The tale tells how the king, seeing that Sun the Pilgrim commanded the art of summoning dragons and compelling the sacred powers, pressed the imperial seal upon the travel-rescript and made ready to hand it back to the Tang Monk and let the party pass to the road west. But the three Daoists, in a fluster, threw themselves down before the Hall of Golden Chimes and made their plea. The emperor stepped down at once from his dragon-seat and hurried to steady them with his own hands. “National Preceptors, why perform so great an obeisance this day?” he said.
They said: “Your Majesty — we came here to shore up the altars of the realm, to guard the state and settle its people; twenty bitter years we have laboured, and now this monk with his tricks of magic has snatched it all away and cast it off, ruining our good name. For a single spell of rain Your Majesty would remit the guilt of a man's slaughter — is that not to hold us all too cheap? We beg you to hold back his travel-rescript a while and let us brothers wager against him once more, and see how it falls out.”
The king was utterly muddled, swaying east when east was spoken and west when west was urged, and truly took the rescript back. “National Preceptor, in what will you wager against him?”
The Tiger-Power Immortal said: “I shall wager him a contest of seated meditation.”
“National Preceptor, you are mistaken. That monk is of the Chan school by his very training; he must first be versed in the meditative mystery before he dared take up the decree to fetch the scriptures. How will you wager him at this?”
“This meditation of mine is not the common kind. It goes by a rare name, and is called Manifesting Sainthood upon the Cloud-Ladder.”
“And what is Manifesting Sainthood upon the Cloud-Ladder?”
“It wants a hundred tables — fifty stacked to make one meditation-terrace, sheet upon sheet piled up, with no leave to climb by hand nor to mount by ladder or stool. Each rides a single wisp of cloud to the terrace-top, sits down, and holds there, unstirring, for a set number of watches.”
The king, finding here some awkwardness, issued a decree of inquiry. “Monk — my National Preceptor would wager you at Manifesting Sainthood on the Cloud-Ladder, a contest of meditation. Which of you can do it?”
The Pilgrim, hearing this, brooded and gave no answer.
“Brother, why so tongue-tied?” said Eight Rules.
“Brother, I'll not hide it from you truly. Kicking the sky and stirring up wells, churning the seas and overturning rivers, shouldering mountains to chase down the moon, swapping the Dipper and shifting the stars — all such cunning feats I can bring off. Hacking off heads and mincing brains, splitting bellies and gouging hearts, all manner of uncanny sleights — those too I do not fear. But speak of sitting in meditation, and I have already lost. Where should I find the patience to sit? Even were you to chain me to an iron pillar, I would still be scrambling up and down, and could never sit still.”
Then Tripitaka spoke up. “I can sit in meditation.”
“Splendid, splendid,” said the Pilgrim gladly. “And how long can you sit?”
“In my young years I met a wandering Chan monk who expounded the Way; upon the very root of nature and life, in stilling the nature and preserving the spirit, within the barrier of death and birth, I once sat two or three years together.”
“Master, if you sit two or three years, we may as well not fetch the scriptures at all. At most two or three watches, and then come down.”
“Disciple, ah — the trouble is I cannot get up there.”
“Step forward and answer the call. I will send you up.”
The elder, sure enough, pressed his palms together at his breast. “This poor monk can sit in meditation.” The king issued a decree to raise the meditation-terraces, and the realm had strength to topple mountains: in less than half a watch two terraces stood to the left and right of the Hall of Golden Chimes.
The Tiger-Power Immortal came down from the hall, stood at the centre of the steps, gave his body a heave, trod a single billow of rush-mat cloud, and went straight up to sit upon the western terrace. The Pilgrim plucked a single hair and made it into a false likeness of himself, which he set beside Eight Rules and Sha the Monk below. Then he made a five-hued auspicious cloud, caught the Tang Monk up into the air, and bore him to the eastern terrace; and then he gathered in his auspicious light, turned into a tiny gnat-fly, and flew to the edge of Eight Rules' ear. “Brother, keep a careful watch over the Master, and no more talking with old Sun's stand-in.”
The blockhead laughed. “Understood, understood.”
Now the Deer-Power Immortal, seated on an embroidered stool and watching a good while, saw that the two upon the high terraces were neither winning nor losing; so he lent his elder brother a hand. From the short hairs at the back of his head he plucked one, rolled it into a pellet, and flicked it up, straight to the top of the Tang Monk's head, where it turned into a great bedbug and bit the elder fast. The elder felt an itch first, and afterwards pain. Now one who sits in meditation may not stir his hands; to stir the hands counts as forfeit. For a moment the aching grew past enduring, and he drew in his head and rubbed the itch against the front of his robe.
“That's bad,” said Eight Rules. “The Master has fallen into a fit of the falling-sickness.”
“No,” said Sha the Monk. “It's a head-wind that's come on.”
The Pilgrim, hearing them, said: “My master is a man of true sincerity, a gentleman. If he says he can sit in meditation, then most certainly he can sit; if he said he could not, then simply he could not. A gentleman — how could there be any falsehood in him? You two hold your peace, and wait while I go up and take a look.”
With a faint droning buzz the good Pilgrim flew to the top of the Tang Monk's head, and there saw a bedbug the size of a bean feasting on his master. He pinched it off in a hurry and scratched and rubbed the spot for him, and the elder, neither aching nor itching, sat bolt upright above.
“A monk's pate is bald,” the Pilgrim thought. “Not a louse could find a foothold on it, let alone this bedbug. It must be that Daoist working some sleight to harm my master. Aha — it's a stalemate anyhow, with no telling win from loss. Let old Sun go and give him a taste of it!”
He flew up, alighted upon the beast-head atop the golden hall, gave his body a shake and a change, turned into a centipede seven cùn long, and went straight to sting the Daoist once in the hollow of his nose. The Daoist could not keep his seat: with a somersault he pitched down headlong and all but lost his life, saved only by the crowd of officials, high and low, who caught him up. The king, greatly alarmed, ordered the Grand Preceptor then on carriage-duty to lead him off to the Hall of Literary Glory to wash and dress. The Pilgrim, riding his auspicious cloud still, bore his master down before the steps — and so the elder had already won.
That king would only let them pass. But the Deer-Power Immortal memorialized again. “Your Majesty, my elder brother has long suffered a hidden wind-sickness. Going up to that high place he took a chill from the sky-wind, his old malady flared, and that is why it fell out that the monk won. Detain him a while, and let me wager him at Guessing Behind the Board.”
“And what is meant by Guessing Behind the Board?”
“This humble Daoist has an art of knowing a thing behind a board. Let us see whether that monk is able. If he can out-guess me, let him go on his way; if he guesses wrong, then by Your Majesty's leave frame him a charge, to wash out the grudge of us brothers and not to stain twenty years' merit in guarding the realm.”
Truly that king, all muddle-headed, took this slander for counsel, and issued a decree at once. A vermilion-lacquered chest was carried up to the palace hall by the inner officers, the empress was bidden set a treasure inside, and in a moment it was carried out and set before the white-jade steps. Monk and Daoist were told: “Each of you two houses wager your arts, and guess what treasure is within the chest.”
“Disciple, the thing within the chest — how am I to know it?” said Tripitaka.
The Pilgrim gathered in his auspicious light, changed once more into a gnat-fly, and perched on the Tang Monk's head. “Rest easy, Master. Let me go and take a look.”
The good Great Sage flew lightly to the top of the chest, crept down beneath its foot, and found a chink between the boards. He bored his way in, and saw a red-lacquered cinnabar tray, on which lay a set of palace robes: the Robe of Rivers, Hills, and the Altars of State, and the Skirt of Heaven, Earth, and the Compass of the Land. He took them up in his hand, shook them into a heap, bit open the tip of his tongue, blew a mouthful of blood-spray over them, and cried, “Change!” At once they turned into a single ragged, dangling bell-cape, and as he left he loosed a puddle of stinking piss upon it besides. Then he bored back out through the chink and flew to the Tang Monk's ear. “Master, just guess it to be a ragged, dangling bell-cape.”
“He has us guess a treasure. What treasure is a dangling rag?”
“Never mind him. Only guess it right, and there's an end of it.”
The Tang Monk stepped a pace forward and was just about to guess when the Deer-Power Immortal said: “I'll guess first. In the chest are the Robe of Rivers, Hills, and Altars, and the Skirt of Heaven, Earth, and the Land.”
“No, no,” said the Tang Monk. “In the chest is a ragged, dangling bell-cape.”
“This monk is insolent,” said the king. “He dares mock that my realm holds no treasure, guessing at some dangling bell-cape. Seize him!”
The two files of guardsmen made to lay hands on him, and in a fluster the Tang Monk pressed his palms together and cried aloud: “Your Majesty, spare this poor monk a moment; wait until the chest is opened and looked into. If it truly is a treasure, this poor monk will take his punishment; but if it is no treasure, would that not do this poor monk a wrong?”
The king ordered it opened and looked at. The officer on carriage-duty opened it at once and lifted out the cinnabar tray — and sure enough it was a ragged, dangling bell-cape.
“Who set this thing inside?” cried the king in a great rage.
From behind the dragon-throne the empress of the three palaces slipped forward. “My lord, it was your consort who set there with her own hands the Robe of Rivers, Hills, and Altars, and the Skirt of Heaven, Earth, and the Land — yet I know not how it turned into this thing.”
“My consort, withdraw; I understand it. The things used within the palace are nothing but satins, silks, damasks and gauzes — where should there be any such dangling rag? Carry the chest up, and let Us hide a treasure in it Ourself, and test it once again.”
That emperor turned back at once to the rear palace, plucked from an immortal-peach tree in the imperial garden a single great peach as big as a bowl, set it in the chest, and had it carried out again to be guessed.
“Disciple, ah — here's another guess to make.”
“Rest easy. Let me go and look once more.”
Again with a thin droning buzz he flew off, bored back in through the chink in the boards, and saw it was a peach, which suited his fancy exactly. At once he showed his own true form, sat down inside the chest, and in one bout gnawed the peach clean away — even the flesh in the two cheek-hollows he gnawed off bare — and set the stone back inside. Then he changed into a gnat-fly, flew out, and perched on the Tang Monk's ear. “Master, just guess it to be a peach-stone.”
“Disciple, ah, don't make sport of me. Just now, had I not been quick of tongue, I would all but have been hauled off to execution. This time I must guess a treasure to come off well. How is a peach-stone any treasure?”
“Never fear. Only keep on winning against him, and that will do.”
Tripitaka was just about to speak when he heard the Ram-Power Immortal say: “This humble Daoist guesses first. It is an immortal peach.”
“It is no peach,” Tripitaka guessed. “It is a bare peach-stone.”
“It is the immortal peach that We set in — how should it be a stone?” shouted the king. “The Third Preceptor has guessed it right.”
“Your Majesty, open it and look. That is all.”
The officer on carriage-duty carried it up again and opened it, and lifted out the cinnabar tray — and sure enough it was a stone, with neither skin nor flesh. The king, seeing it, took fright. “National Preceptor, contend with him no more; let him go. The immortal peach I hid with my own hands is now only a stone — what man has eaten it? It must be that there are ghosts and spirits secretly aiding him.”
Eight Rules, hearing this, gave a faint cold laugh with Sha the Monk. “They little know he's a seasoned old hand at eating peaches.”
In the very midst of their talk the Tiger-Power Immortal appeared, come from washing and dressing in the Hall of Literary Glory. He walked up into the hall and said: “Your Majesty, this monk has an art of shifting things and swapping objects. Carry the chest up, and I'll break his sorcery and have him guess again.”
“National Preceptor, what more would you have him guess?”
“His art can only substitute for a thing; it cannot substitute for a human body. Hide this Daoist-lad inside, and I warrant he cannot swap it away.”
The little lad, sure enough, was hidden in the chest, its lid was drawn over, and it was carried down; and the order came: “Let that monk guess again. This third round, what treasure is it?”
“Here it comes again!” said Tripitaka.
“Let me go and look once more.”
With a buzz he flew off again, bored inside, and saw it was a little Daoist-lad. The good Great Sage had discernment indeed: truly, in the arts of transformation few match him under heaven, and in nimble wit the world holds his like but rarely. He gave his body a shake and a change, took on the very look of an old Daoist priest, went into the chest, and called: “Disciple.”
“Master, where have you come from?”
“I came by an art of hidden passage.”
“And what instruction do you bring?”
“That monk saw you go into the chest. If he guesses a Daoist-lad, shall we not lose again? So I've come on purpose to talk it over with you: let your head be shaved, and we'll have them guess a monk.”
“Do with me as Master disposes, only let us win against him, and that will do. But if we lose to him again, not only is our name brought low — the court, too, I fear, will cease to hold us in esteem.”
“Well said. Come here, my boy. Win against him, and I'll reward you richly.”
He turned the Gold-Banded Cudgel into a barber's razor, gathered the lad into his arms, and said in his ear: “There, there. Bear the pain, make no sound, and let me shave your head.” In a trice he had shaved off the hair, balled it up, and stuffed it into a crevice at the foot of the chest. Then he put away the little razor and felt the boy's shaven pate. “My boy, your head is a monk's now; only the clothes don't suit. Take them off, and I'll change them for you.”
The Daoist-lad had on a crane-feather cloak of onion-white, of cloud-figured brocaded silk with an embroidered border, and truly took it off. The Pilgrim blew a breath of immortal air upon it and cried, “Change!” At once it turned into an earth-yellow cassock, and he had the boy put it on. Then he plucked down two more hairs, turned them into a little wooden fish, and put it in the boy's hand. “Disciple, you must listen well. If they call for a Daoist-lad, on no account come out; but if they call for a monk, then push up the lid for me, tap the wooden fish, chant a fascicle of Buddhist scripture, and bore your way out. Only so will it succeed.”
“I can only chant the Scripture of the Three Officials, the Scripture of the Northern Dipper, and the Scripture for Dispelling Calamity. I cannot chant the Buddhist scriptures.”
“Can you chant the Buddha's name?”
“Amitābha Buddha — who does not know how to chant that?”
“Well then, well then. Chant the Buddha's name, and spare me having to teach you again. Keep it firmly in mind. I'm off.”
He changed back into a gnat-fly, bored out, and flew to the rim of the Tang Monk's ear. “Master, just guess it to be a monk.”
“This round he'll surely win,” said Tripitaka.
“How can you be so sure?”
“The scripture has it: Buddha, Dharma, Sangha — the Three Jewels. And a monk is one of the jewels.”
Just as they were speaking, the Tiger-Power Immortal said: “Your Majesty, the third round is a Daoist-lad. Call all you like — how should he be willing to come out?”
Tripitaka pressed his palms together. “It is a monk.”
And Eight Rules bawled at the top of his voice: “In the chest is a monk!”
That lad, of a sudden, pushed up the chest-lid, tapped his wooden fish, chanted the Buddha's name, and bored his way out. So delighted were the two files of civil and military that they cried acclaim with one voice; and the three Daoists were so frightened they clamped their mouths and had not a word.
“This monk has ghosts and spirits to second him,” said the king. “How is it that a Daoist goes into the chest and turns into a monk? Even had a barber followed him in, he could only have shaved the head, and that's all. How should the clothes, too, fit the body, and the mouth, besides, know how to chant the Buddha's name? National Preceptor — let him go.”
“Your Majesty, in any case it is the chess-player that meets his match, the general that meets his worthy foe. This humble Daoist will match him outright with the martial arts I learned in my youth on Mount Zhongnan.”
“What martial arts have you?”
“We three brothers all have certain powers. We can strike off a head and set it on again; split the belly and gouge the heart, and grow whole again; and in a cauldron of boiling oil, we can even take a bath.”
“These three things are all roads to death,” said the king, greatly alarmed.
“We have this power, and only so dare speak so boldly. We must wager him to a finish.”
So the king called out: “Monk of the Eastern Land, my National Preceptor will not let you go, but would still wager you at cutting off the head, splitting the belly, and bathing down in a cauldron of boiling oil.”
The Pilgrim, just then changed into a gnat-fly and flitting to and fro on his errands, heard these words, gathered in his hairs at once, showed his true form, and laughed aloud. “Good fortune, good fortune — business has come to the door!”
“These three things are all matters that cost a man his life,” said Eight Rules. “How call it business come to the door?”
“You don't yet know my powers.”
“Brother, even your transformations and shape-shiftings are surely enough. How have you these powers besides?”
“As for me —”
Hack off my head, and still it speaks;
lop away my arms, and still they strike a man.
Sever my legs and feet, and still they walk the road;
split my belly, it heals flat again, past all compare.
Just as a household folding up its dumplings —
a single pinch, and each comes whole again.
Bathing in the oil-pot is easier still:
I take it but for warm water washing off the grime.
Eight Rules and Sha the Monk, hearing him, roared with laughter.
Then the Pilgrim stepped forward. “Your Majesty, the little monk can have his head cut off.”
“How can you have your head cut off?”
“In years gone by, when I practised in a temple, I once met a wandering Chan fellow who taught me a head-cutting method. I don't know if it's any good or not; let me just try it out fresh today.”
The king laughed. “That monk is young and knows nothing. How is head-cutting a thing to try out fresh? The head is the crown of the six yang; cut it off, and one dies at once.”
“Your Majesty, that is just what we want of him,” said Tiger-Power. “Only so can we vent our spleen.”
That muddled king believed his words and issued a decree at once, ordering a killing-ground set up; and at one word of it three thousand of the Plumed-Forest Guard were ranged outside the court gate. “Let the monk go first to have his head cut off.”
“I'll go first, I'll go first,” the Pilgrim answered gladly. Then, cupping his hands, he called aloud: “National Preceptor, forgive my boldness — I take precedence.” He jerked his head round and made straight for the gate, but the Tang Monk caught him fast. “Disciple, ah, be careful. That is no place for fooling.”
“What's to fear of him? Let go your hand, and let me be off.”
That Great Sage went straight into the killing-ground, was seized by the executioner, bound into a bundle, and pressed down on a high earthen mound; and no sooner had the shout gone up — “Strike!” — than with a whoosh the head was lopped off. The executioner gave it a kick besides, and it rolled off like a tumbling watermelon, some thirty or forty paces away. From the Pilgrim's neck-cavity not a drop of blood came out. Only a cry was heard from within his belly: “Head, come back!”
In a fluster the Deer-Power Immortal, seeing him have such a device, recited a spell and charged the local Earth-god and spirits: “Hold that head fast. Wait till I've beaten this monk and reported to the king, and I'll have your little shrine rebuilt into a great temple, and your clay image remade in true gold.” Now those spirits, because he commanded the Five-Thunder rite, were subject to his summons too, and in secret they truly held the Pilgrim's head down.
The Pilgrim called out again: “Head, come back!” But the head, as though it had struck root, was not to be budged. Growing anxious, he clenched his fist, gave a wrench and another, snapped clean through the binding ropes, and shouted, “Grow!” With a whoosh a head grew out of his neck-cavity. So frightened were they that every executioner's heart quailed and every man of the Plumed-Forest Guard trembled in his gall, and the supervising officer hurried into court to report: “Your Majesty, that little monk has had his head cut off and grown another.”
Eight Rules laughed coldly. “Sha Monk — who'd have known Brother had this trick besides!”
“He has seventy-two transformations,” said Sha the Monk, “so he has seventy-two heads.”
Before the words were done, the Pilgrim came walking up and called, “Master.”
“Disciple — was it hard?” said Tripitaka, overjoyed.
“No trouble at all. Rather good sport.”
“Brother, will you want some salve for the sword-wound?” asked Eight Rules.
“You feel and see. Is there any scar of the blade?”
That blockhead stretched out his hand and felt, then laughed with round, staring eyes. “Marvellous, marvellous! It has grown back whole, and there's not the least mark of a seam.”
The brothers were all rejoicing when again they heard the king call for them to take the rescript. “You are pardoned, guiltless. Go quickly, go quickly.”
“The rescript is granted,” said the Pilgrim, “but the National Preceptor must go to the block and lose his head too. He too should try it out fresh.”
“Grand Preceptor, that monk will not let you go either,” said the king. “Wager the victory with him, and don't go frightening Us.”
Tiger-Power too had no choice but to go. He was bound and thrown down by several executioners, given a shake, and his head lopped off; a foot kicked it away too, and it rolled some thirty paces and more. From his neck-cavity, too, no blood came out, and he too cried out: “Head, come back!”
But the Pilgrim had already plucked out a hair, blown a breath of immortal air on it, and cried, “Change!” It turned into a yellow dog, which ran into the ground, took the Daoist's head in one bite, and dashed straight to the imperial moat and dropped it in — no more of that.
Now that Daoist called out three times over, but the head did not come; how could he match the Pilgrim's arts? It would not grow out, and from the neck-cavity, with a gushing gu-du-du, a red light burst forth. Pity — vainly he held the art of summoning rain and calling wind; how should it match the true immortal's fruit of long life? In a moment he fell down in the dust, and the crowd looked: it was a single headless, yellow-furred tiger.
The supervising officer came again to report. “Your Majesty, the Grand Preceptor had his head cut off and could not grow it out. He died in the dust, and is a single headless, yellow-furred tiger.”
The king, hearing the report, blanched in great alarm, and with unmoving eyes stared at the two Daoists. Deer-Power rose. “My elder brother's fate is fallen and his fortune spent already — how is he a yellow tiger? This is all that monk's slyness. He worked a masking-trick and turned my elder brother into a beast. Now I will surely not spare him. I must wager him at that belly-cutting and heart-gouging.”
The king, hearing this, only then steadied his nature and gathered his wits, and called again: “Little monk, the Second National Preceptor would still wager you.”
“This little monk has long eaten no cooked food,” said the Pilgrim. “Some days past, coming west, he fell in with a lay-donor's household who pressed food on him, and ate a few too many steamed buns; and these last days his belly has ached — worms breeding, no doubt. I'd just now borrow Your Majesty's blade, slit open the belly, take out the innards, wash the spleen and stomach clean, and only then be fit to go on to the Western Heaven and see the Buddha.”
“Take him to the block,” the king ordered; and that crowd of men fell to hauling and dragging at him, some this way and some that. The Pilgrim shook free of their hands. “No need to haul me; I'll walk myself. Only one thing: don't bind my hands, so I can wash and scrub my innards by hand.” So the king issued a decree: “Do not bind his hands.”
Swaggering along, the Pilgrim went straight to the killing-ground, set his body against the great stake, loosed his belt, and bared his belly. That executioner looped one rope over his neck and shoulder, tied another about his legs and feet, gave an ox-ear dagger a flash, and against the belly-skin gave one slash, stabbing a gaping hole. Then the Pilgrim, with both hands, opened up his belly, drew out the bowels and viscera, sorted them strand by strand a good long while, and settled them back inside, coiled as of old. He pinched the belly-skin, blew a breath of immortal air, and cried, “Grow!” And just as before, it grew shut.
The king, greatly alarmed, took the travel-rescript up in his hands. “Holy Monk, delay not your westward road. Here is your rescript; go.”
The Pilgrim laughed. “The rescript's a small matter. Let the Second National Preceptor, too, do a little cutting and gouging. How about it?”
So the king said to Deer-Power: “This affair is no concern of Ours. It's you who would make yourself his adversary. Go on, go on.”
“Rest easy,” said Deer-Power. “I reckon I'll surely not lose to him.”
See how he, aping the Great Sage, went swaggering straight into the killing-ground. He was looped with rope by the executioner, and with an ox-ear dagger, with a rip, his belly was slit open; and he too drew out his liver and bowels and sorted them with his hands. But the Pilgrim at once plucked a hair, blew a breath of immortal air, and cried, “Change!” It turned into a famished hawk, which spread its wings and talons and, with a whoosh, snatched away his five viscera and heart and liver, clean and entire, flying off none knew where to feast on them. This Daoist was made into a hollow-chested, split-bellied, dripping ghost, a viscera-less, gutless, drifting soul. That executioner kicked over the great stake and dragged the corpse round to look — ah! It was, after all, a single white-furred antlered deer.
In a fluster the supervising officer came again to report. “The Second National Preceptor has met with ill-luck. Just as his belly was cut, a famished hawk snatched away all his viscera, liver and bowels, and he lies dead there. His true body is a single white-furred antlered deer.”
“How is he an antlered deer?” said the king, afraid.
That Ram-Power Immortal memorialized again. “My elder brother being dead, how could he come to show a beast's form? This is all that monk's sorcery, framing us to our ruin. Let me avenge my elder brother.”
“What powers have you to beat him?”
“I'll wager him at bathing down in a cauldron of boiling oil.”
The king thereupon ordered a great cauldron fetched, filled with fragrant oil, and bade the two of them go to their wager. “Much obliged for the favour,” said the Pilgrim. “This little monk has gone unwashed all this while, and these two days his skin is dry and itching. Let me rinse it off, come what may.”
That officer on carriage-duty duly set down the oil-cauldron, stacked dry firewood, kindled a fierce fire, brought the oil to a boil, and bade the monk go down first. The Pilgrim pressed his palms together. “I don't know — a civil wash, or a martial one?”
“What is a civil wash? What is a martial wash?”
“A civil wash means not taking off one's clothes — arms folded like so, going down to turn a somersault and coming straight up, and the clothes must not be soiled; a single grease-spot loses. A martial wash calls for a clothes-rack and a towel: strip off the clothes, leap down, turn somersaults at will, stand on one's hands, and bathe as if in play.”
“Will you have a civil wash with him, or a martial one?” the king asked Ram-Power.
“For a civil wash, I fear his clothes are drug-treated and repel the oil. A martial wash it is.”
The Pilgrim stepped forward once more. “Forgive my boldness — again and again I take the lead.” See how he stripped off his cloth cassock, shed his tiger-skin skirt, gave his body a leap, sprang into the cauldron, and churned the waves and tossed the billows, frolicking as though he were swimming.
Eight Rules, seeing it, bit his finger and said to Sha the Monk: “We've misjudged this monkey too. In ordinary times we needled and mocked him, sparring for sport — who knew he had such real, solid powers?” And the two of them murmured and muttered, praising him without end.
The Pilgrim, catching sight of them, thought with misgiving: “That blockhead is laughing at me. Truly, the clever toil and the clumsy take their ease. Old Sun labours away like this, while he, on the contrary, sits at his ease. Let me arrange for him to be bound with a rope, and see if he's afraid.” So even as he bathed he made a splash, sank to the bottom of the oil-cauldron, turned into a jujube-pit nail, and rose no more.
The supervising officer stepped near and reported again. “Your Majesty, the little monk has been boiled to death in the seething oil.” The king, greatly pleased, ordered the bones fished up to look at, and the executioner took an iron skimmer and dredged in the oil-cauldron. But that skimmer's holes were wide, and the Pilgrim had made the nail so small that, going to and fro, it leaked down through the holes — however were they to fish it up? “The monk was slight of body and tender of bone,” the officer reported. “He is all fried away to nothing.”
“Take the three monks down,” the king ordered; and the guardsmen on either side, seeing Eight Rules' fierce face, seized him first and bound him by the back.
In a fluster the Tang Monk cried aloud: “Your Majesty, spare this poor monk a moment. That disciple of mine, since he joined the faith, has had merit upon merit. Today, having crossed the National Preceptor, he has died in the oil-cauldron; but alas, the first to die becomes a spirit. How should this poor monk dare cling to life? Truly, the realm's officials govern the realm's people; if Your Majesty orders me to die, how should I, your servant, dare not to die? I ask only for clemency: grant me half a cup of cold gruel and three paper-horses, and leave to go before the oil-cauldron to burn a string of spirit-money, to mark our master-and-disciple bond — and then I'll take my punishment.”
“Just so,” said the king, hearing his words. “Those men of China are mostly men of honour.” He ordered some gruel and yellow spirit-money fetched, and it was duly handed to the Tang Monk.
The Tang Monk bade Sha the Monk go along with him; and when they came down the steps, several guardsmen were dragging Eight Rules by the ears and hauling him to the cauldron's edge. Then Tripitaka spoke his invocation over the cauldron. “Disciple Sun Wukong:”
Since first you took the vows and bowed before the Chan grove,
guarding me westward, deep your love and care.
I hoped we'd win the Great Way together —
who thought that today you'd return to the shades?
In life, only for the scripture-quest's sake;
in death, still keeping the Buddha-mind.
Across ten thousand lǐ your brave soul must wait —
a ghost in the shades, rise up to the Thunderclap.
“Master, that's not the way to pray,” said Eight Rules, hearing him. “Sha Monk, you pour the gruel-libation for me, and let me pray.” And that blockhead, bound on the ground, said huffing and puffing: “You trouble-making wretched monkey, you witless Bimawen; you death-deserving wretched monkey, you oil-boiled Bimawen. The monkey's accounts are settled, the Bimawen's cut off at the root.”
Sun the Pilgrim, at the bottom of the oil-cauldron, hearing that blockhead cursing away, could not hold back. He showed his true form and stood stark and dripping at the cauldron's bottom. “You gorging dolt! Who is it you're cursing?”
“Disciple — you frightened me to death!” said the Tang Monk, seeing him.
“Big Brother's simply used to feigning death,” said Sha the Monk.
In a fluster the two files of civil and military came forward to report: “Your Majesty, that monk did not die. He's crawled back out of the oil-cauldron again.” But the supervising officer, fearing to deceive the court, reported instead: “Dead he is, indeed. Only the day falls unlucky, and the little monk's ghost has come to show itself.”
The Pilgrim, hearing this, flew into a great rage. He leapt out of the cauldron, wiped off the grease, put on his clothes, whipped out his cudgel, seized the supervising officer, and with one blow to the head beat him to a lump of meat. “What ghost am I showing?” So frightened were the officials that they hastily untied Eight Rules and knelt on the ground pleading, “Mercy, mercy.”
The king came down from his dragon-throne, and the Pilgrim went up into the hall and caught him fast. “Don't flee, Your Majesty. Let your Third National Preceptor go down into the oil-cauldron too.”
That emperor, trembling and quaking, said: “Third National Preceptor, you have saved Our life. Go down the cauldron quick, and don't let the monk strike Us.”
So Ram-Power came down from the hall, and in imitation of the Pilgrim stripped off his clothes, leapt into the oil-cauldron, and bathed with the same show. The Pilgrim released the king, went near the cauldron's edge, and bade the fire-tenders add wood; but when he reached in a hand to feel — ah! That seething oil was all ice-cold.
“When I bathed it seethed hot; when he bathes it's cold,” he thought. “Now I understand. I know not which Dragon King it is, guarding him here.” He leapt up into the air in a hurry, chanted the spell-word Om, and summoned the North Sea Dragon King. “You horned earthworm, you scaly loach! Why do you aid the Daoist — a cold dragon guarding the cauldron-bottom, letting him show his power and beat me?”
So frightened was that Dragon King that he murmured assent again and again. “Ao Shun dared not lend aid. The Great Sage did not know: this cursed beast practised bitter austerities a spell, shed its native shell, but truly received only the Five-Thunder rite — the rest it cast off as side-gates, hard to bring back to the immortal Way. This is what he learned on Little Mao Mountain, the Great Flaying. Those other two the Great Sage had already exposed by breaking their arts, and they showed their true forms; and this one, too, is a cold dragon of his own forging, fit only to fool common folk in sport. How should it deceive the Great Sage? This small dragon now withdraws his cold dragon — I warrant he'll be bone-crushed and skin-scorched.”
“Withdraw it at once, and spare a beating,” said the Pilgrim. That Dragon King became a whirlwind, went to the cauldron's edge, seized the cold dragon, and bore it down to the sea — no more of that.
The Pilgrim came down and stood with Tripitaka, Eight Rules and Sha the Monk before the hall, and saw that Daoist thrashing in the seething oil-cauldron, unable to climb out. He slipped and took a fall, and in an instant his bones parted, his skin scorched, his flesh melted away.
The supervising officer came again to report. “Your Majesty, the Third National Preceptor has been fried away.”
That king, his eyes brimming with tears, beat the imperial desk with his hands and wept aloud:
A human body is truly hard to win;
without true transmission, forge no elixir.
Vainly they held the god-driving, water-spelling arts,
yet lacked the pill that lengthens years and guards the life.
The Perfect Light muddied — how attain nirvāṇa?
Vainly they schemed, and the life found no peace.
Had they known betimes of such easy ruin —
how much better the secret diet, and a quiet dwelling in the hills?
This, then, is just the case:
Touching gold and smelting mercury — what does it avail?
Summoning rain and calling wind — it is all in vain!
In the end, there is no knowing how the master and disciples fared — and for that, listen to the next chapter's telling.