while imprisoned; Fu Xi, older still, is credited with the eight trigrams from which they are built. The tortoise belongs in that company for two reasons. Its shell was the classic tool of divination — heated until it cracked, and the cracks read as an answer — and the Luo River diagram, one of the two great pattern-charts of antiquity, was said to have come up out of the water on a turtle's back. 卜 in 元卜 is bǔ, to divine, not the light bo; 曾 is céng, once.

Cloud-and-dragon markings show forth a thousand graces; / it calls the waters up, drives the swell, and blows the billows on.

The wave-raising power, hinted several lines before the naming. 號 in 號水 is hào, calls the waters up.

Strand on strand, gold threads are strung to form its shell; / dot on dot, it is arrayed like bright tortoiseshell.

玳瑁 (dài mào) is tortoiseshell, the mottled amber material; the shell is described as gold thread strung into armour.

The Nine Palaces and Eight Trigrams are draped on it for a robe; / scattered flecks spread to clothe it in a green and glittering coat.

The shell's markings are read as the 九宮八卦 — the Nine Palaces and the Eight Trigrams, the diagram-scheme the tortoise is said to have brought out of the water in the first place. 鋪 in 鋪遮 is pū, to spread or cover, the verb, not the pù that means a shop; 散 is sǎn, scattered.

In life, fond of valor, it won the Dragon King's favor; / in death, it bears still the Buddha-Patriarch's stele.

Two careers, one in life and one after it. Stone tablets in China are commonly set on the back of a carved tortoise, which is why the creature goes on bearing inscriptions once it is dead. 好 in 好勇 is hào, fond of, given to — not hǎo, good; 還 in 死後還馱 is hái, still bears; 馱 is tuó.

Would you know this creature's name and kind? / The fierce black tortoise that stirs the wind and rears the waves.

And the answer, released in the last line, with a comic drop in dignity after all that cosmology: it is a bad-tempered black tortoise. 興風作浪 — stirring up wind and waves — is still the everyday Chinese for somebody who makes trouble, and 興 in it is xīng, to raise up, not xìng. 和 in 名和姓 is hé, and.