A poem says:
In quest of scripture, casting off every bar, they turn their steps to the West; past famous peaks beyond all number, the road runs on without end.
The hare runs and the crow takes wing — moon and sun goad on the days and nights; birds cry and blossoms fall, and spring gives way to autumn of itself.
Within a single mote of dust, beneath the eye, lie the Three Thousand Worlds; at the tip of the ringed pilgrim-staff pass four hundred prefectures.
Lodging by water, supping on the wind, they mount the purple road, nor can they name the day their faces shall turn homeward.
So it was that Tripitaka, thanks to the dragon-prince's subduing of the fiend and the Black-Water River god's clearing of the way, crossed the Black-Water River with his disciples, found the high road, and pressed straight on to the West. Truly they braved the wind and trod the snow, wore the moon and cloaked themselves in stars. When they had journeyed a good while, the season came round again to early spring, and this is what they saw:
The three yang turn in their courses; the myriad things shine forth.
The three yang turn in their courses — a sky brimming with brightness unrolls a painted scene;
the myriad things shine forth — fragrance spread over all the earth lays down an embroidered mat.
On the fading plum, a few flecks of snow; over the swelling wheat, a river of cloud.
Ice loosens and opens, and the mountain springs run free; buds burst forth entire, and no scar of last year's burning remains.
Tai Hao mounts the Zhen-quarter, and Gou Mang guides the season;
flowers breathe sweetness, the wind's breath grows warm; clouds thin, and the sun's light is new;
by the road the willows unfold their green eyes, and the fattening rain quickens ten thousand forms into spring.
Master and disciples went along the road, taking in the scenery and letting the horse amble, when of a sudden they heard a great shout — for all the world like the roar of ten thousand men crying out at once. Tripitaka's heart quailed; he reined in the horse and could go no further, and turning quickly he asked, “Wukong — where is that, that sets up such a din?”
“It's just like the earth splitting and the mountains falling in,” said Eight Rules.
“Or like the crack and peal of thunder,” said Sha Monk.
“Rather it is men shouting and horses neighing,” said Tripitaka.
Pilgrim Sun laughed. “None of you has guessed it. Hold here a moment — let old Sun go and see how things stand.”
That fine Pilgrim flung his body up, trod the cloud-light, and rose into the air; and opening his eyes to look about, he made out a walled city far off. Peering closer, he found its auspicious glow soft and unbroken, and could see no baleful vapor swirling about.
“A fine place,” he mused to himself. “How is it there comes a sound so loud it stings the ear? In that city I see no banners, no dagger-axes and halberds; nor is it the crack of cannon — so what makes it clamor like the tumult of men and horses?”
Even as he wondered, he caught sight of it: beyond the city gate lay a bare stretch of sandy ground, where a great crowd of monks had gathered, all hauling at carts. They were heaving all together to a work-chant, crying out in chorus “Great Power King Bodhisattva” — and it was this that had startled Tripitaka.
Pilgrim let his cloud sink lower and lower to look; and — ah! — the carts were loaded with the like of brick and tile, timber and mud-blocks. At the head of the sand-flat the slope rose steepest, and there ran besides a narrow path along the ridge, with two great barrier-passes. Below the passes the road was all sheer upright walls and cliffs — how were the carts ever to be hauled up? Though the day was mild and warm, these men went in ragged, tattered clothes and looked, by their appearance, in the utmost distress.
“It must be they are building a temple,” Pilgrim wondered to himself. “In a year of good harvest here they can find no hired hands, and so these monks set to it themselves.”
Even as he pondered, undecided, out through the city gate came swaggering two young Daoist priests. Look how they were got up:
On their heads, star-crowns; over their bodies, brocade.
On their heads star-crowns, glittering bright; over their bodies brocade, like drifting rosy cloud.
On their feet, cloud-toed shoes; at their waists, sashes of glossy silk.
Faces round as the full moon, clever and comely; forms like fairy-guests of the Jasper Heaven, and fair.
The monks, seeing the Daoists come, one and all took fright, and — redoubling their effort — hauled at the carts with bitter, straining pain. Pilgrim understood at once.
“Aha! It must be these monks are afraid of those Daoists; otherwise, why would they strain so hard at the hauling? I have heard it said that somewhere on the road to the West there is a place that honors the Dao and destroys the Buddhists — this must surely be it. I've a mind to go back and report to my Master, but the matter isn't yet clear; it would only earn his displeasure — that a fellow as sharp as I couldn't ferret out the plain truth. Better go down and ask until it's clear, and then I'll have my answer for the Master.”
And whom, would you say, did he come to ask?
That fine Great Sage dropped down his cloud, went to the foot of the prefectural wall, shook himself and turned into a wandering Quanzhen adept of the cloud-and-water sort: on his left arm hung a water-and-fire basket, in his hand he beat a fisher-drum, and from his mouth he sang a Daoqing ballad. Nearing the gate, he came up to the two Daoists, bowed to their faces, and said, “Masters — a poor Daoist salutes you.”
The Daoists returned his courtesy. “Where does the gentleman come from?”
“This disciple roams to the corners of the sea and drifts to the sky's edge. Today I have come to this place, hoping to beg from charitable households. May I ask you two masters: in this city, on which street is the Dao well-loved, and in which lane are the worthy cherished, so that a poor Daoist may go and beg himself a little food?”
The Daoists laughed. “What sort of dispiriting talk is this from you, sir?”
“Dispiriting — how so?”
“You want to beg your food — isn't that dispiriting?”
“A man who has left the household takes begging for his calling,” said Pilgrim. “If he does not beg his food, how is he to have money to buy it?”
“You are from far off and do not know how things stand in this city of ours,” said the Daoist with a smile. “In this city — never mind that the civil and military officials love the Dao, that rich men and elders cherish the worthy, that men and women great and small, seeing the likes of us, bow and beg us to take their offerings, none of which is worth the mentioning — first and foremost, our sovereign the ten-thousand-year king himself loves the Dao and cherishes the worthy.”
“This poor Daoist is, for one, young in years, and for another, newly come from a far country — truly I do not know,” said Pilgrim. “May I trouble you two masters to set out in full this place's name, and the matter of the king's love of the Dao and cherishing of the worthy? It would show the fellowship of those who share the Way.”
“This city is called the Cart-Slow Kingdom,” said the Daoist. “The sovereign upon the treasure-hall is kin to us.”
Pilgrim laughed aloud. “Has a Daoist become emperor, then?”
“No. It was only that twenty years ago the people suffered a great drought: not a drop of rain from the sky, no shoot of grain from the earth. High and low, sovereign and subject and common folk alike, household great and small — every family bathed and burned incense, every door bowed to Heaven and prayed for rain. Just as all were hanging as if head-downward, clinging to life, of a sudden Heaven sent down three immortal-elders to stoop and save the living.”
“Who were these three immortal-elders?”
“None other than the masters of our house.”
“What are your revered masters' titles?”
“Our eldest master is styled the Tiger-Power Immortal, the second the Deer-Power Immortal, the third the Ram-Power Immortal.”
“And how great is the power of the three revered masters?”
“Those masters of mine summon wind and call rain in no more than the turning of a palm; they point at water and make it oil, touch stone and turn it to gold — as easily as turning one's body. It is because they hold such powers — able to wrest away the making-and-transforming of Heaven and Earth, to alter the hidden subtleties of the stars — that ruler and minister hold them in mutual esteem, and the king has bound himself to us in kinship.”
“This emperor has fortune indeed,” said Pilgrim. “As the old saying goes, 'Craft moves the great ministers.' With such arts as your old masters possess, to have bound themselves in kinship — truly it does them no discredit. Ah! I wonder whether this poor Daoist might have the least speck of karmic affinity — enough to win one sight of your old masters' faces?”
“You wish to see our masters? What difficulty is there in that?” said the Daoist with a smile. “We two are their bosom-and-flesh disciples, and our masters, moreover, so love the Dao and cherish the worthy that at the mere sound of the word 'Dao' they will come out to the very gate to receive a man. If we two bring you in, it will cost no more than blowing away ash.”
Pilgrim, bowing low, made a deep salute. “Much obliged for the recommendation — let us go in, then.”
“Wait but a little while,” said the Daoist. “Sit here, and once we two have finished our official business, we'll take you in.”
“A man who has left the household is without tie or bond, free and easy — what official business could there be?”
The Daoist pointed with his hand at the monks on the sand-flat. “The work they do is our household's; for fear they shirk, we'll go call their roll once and be back.”
Pilgrim laughed. “You are mistaken, master. Monks and Daoists are all of them people who have left the household — why should they labor for us and answer to our roll-call?”
“You do not understand. In that year of praying for rain, the monks on one side worshipped the Buddha while the Daoists on the other petitioned the Dipper, and both drew rations from the court. But who would have thought those monks were good for nothing — chanting empty and reading empty, of no avail whatever? Then, once my masters arrived and called the rain and summoned the wind, they plucked the myriad people out of their misery. This so angered the court, which declared the monks useless, that it tore down their monastery gate, destroyed their Buddha-images, revoked their ordination certificates, forbade them to return home, and made a royal gift of them to our house for labor — treated, indeed, just like servant-boys. In our house the one who tends the fire is a monk, the one who sweeps the floor is a monk, the one who keeps the gate is a monk. And because there is housing yet unfinished at the back, not fully built, we have set these monks to haul brick and tile and drag timber to raise the buildings. Fearing only that they idle and shirk and will not pull the carts, we have been sent, we two, to go and take the count.”
Pilgrim, hearing this, caught hold of the Daoist and let fall tears. “I said I had no luck — truly, no luck — that I should not get to see the old masters' honored faces.”
“Why should you not get to see them?”
“This poor Daoist roams the regions, for one thing for my life's sake, and for another to seek a kinsman.”
“What kinsman have you?” asked the Daoist.
“I had an uncle who left the household from his youth, shaved his head, and became a monk. In a lean year of famine long ago he too went out to beg abroad. These several years he has not come home, and I, mindful of my forebears' kindness, have come on purpose — as my road allowed — to seek him out. It may well be that he is detained in some such place as this, unable to get free — there is no telling. How shall I find him and get one sight of him? Only then can I go into the city with you.”
“That's easy enough,” said the Daoist. “We two will just sit here; may I trouble you to go count for me on the sand-flat? Only tally the head-count — if there are the five hundred names, that will do — and see among them which is your uncle. If he is indeed there, then out of our fellowship in the Way we'll let him go, and go into the city with you — how would that be?”
Pilgrim, bowing his thanks without end, made a long, deep bow, took his leave of the Daoists, and beating his fisher-drum went straight up onto the sand-flat. Once over the double pass and down along the ridge, the monks all together knelt and knocked their heads. “Grandfather, we have not been shirking — all five hundred names, not half a one missing, are here hauling the carts.”
Pilgrim, seeing this, laughed to himself. “These monks have been beaten into terror by the Daoists — before me, a mere fake Daoist, they cower like this. Were I a real Daoist, they'd likely not stay alive at all.”
He waved his hand again. “Don't kneel; don't be afraid. I'm no overseer — I've come here to seek a kinsman.”
When the monks heard talk of finding kin, they closed in a ring around him, and one after another thrust out their heads and showed their faces, coughing and making a noise, each hoping past hope to be claimed. “We don't know which one is his kin,” they said.
Pilgrim looked them over a while, then burst out laughing.
“Your Honor doesn't recognize any kin — why do you laugh?” said the monks.
“Do you know what I'm laughing at? I'm laughing that you monks have no fine prospects at all. When your fathers and mothers bore you, it was because your fate fell under the Canopy Star — you would harm your father and cross your mother, or fail to keep your sisters — and so they cut you off and sent you to leave the household. Why then do you not honor the Three Jewels, not revere the Buddha's Law, not go read the scriptures and bow in penance — but instead hire yourselves out to Daoists and be worked like slaves and bondmaids?”
“Your Honor, you've come here to shame us,” said the monks. “You must, old sir, be one come from outside, who does not know how perilous it is here.”
“I am indeed from a far country, and truly do not know what peril there is here in your place.”
The monks let fall tears. “The king of this country of ours is partial in heart and unrighteous; he delights only in the likes of Your Honors, and is vexed by us, the sons of the Buddha.”
“How came it so?”
“It was only because — by summoning wind and calling rain — the three immortal-elders came to this place and undid us. Deceiving and winning over the king, they had our monastery torn down, our ordination papers revoked, forbade us to go home, and would not even let us fill corvée or serve on duty, but bestowed us on the immortal-elders' household for use — a bitterness past bearing. Should any wandering Daoist come here, he is at once invited to pay court to the king and receive rewards; but should a monk come — near or far, no matter — he is seized and given to the immortal-elders' household to labor.”
“It must be that those Daoists have besides some clever art of magic with which they lured the king,” said Pilgrim. “If it were only summoning wind and calling rain, that too is but a petty heterodox trick — how could it move the sovereign's heart?”
“They can knead sand and smelt mercury, sit in meditation and preserve the spirit, point at water and make it oil, touch stone and turn it to gold; and now they are raising the buildings of a Three-Pure Abbey, reading scriptures and doing repentance before Heaven and Earth day and night, praying that the king live ten thousand years unaging — and so they have quite bewitched the sovereign's heart.”
“So that's how it is. You might all just leave, then.”
“Your Honor, there's no getting away. Those immortal-elders got the king's assent to have our portraits drawn and posted up everywhere, all the time. This Cart-Slow Kingdom's territory is broad; in every prefecture, department, county, village, hamlet, shop, and market-town there hangs a monk-portrait, and above it the king's own brush has inscribed the order. Anyone holding office who catches a single monk is promoted three grades; anyone without office who catches a single monk is rewarded fifty taels of silver — and so there's no getting away. Never mind actual monks — even a man with cropped mane, a bald pate, or thinning hair can hardly escape. Runners are many on every side, and informers wider still; do what you will, there's no slipping away. We have no help for it, and can only endure our bitterness here.”
“If that's so, you might as well just die, then.”
“Your Honor, some have died. Counting those seized from everywhere together with the local monks, we numbered above two thousand. Here, unable to bear the bitterness, unable to bear the scorching, unable to endure the cold, unable to stomach the water and soil — some six or seven hundred died, and seven or eight hundred took their own lives. Only we five hundred cannot die.”
“Why can you not die?”
“Hang from a beam and the rope snaps; take a blade to the throat and it does not hurt; throw yourself in the river and you float up without sinking; swallow poison and your body stays sound, unharmed.”
“Then you have good fortune — Heaven has granted you long life.”
“Ah, Your Honor, you've left out one word — it's 'long to suffer.' We eat three meals a day, and they are thin gruel boiled from coarse rice. Come nightfall we lodge out on the sand-flat, braving the dew. But the moment we close our eyes, spirit-men come to shield us.”
“It must be you're worn out with hardship — are you seeing ghosts?”
“They are not ghosts — they are the Six Ding and Six Jia, and the Dharma-guarding Sangharama spirits. As soon as night falls, they come to protect us. Whenever one of us would die, they shield him and do not let him die.”
“These spirits have no sense at all,” said Pilgrim. “They ought just to let you die early and be reborn early in Heaven — why come to protect you instead?”
“In our dreams they console us, telling us not to seek death but to endure our bitterness and await the sage-monk of the Great Tang in the Eastern Land, the arhat who journeys to the Western Heaven to fetch the scriptures. Under his hand is a disciple, none other than the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, whose divine powers are vast, who holds singly to a loyal and upright heart, who rights the wrongs of the human world, succors the distressed and props up the imperiled, pities the orphaned and thinks on the widowed. We need only wait for him to come and show his power, destroy the Daoists, and restore the honor of your Buddhist order.”
Pilgrim, hearing these words, laughed to himself: “Say not that old Sun has no arts — the gods and saints have spread my name ahead of me.”
He quickly drew himself back, beat his fisher-drum, took leave of the monks, and went straight to the city gate, where he saw the Daoists. The Daoist came up to him. “Sir, which one is your kinsman?”
“All five hundred are kin to me.”
The two Daoists laughed. “How is it you have so many kinsmen?”
“A hundred are my neighbors to the left, a hundred my neighbors to the right, a hundred my father's clan, a hundred my mother's clan, and a hundred my sworn friends. If you'll consent to release all five hundred of these men, I'll go in with you; if you won't, I won't go.”
“You must have a touch of the mad-wind sickness, that you talk such nonsense all at once. Those monks are the king's own bestowal; were we to release even one or two, we should have to file an illness-report with the masters, then make out a death-report before it could be settled — how then can you say to release them all? The thing makes no sense, no sense at all. Never mind that our household would have none to wait on it — the court itself would take us to task. The village headmen here require officials to be dispatched to inspect, and at times the royal carriage comes in person to check the count — how should we dare release them?”
“You won't release them?”
“We won't!”
Pilgrim asked three times running, then flew into a rage: he took the iron rod from his ear, kneaded it once in the wind till it was as thick as a bowl, gave it a shake, and swept it across the Daoist's face. Pitiful — one blow, and his head split and his blood flowed and his body fell to the ground; his skin burst, his neck broke, his brains spilled out.
The monks on the sand-flat, seeing from afar that he had killed the two Daoists, dropped their carts and came running up. “This is bad, this is bad — he's killed the royal kin!”
“Which one was royal kin?” said Pilgrim.
The monks ringed him in a dustpan-formation. “Their master ascends the hall without paying court to the king and leaves it without taking leave of his sovereign; the court commonly styles him 'Preceptor of the Realm, Elder-Brother Master.' How is it you came here to make such trouble? His disciples came out to oversee the labor — no concern of yours — why did you strike them dead? Those immortal-elders won't say it was you who did the killing; they'll only say the men came here to oversee, and that we took their lives — what will become of us then? Better go with you into the city and answer for the deaths there.”
Pilgrim laughed. “Gentlemen, don't make such a clamor. I am no cloud-and-water Quanzhen adept — I've come to save you.”
“You've gone and killed men, done us harm, and added to our burden — how is that saving us?”
“I am Sun Wukong the Pilgrim, disciple of the sage-monk of the Great Tang, come here on purpose to save your lives.”
“No, no — that old lord, we would know him.”
“But you've never met him — how would you know him?”
“In a dream we have seen an old man who called himself the Great White Star of Venus, and who used to instruct us, describing the look of that Sun Pilgrim, that we might not mistake him.”
“And what did he tell you?”
The monks said, “He told us of that Great Sage:”
A knobbed brow, golden eyes flashing bright; a round head, a furred face without jowls.
Jutting teeth, a pointed muzzle, a nature wild and wayward.
In looks a match for the Thunder God, grotesque.
Wont to wield the golden-hooped iron rod; once he battered the gates of Heaven open.
Now, turned to the right, he comes to guard the monks;
his whole care to save the world of men from calamity.
Pilgrim, hearing this, was both vexed and pleased. Pleased, he said, “So they've spread old Sun's name for me!” Vexed, he said, “That old rascal has no shame — telling my true form to this pack of common folk.”
Then he blurted out: “Gentlemen, if you truly reckon I'm not Sun the Pilgrim — well, I'm a disciple of Sun the Pilgrim, come here to learn trouble-making for sport. Isn't that Sun the Pilgrim coming there?”
He pointed east with his hand, and while he tricked the monks into turning their heads, he showed his true form. Only then did the monks know him, and one after another they threw themselves down in worship. “Grandfather, we are but mortal flesh and common eyes — we did not know it was your own divine manifestation. We beg you, Grandfather, to avenge our grievance and dispel our calamity, and soon enter the city to subdue the heterodox and restore the right.”
“Just follow me, all of you,” said Pilgrim; and the monks pressed close about him, left and right.
That Great Sage went straight up onto the sand-flat, worked a spell, hauled the carts over the two passes and through the ridge, lifted them up, and dashed them to pieces. He flung all the brick and tile and timber down the slope, and shouted an order to the monks: “Scatter — don't stay under my hands and feet. Wait till tomorrow, when I see this emperor and destroy those Daoists.”
“Ah, Grandfather! We dare not go far off, for we fear that officials on duty will seize us and haul us in, and then we'll be beaten and made to pay ransom, bringing fresh calamity on ourselves.”
“If that's so, I'll give each of you a body-guarding charm.”
That fine Great Sage pulled off a handful of his fine hairs, chewed them to bits, and gave each monk a piece. “Pinch it inside the nail of your ring finger, clench your fist, and just go on your way. If no one dares seize you, well and good; but if anyone does, clench your fist tight and call out once, 'Great Sage Equal to Heaven,' and I'll come to guard you.”
“Grandfather, if you've gone far off, out of our sight, and we call and you don't answer — what then?”
“Just set your minds at rest — though it were ten thousand lǐ away, I can keep you entirely safe.”
One of the monks with the boldest spirit clenched his fist and softly called out, “Great Sage Equal to Heaven!” At once a thunder-god stood before him, an iron rod in his hand — so that a thousand armies and ten thousand horse could not come near him. By this time a hundred-odd of them were calling together, and a full hundred-odd Great Sages stood guard.
The monks knocked their heads. “Grandfather, it works indeed!”
“Call out the word 'Still,' and they'll be withdrawn for you,” Pilgrim further instructed them. Truly, at the call of 'Still,' the hairs were as before, back in the crevice of the nail. Only then did the monks rejoice at their deliverance and scatter all together.
“Don't flee too far; listen for my news from the city, and the moment a notice recalling monks goes up, come into the city and return my hairs to me.”
The five hundred monks — some east, some west, some walking, some standing — scattered every way, and of them no more.
Now, that Tripitaka, waiting at the roadside and unable to get any word back from Pilgrim, had told Eight Rules to lead the horse westward, and came upon some monks hurrying along. Drawing near the city, he saw Pilgrim still there with a dozen-odd monks not yet scattered.
Tripitaka reined in his horse. “Wukong, how is it you went to find out about a noise and are so long in coming back?”
Pilgrim, leading the dozen-odd monks, made his salute before Tripitaka's horse and told the whole foregoing matter. Tripitaka was greatly alarmed. “If it's like that — what's to become of us?”
“Set your mind at rest, Your Reverence,” said the dozen-odd monks. “Grandfather Sun the Great Sage is one sent down from among the heavenly gods; his divine powers are vast, and he will surely keep Your Reverence from all harm. We are monks of the Wisdom-Deep Temple, imperially built, here in this city. Because this temple was raised by the former king, the founding ancestor, and still holds the founder's sacred image within, it has not been torn down. Every temple in the city, great and small, has been demolished. We beg Your Reverence to enter the city early, come and lodge at our humble hill, and wait for tomorrow's morning audience — the Great Sage Sun will surely have a way to deal with it.”
“You speak rightly,” said Pilgrim. “Very well, then — let's get into the city while it's early.”
That elder then dismounted and walked up to below the city gate. By this time the sun was sinking in the west. They crossed the drawbridge and passed through three layers of gates; and the people in the streets, seeing the Wisdom-Deep monks leading a horse and carrying baggage, all drew aside. As they went on, they came before the temple's mountain-gate, where, high on the gate, hung a great plaque of golden characters, reading “Wisdom-Deep Temple, Imperially Built.”
The monks pushed open the gate, passed through the Vajra Hall, and opened the doors of the main hall. Tripitaka took out his kāṣāya, put it on, made his obeisance to the golden image, and only then went in. The monks called, “You there who keep the house.” An old monk came out, and seeing Pilgrim, bowed at once. “Grandfather, you've come?”
“How do you know which grandfather I am, that you hail and bow to me like this?”
“I know you are the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Grandfather Sun. Night after night we have seen you in dreams. The Great White Star of Venus came again and again to send us dreams, saying that only when you came would we get our lives. Today I have indeed seen your honored face, no different from the dream. Ah, Grandfather! Happily you have come early; another day or two's delay, and we should all have become ghosts.”
Pilgrim laughed. “Rise, rise. Tomorrow it will all be made clear.”
The monks laid out a vegetarian meal, and the master and his disciples ate. They swept the abbot's quarters clean and settled down to sleep for the night.
Around the second watch, the Great Sage Sun, with matters on his mind, could not sleep for anything, and only heard, from somewhere, the sound of pipes and drums. Quietly he crept up, put on his clothes, sprang into the air to look, and found it was to the south that lamps and candles blazed. Lowering his cloud to look more closely, he saw it was the Daoists of the Three-Pure Abbey performing a star-propitiation rite. There one saw:
A numinous precinct, a lofty hall; a blessed ground, a hall of truth.
A numinous precinct, a lofty hall — towering, grand as the vista of Penglai;
a blessed ground, a hall of truth — dim and pure as the Palace of Transformed Joy.
On either side the Daoists played reed-pipes; before the altar the high priest raised his jade tablet.
He proclaimed the calamity-dispelling penitential, and opened his lecture on the Daodejing.
Casting dust again and again, they passed the talismans entire; declaring the rite once through, all bowed to the ground.
Blessing the water and issuing the writs, the candle-flames flickered and rose to the upper realm;
tracing the pole-stars and arraying the Dipper, the incense-smoke, rich and fragrant, pierced the clear sky.
On the altar-table were fresh oblations; on the tables, a rich vegetarian feast.
Before the hall-doors hung a couplet — a matched pair of lines — on yellow damask brocade, embroidered with twenty-two great characters, reading: “Rains in season, winds attuned — we pray the Celestial Worthy for the boundless Law; rivers clear, seas calm — we beg for our sovereign long years and more.”
Pilgrim saw three old Daoists in ritual vestments, and reckoned they must be the Tiger-Power, Deer-Power, and Ram-Power Immortals. Below stood seven or eight hundred lesser attendants — drummers and bell-ringers, incense-bearers and reciters — all ranged in attendance on either side.
Pilgrim rejoiced to himself. “I'd like to go down and have some sport with them, but a single thread makes no cord, and one palm cannot clap. Better go back and fetch Eight Rules and Sha Monk, and come have our fun together.”
He let the auspicious cloud sink and went straight into the abbot's quarters, where Eight Rules and Sha Monk were sleeping foot-to-foot. Pilgrim first called Wujing, and Sha Monk woke. “Brother, haven't you slept yet?”
“Get up — you and I will go treat ourselves to something.”
“It's the dead of night, the third watch; mouth dry and eyes gritty — what's there to enjoy?”
“In this city there is indeed a Three-Pure Abbey, where the Daoists are at their jiao-rite, and on the Three-Pure altar are many offerings: steamed buns a full dǒu across, roast pastries fifty or sixty catties apiece, side-dishes beyond count, and fruits fresh and new. Come treat yourself with me.”
That Zhu Bajie, hearing in his sleep of eating good things, woke at once. “Brother — won't you take me along too?”
“Little brother, if you want to eat, don't shout and yell and wake the master — all of you follow me.”
The two of them threw on their clothes, quietly slipped out the door, and, following Pilgrim, trod the cloud and sprang up. That idiot, seeing the lamplight, meant to set to at once, but Pilgrim held him back. “Not so fast — wait till they've dispersed, and only then can we go down.”
“They've just reached the height of their chanting — how would they be willing to disperse?”
“Let me work a little trick, and they'll disperse.”
That fine Great Sage made the finger-sign, recited a spell, drew a breath from the Xun quarter, and puffed it out — and it became a gust of wild wind that swept straight into the Three-Pure Hall, toppling all their flower-vases and candlesticks and the merit-banners hung on the four walls, until the lamps went dark. The Daoists were terrified.
“Disciples, disperse for now,” said the Tiger-Power Immortal. “This divine wind, passing over, has blown out the lamps and candles, the incense and flowers. Let each go to his rest, rise early tomorrow, and recite a few more scrolls of scripture to make up the count.”
And the Daoists did each withdraw.
This Pilgrim then led Eight Rules and Sha Monk down from the cloud and burst into the Three-Pure Hall. The idiot, not caring whether it was raw or cooked, snatched up a roast pastry and opened his mouth to gnaw it — and Pilgrim drew his iron rod and raised his hand to strike. Eight Rules pulled back his hand and dodged. “I haven't so much as tasted a flavour of it, and you're already hitting me.”
“Don't behave so stingily — let's exchange proper courtesies, sit down, and enjoy ourselves.”
“No shame in you — stealing food to eat, and still wanting to bow and scrape. And if they were to be summoned down, what then?”
“What bodhisattvas are these seated up above?” said Pilgrim.
Eight Rules laughed. “You can't even tell the Three Pure Ones, and you take them for some bodhisattvas.”
“Which Three Pure Ones?”
“The one in the middle is the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning, the one on the left the Numinous-Treasure Lord of the Dao, the one on the right the Supreme Elder Lord.”
“We must all change into just this shape — only then can we eat in peace.”
That idiot, growing frantic and smelling the fragrant offerings, wanted to eat: he clambered up onto the high dais, shoved the Elder Lord off with a thrust of his snout, and said, “Old sir, you've sat here long enough — let old Zhu sit a while.” Eight Rules changed into the Supreme Elder Lord, Pilgrim into the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning, and Sha Monk into the Numinous-Treasure Lord of the Dao; and they pushed all the original images down.
As they sat down, Eight Rules made to snatch a big steamed bun and eat.
“Don't be in such a hurry,” said Pilgrim.
“Brother, we've changed into all this — still not eating, what are we waiting for?”
“Little brother — eating is a small matter, but letting slip the secret of Heaven is a great one. These sacred images have all been pushed down on the floor; should some early-rising Daoist come to strike the bell and sweep, and trip over one, wouldn't the secret be out? You hide them away to one side.”
“The way here is strange to me, and I can't find the door by feel — where am I to hide them?”
“When I came in just now, to the right there was a small door of a single fold; inside, the foul air was choking — it must be a place for the cycling of the Five Grains. Go and send them in there.”
This idiot, having some brute strength, sprang down, hoisted the three sacred images onto his shoulders, and carried them out. Getting over there and kicking the door open to look, he found it was a great eastern privy. He laughed. “This Protector of Horses truly has a gift for wagging his tongue — giving even a cesspit a Daoist style-name, calling it some 'place for the cycling of the Five Grains.'”
That idiot, carrying them on his shoulder but not yet flinging them down, muttered a prayer under his breath:
Three Pure Ones, Three Pure Ones, hear what I say: come from afar to this place, we are old hands at destroying demons.
We would enjoy your offerings, but have nowhere to rest in peace.
We borrow your seats to pause a little while.
You have sat a good long while — for now step down into the cesspit.
Every ordinary day you have had boundless enjoyment, playing the pure and pristine Daoist;
today you cannot help but partake of a little filth, and play a Celestial Worthy who takes in the stench!
The prayer done, he flung them in with a splash, spattering half his robe-front with foul water, and came back up into the hall.
“Have you hidden them well?” said Pilgrim.
“As for hiding, they're hidden well enough — only some water splashed up and dirtied my clothes, and there's a filthy stench, so don't be squeamish about it.”
Pilgrim laughed. “Very well — come and enjoy yourself. Though I wonder whether we'll get out the door with a clean body.”
That idiot, still in the guise of the Elder Lord, sat down with the other two and enjoyed himself to the full. First they ate the big steamed buns, then the platters and side-dishes, the sweetmeats, oven-cakes, pastry-cakes, fritters, and steamed shortcakes — never minding whether hot or cold, they ate away as they pleased. Now Sun the Pilgrim did not much eat cooked food, and only ate a few fruits to keep the other two company. That meal — like a meteor chasing the moon, like wind sweeping the last clouds — they ate clean, till by now there was nothing left to eat. Still they did not leave, but lingered there chatting to settle their food and amuse themselves.
Ah! That such a thing should happen.
Now under the eastern gallery there was a young Daoist who had just lain down, but suddenly got up. “I've left my hand-bell up in the hall — if it's lost, the master will scold me tomorrow.” He said to the one sleeping beside him, “You sleep on — I'll go look for it.”
In his haste, without putting on his underclothes, he threw on a single Daoist robe and went straight to the main hall to find the bell. Groping about, he found the bell by feel. Just as he was about to turn back, he heard the sound of breathing. The Daoist took fright, and hurrying to stride out, somehow trod on a lychee pit and went slipping and sprawling with a thud. With a clang, the bell was shattered in the fall.
Zhu Bajie could not hold it in and burst out into loud guffaws. This so frightened the young Daoist that his three souls fled and his seven spirits scattered; stumbling at every step, he crashed to the abbot's quarters and banged on the door, calling, “Grand-master, this is bad, disaster has struck.”
The three old Daoists had not yet slept, and opened the door to ask, “What disaster?”
Trembling, he said, “Your disciple lost his hand-bell, and going up to the hall to find it, heard someone laughing aloud — it nearly scared me to death.”
Hearing this, the old Daoist called at once, “Bring a lamp — let's see what evil thing this is.” At the word of command, the Daoists of the two galleries were startled awake; great and small, they all rose, lit lamps and kindled fires, and went to look at the main hall.
Not knowing how it all turned out, listen to the telling in the next chapter.