The Great Sage, with Eight Rules and Sha Monk, took leave of old Chen and came down to the river. “Brothers,” he said, “settle it between you — which of you goes into the water first?”
“Brother,” said Eight Rules, “neither of us has much skill to show. You had better be the one to go down first.”
“I'll not deceive you, worthy brothers,” said Pilgrim. “Were this a mountain fiend, I would not put you to the least trouble; but in matters that belong to the water I cannot go. Even to enter the sea or make my way along a river I must hold the water-repelling sign, or else change into the form of some fish or crab — only so can I go. And holding the sign, I cannot swing my iron rod, cannot work my transformations, cannot strike a fiend. I have long known you two for men at home in water, and that is why I want you both to go down.”
“Brother,” said Sha Monk, “your younger brother can go well enough, but there is no telling what lies on the bottom. Let us all go down together. Change yourself into some shape, or let me carry you on my back; we will part the water, seek out the fiend's lair, and you shall go in first to make inquiries. If our master is unhurt and still there, we can press the attack with a will; but if this monster's arts have drowned him, or the fiend has eaten him, there is no use in our striving — better to seek another road early. What do you say?”
“What you say is reasonable, worthy brother,” said Pilgrim. “Which of you will carry me?”
Eight Rules was secretly delighted. This monkey has played who knows how many tricks on me, he thought, and this time it turns out he cannot swim. Let old Hog carry him — and I'll play a trick on him too. So the blockhead called out with a broad grin: “Brother, I'll carry you.”
Pilgrim knew at once he was up to something, and met the scheme with a scheme of his own. “Right, that will do,” he said. “You have more strength in your back than Wujing.” And Eight Rules took him up.
Sha Monk clove open a path through the water, and the brothers went down together into the River That Reaches to Heaven. They had gone a hundred lǐ and more toward the riverbed when the blockhead thought to play his trick. But Pilgrim had already plucked out a strand of hair, changed it into a false body and set it lying on Eight Rules's back, while his true body he changed into a hog-louse, which clung fast within the pig's ear.
Eight Rules was walking on when all at once he lurched, and purposely flung his passenger forward, so that down he went with a slap. But that false body was only a hair transformed: up it floated and away, without shadow or shape.
“Second brother,” said Sha Monk, “what do you call this? You cannot even walk properly. Had you only fallen in the mud yourself, well and good — but now you have lost Elder Brother, and none knows where he has fallen.”
“That monkey cannot take a fall,” said Eight Rules. “One tumble and he has dissolved away. Never mind whether he is alive or dead, brother. You and I will go on and look for our master.”
“That will not do,” said Sha Monk. “We still need him. He may not know the ways of water, but he is shrewder than we are. If he does not come, I will not go with you.”
At this Pilgrim, inside Eight Rules's ear, could hold in no longer, and shouted: “Wujing, old Sun is right here!”
Sha Monk heard it and laughed. “Done for! This blockhead is a dead man — how did you dare play tricks on him? Now you have brought it to this: we hear a voice and see no face. What is to be done?”
Eight Rules was so alarmed that he knelt down in the mud and knocked his head. “Brother, I was in the wrong. When we have rescued our master, I will make my apologies ashore. Where are you speaking from? You have frightened me to death. Do show your true body and come out. I will carry you, and never affront you again.”
“You are carrying me still,” said Pilgrim. “I'll not torment you. Walk on, walk on.”
And the blockhead, muttering on and on, kept up his apologies as he scrambled to his feet and went forward again with Sha Monk.
They had gone another hundred lǐ and more when, raising their heads, they saw a tiered tower, and above it four great characters: MANSION OF THE WATER TURTLE.
“This must be the fiend's dwelling-place,” said Sha Monk. “We two know nothing of what is inside — how are we to go up to the gate and offer battle?”
“Wujing,” said Pilgrim, “is there water inside that gate, or outside it?”
“There is no water.”
“Since there is no water, hide yourselves close by, and let old Sun go and make inquiries.”
The fine Great Sage crawled out of Eight Rules's ear, shook himself and changed, becoming a long-legged shrimp hag, and with two or three hops was inside the gate. Opening his eyes to look, he saw the monster seated above, the water tribes drawn up on either hand, and a mottled-robed mandarin-fish dame seated at his side, all deliberating on eating the Tang Monk. He took careful note, but searched to either side without finding his master. Then he saw a big-bellied shrimp hag come walking up and take her stand under the western gallery. Pilgrim hopped up before her and addressed her.
“Auntie, the Great King and the others are deliberating on eating the Tang Monk. Where is the Tang Monk now?”
“The Tang Monk — the Great King sent down snow and froze the ice, and yesterday he was taken and set in the stone chest behind the palace. We need only wait till tomorrow: if his disciples raise no disturbance, we shall strike up the music and enjoy him.”
Hearing this, Pilgrim played out his part a while, then went straight behind the palace to look; and there indeed was a stone chest, like the pig-trough in a household's feeding shed, or like a stone coffin of the human world. Measured, it was a full six chǐ in length. He lay down upon it and listened, and heard Tripitaka inside, weeping in small stifled sobs. He said nothing, but turned his ear and listened again. The master ground his teeth till they rasped, and groaned aloud, saying:
I curse the River-Float fate that bore this guilt —
from birth, how many water-woes have wound about me.
Out of my mother's womb I was tossed on the billows;
going west to worship the Buddha, I sink in a fathomless deep.
Before, at the Black River, my body met with peril;
now the ice breaks, and my life goes down to the springs.
I know not whether my disciples can come at all —
shall I win the true scriptures, and see my old garden again?
Pilgrim could bear it no longer and called out: “Master, do not rail at the water for your troubles. The scripture says: ‘Earth is the mother of the Five Phases, and water is their source. Without earth nothing is born; without water nothing grows.’ Old Sun is here.”
Tripitaka heard him. “Disciple! Save me!”
“Set your heart at rest. When we have seized the fiend, I shall see to it that you are free of this peril.”
“Be quick about it. Another day of this and I shall be stifled outright.”
“No matter, no matter. I'm off!”
He turned back quickly, sprang out, resumed his own body outside the gate, and called: “Eight Rules!”
The blockhead and Sha Monk came up to him. “Brother, how goes it?”
“It is this fiend, sure enough, who has tricked our master. The master is unhurt, but the monster has him shut under a stone chest. You two go at once and give him challenge, and let old Sun get out to the surface first. If you can take him, take him; if you cannot, put on a feigned rout, draw him out of the water, and leave the striking to me.”
“Go on ahead and set your mind at rest, brother,” said Sha Monk. “Your younger brothers will read his face and judge the moment.”
So Pilgrim held the water-repelling sign, bored up out of the river, and stood on the bank waiting.
Now see how Eight Rules played the ruffian. He charged up to the gate and shouted in a harsh voice: “Foul monster! Send my master out!”
The little demons within the gate were so alarmed that they ran to report: “Great King, there is someone outside asking for a master.”
“This will surely be that rascally monk come back again,” said the fiend, and ordered: “Bring my armour and my weapon, and be quick.” The little demons hurried to fetch them out. He girded himself, took his weapon in hand, gave the order to open the gate, and came striding out. Eight Rules and Sha Monk drew up to left and right. And how was the fiend accoutred? A fine monster — look at him:
A golden helm on his head, flashing bright;
golden mail on his body, trailing a rainbow.
About his waist a jewelled belt clustered with pearl and kingfisher;
on his feet smoke-yellow boots of curious make.
The bridge of his nose high-arched as a peak upthrust;
his brow broad as a dragon's bearing.
His eyes glitter and flash, round and fierce besides;
his teeth are edges of steel, pointed and even.
Short hair, tangled and loose, streams out like flame;
a long beard, free and unbound, juts like awls of gold.
In his mouth he bites a sprig of green tender waterweed;
in his hand he grips a nine-petalled mallet of red copper.
One creaking cry, and where the gate swings wide
the sound is the thunder of Waking Insects in the third month of spring.
Such a figure is rare in the world of men:
well may he claim the style and majesty of a Numinous King.
The fiend got out through his gate, and behind him came a hundred and more little demons, every one whirling a spear or brandishing a sword, drawn up in two files.
“From which monastery are you, monk?” he said to Eight Rules. “And why do you come here raising an uproar?”
“You rascally thing that will not die!” bellowed Eight Rules. “The night before last you traded words with me. How is it that today you push it off as not knowing, and question me? I am a disciple of the holy monk of the Great Tang in the Land of the East, bound west to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. You work your mystifications, set yourself up as some Great King Numinous Response, and do nothing in Chen Village but demand boys and girls to eat. I myself was Chen Qing's Weight-of-Gold. Do you not know me?”
“You monk are entirely without reason,” said the monster. “You changed yourself into Weight-of-Gold, and that alone earns you the crime of false name and substitution. I never did eat you. On the contrary, it was you who wounded me on the back of the hand. With that I let you off. Why do you come seeking my gate again?”
“If you let me off, why then did you work a cold wind, bring down a great snow, freeze the ice hard, and do my master this harm? Send my master out this instant and all is settled; but let half a ‘no’ burst out between your teeth, and you may look at the rake in my hand: I'll not spare you.”
Hearing this, the fiend gave a thin cold laugh. “This monk peddles a long tongue and brags with a great mouth. It was indeed I who made the cold, sent down the snow, froze the river, and carried off your master. Now you come bawling to my gate, thinking to demand him back. But I fear this time will not be like the last. On that occasion I was going to a banquet and had brought no weapon, so I took my wound from you by mischance. Today you had better not think of running. I'll meet you in three bouts. Hold out against me for three bouts and I'll give your master back; fail, and I'll eat you along with him.”
“Good obedient son,” said Eight Rules, “that is exactly how it should be put. Now mind the rake.”
“So you are a monk who left the world halfway along the road,” said the fiend.
“My son, you really have some numinous perception about you. How did you know at once that I left the world halfway?”
“You know how to handle a rake — I suppose you were hired somewhere to till a garden, and made off with the man's muck-rake.”
“Son, this rake of mine is no earth-breaking rake such as you mean. Look:”
Great teeth cast like the claws of a dragon;
bright-plated, it takes the shape of a python.
Should it meet a foe, a cold wind scatters abroad;
let it come to grips, and flames spring up.
It can rid the holy monk of monsters,
and take fiends along the westward road.
Swung, it stirs mist and cloud to blot out sun and moon;
plied, it opens a rosy light that shows all clear.
Rake down Mount Tai, and a thousand tigers quail;
overturn the great sea, and ten thousand dragons start.
Grant that your numinous power has arts of its own —
one stroke of this rake will open nine holes in you.
That fiend was in no mind to believe a word of it, and raised his copper mallet to strike straight at the head. Eight Rules parried with his rake. “You rascally thing — so you too are a demon that turned sprite halfway along.”
“How do you know that I turned sprite halfway?”
“You know how to handle a copper mallet — I suppose you were hired at some silversmith's to work the bellows, got your hands on it, and stole it away.”
“This is no silversmith's hammer,” said the fiend. “Look:”
Nine petals gathered into the bud of a flower;
a single shaft, hollow-bored, an evergreen stem.
It is not to be matched with things of the mortal world;
its provenance, besides, is named from an immortal garden.
Green pod and purple kernel, grown old in the Jasper Pool;
plain in substance, clear in scent, sprung from an azure marsh.
Because I laboured to knead and to temper it,
it is hard as steel, keen, and wholly numinous.
Spear, sabre, sword and halberd — none can match it;
axe and poleaxe, dagger-axe and lance dare not come near.
Grant that his rake carries a keen enough edge —
let it touch my mallet, and the teeth will snap and fly.
Sha Monk, seeing the two of them trading talk, could hold back no longer. He came forward and called out: “Monster, you may not talk so large. The ancients said: ‘Words from the mouth are no warrant — do the thing and it will be seen.’ Don't run — take a taste of my staff.”
The fiend parried with the shaft of his mallet. “You too are a monk who took orders halfway along.”
“How do you know that?”
“By the look of you, you started life as a mill-hand.”
“How do you make me out to be a mill-hand?”
“If you are no mill-hand, how do you come to handle a rolling-pin?”
“You accursed thing,” cursed Sha Monk, “plainly you have never set eyes on the like:”
A weapon of this sort is rare in the world of men,
and so the name of this precious staff goes unknown.
It came from the shadowless place in the Palace of the Moon,
cut and polished from immortal sāl-wood.
Outside it is inlaid with gems that blaze with rosy light;
within, bored through with gold, an auspicious vapour gathers.
In former days it attended at the imperial banquet;
this morning it upholds the right and guards the Tang Monk.
On the road to the West there is none who knows it;
in the palaces of the upper world it bears a great name.
It is called the True Precious Staff for Subduing Fiends,
and one stroke of it will crack the crown of your skull.
The fiend would hear no more of it. The three of them changed countenance, and here was a fine slaughter beneath the water:
Copper mallet, precious staff, and iron-toothed rake;
Wuneng and Wujing at war with the fiend.
The one, Heavenly Reeds come down into the world;
the other, a Senior General descended to the sky's edge.
Those two press the water-monster from either side in a show of arms;
this one alone withstands the holy monks, and his force is worth the praise.
Having the portion and having the affinity, they will attain the Great Way;
begetting and overcoming by turns, they hold to sands past number.
Earth overcomes water, and the water dries to show its bed;
water begets wood, and the wood grows rank and flowers.
Chan practice, investigated and cultivated, returns to a single body;
the Reverted Elixir, roasted and refined, subdues the three houses.
Earth is the mother, and puts out the golden sprout;
metal begets the divine water, which brings forth the infant;
water is the root, and moistens the flowering wood;
wood holds a blaze of fierce and fiery light.
The Five Phases gathered close are each of them distinct;
and so their faces alter, each at variance with the rest.
Look at that copper mallet — nine petals, bright and fine;
the precious staff with its thousand threads of coloured broidery.
The rake, ordered by yin and yang, is parcelled among the Nine Luminaries;
not knowing the moves, all is as tangled as hemp.
They give up the body and cast away life because of the monk's peril;
they abandon death and forget living for the sake of Śākya.
So the copper mallet is kept busy and never falls slack,
warding off the staff on the left and the rake on the right.
The three of them fought beneath the water for two double-hours without deciding it either way. Then Eight Rules reckoned he could not win, and threw Sha Monk a look. The two of them feigned a rout and made a show of losing, trailed their weapons, turned and fled.
“You little ones, hold your ground here,” the monster ordered. “Let me run this fellow down, and I'll bring him back for you all to share in the eating.” And see him now — like a wind driving withered leaves, like rain beating the last of the blossom — as he chased the two of them up to the surface.
The Great Sage on the eastern bank never once shifted his eyes, but watched the set of the water at the river's edge. Suddenly he saw the waves heave and toss, with shouting and a howl, and Eight Rules leapt ashore first, calling: “He's coming! He's coming!” Sha Monk reached the bank too: “He's coming! He's coming!”
The fiend came up behind them, shouting: “Where do you think you're running to?” He had barely got his head clear when Pilgrim roared at him: “Mind the rod!”
The fiend twisted aside and dodged it, and used his copper mallet to parry in haste and strike back. The one raised his waves at the river's edge, the other showed his might upon the bank. They had not joined hands for three bouts before the fiend could ward no longer; he made a feint, plunged back down into the water, and with that the wind fell and the waves went still.
Pilgrim came back to the high cliff. “Brothers, you've had hard work of it.”
“Brother,” said Sha Monk, “this fiend feels himself no match on the bank, but in the water he is formidable enough. Second brother and I attacked together from either side, and could fight him only to a draw. How are we to manage it, and get our master out?”
“No use hanging back in doubt,” said Pilgrim. “I'm afraid he may do our master harm.”
“Brother,” said Eight Rules, “this time I'll go and coax him out. Don't make a sound — just wait in mid-air. Reckon the moment he bores his head out, then fetch him a garlic-pounding stroke, straight down on the crown of his skull, and lay it on with all the force you have. Even if that doesn't kill him, he'll surely be nursing the hurt and reeling with it, and then let old Hog come up with a stroke of the rake and settle his account for good.”
“Just so, just so,” said Pilgrim. “This is what's called meeting from within and joining from without — that way the thing can be done.”
And the two of them went down into the water again.
The fiend, beaten in the fight and fleeing for his life, had come back to his own mansion, where the demons received him into the hall. The mandarin-fish dame came forward and asked: “To what quarter did the Great King chase those two monks?”
“Those monks had a helper after all. The two of them leapt ashore, and that helper swung an iron rod at me; I dodged and closed with him. I could not tell how many catties that cudgel of his weighed, but my copper mallet had no hope of warding it off. We had not fought three bouts before I came away beaten.”
“Great King, do you recall what the helper looked like?”
“He was a monk with a hairy face and a thunder-god's beak, splayed ears, a flattened nose-bridge, and fiery eyes with golden pupils.”
Hearing this, the mandarin-fish dame gave a shiver. “Great King! It was well you knew when to be shrewd and got away with your life; another three bouts and you would surely not have come off with your life whole. That monk — I know who he is.”
“You know who he is?”
“In years past, within the Eastern Ocean, I once heard the old Dragon King tell of his fame. He is the Handsome Monkey King, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, who five hundred years ago made great havoc in the Palaces of Heaven — the Primal-Unity, Single-Breath, Supreme Ultimate Golden Immortal of the Upper Realm. Now he has taken refuge in the Buddha's teaching and guards the Tang Monk on his way west to fetch the scriptures, and has changed his name to Pilgrim Sun Wukong. His divine powers are vast, his transformations past number — Great King, how could you provoke him? From now on, never fight him again.”
Before she had finished, a little demon came in from the gate to report: “Great King, those two monks are back at the gate again, offering battle.”
“Worthy sister, your judgement reaches far,” said the fiend. “I will not go out again, and we shall see what they can do.” And he hastily gave the order: “You little ones, shut the gate fast. It is just as the saying goes: ‘Let them cry outside the gate as they please — the one thing is, don't open it.’ Let them pester us a couple of days; when their spirit flags and they go away, shall we not then enjoy the Tang Monk at our ease?”
So the little demons all together hauled up stones, stopped the cracks with lumps of mud, and shut the gate dead.
Eight Rules and Sha Monk called and called, but no one came out. The blockhead, growing anxious, set to and battered the gate with his rake; but the gate was by now shut fast and barred tight, and there was no hope of forcing it. He gave it seven or eight rake-blows and broke the gate-leaves open — and inside was nothing but mud and stones, piled up a thousand layers high.
“Second brother,” said Sha Monk, “this monster's dread of us runs so deep that he has shut his gate and will not come out. You and I had better go back up to the river-cliff and take counsel again with Eldest Brother.” Eight Rules did as he said, and went straight back to the eastern bank.
Pilgrim, half in cloud and half in mist, stood waiting with his iron rod. Seeing the two of them come up without the fiend, he brought his cloud down at once, came to the bank to meet them, and asked: “Brothers, why hasn't the fellow come up?”
“That monster has shut his mansion gate tight and won't come out to show his face again. When Second Brother broke the gate-leaves open and we looked, the whole inside was mud and stones, packed solid and blocking the way. So we could get no fight out of him, and came to talk it over with you — how are we to contrive to save our master now?”
“Faced with a thing like this, there is no remedy to be had here. You two just patrol the riverbank and keep watch. Don't let him get away to some other place. Wait while I go.”
“Brother, where are you going?”
“I'll go up to Potalaka Cliff and put the question to the Bodhisattva — find out where this fiend comes from, and his surname and his name. Once I have hunted out his ancestral home, seized his household, and taken his neighbours, I'll come back here to catch the fiend and rescue our master.”
Eight Rules laughed. “Brother, doing it that way is just too much bother — it'll hold us up for hours.”
“I'll warrant you it's no bother and no delay,” said Pilgrim. “I'll be back as soon as I go.”
The fine Great Sage swiftly gathered his auspicious light, left the river-mouth behind, and made straight for the Southern Sea. In less than half a double-hour he sighted Potalaka Mountain not far off. He brought his cloud low and came straight up onto Potalaka Cliff. There he saw the Devas of the Twenty-Four Ways, with the Great Mountain-Guarding Spirit, Moksha the Acolyte, the Boy of Good Wealth, and the Pearl-Bearing Dragon Girl, all come forward together, greeting him and making their bows: “Why has the Great Sage come?”
“There is a matter on which I must see the Bodhisattva.”
“The Bodhisattva came out of her cave early this morning, allowing no one to attend her, and went alone into the bamboo grove to look about her. She knew the Great Sage would surely come today, and charged us to wait here and receive you, but not to bring you in at once. Be pleased to sit a little while before the kingfisher cliff, and wait for the Bodhisattva to come out.”
Pilgrim did as he was told; but before he had sat down, the Boy of Good Wealth came forward and made his bow. “Great Sage Sun, in former days I had the benefit of your kindness; happily the Bodhisattva did not cast me off but took me in, and morning and evening I am never far from her side, but wait upon her beneath the lotus dais — a great gift of mercy indeed.”
Pilgrim knew this was Red Boy, and laughed. “In those days demon-delusion had bewitched your heart; today you have won the true fruit, and only now do you see that old Sun is a good man.”
Pilgrim waited a long while and still she did not appear. Growing anxious, he said: “Sirs, take word in for me — if it is delayed, I fear for my master's life.”
“We dare not report you,” said the Devas. “The Bodhisattva's charge was only to wait until she comes out of herself.”
But Pilgrim was hasty by nature; how could he wait there? He sprang up in a bound and went straight in. Ah!
This Handsome Monkey King, hasty of temper and flighty with it;
the Devas could not hold him, as he made to stride within.
Dragging his steps into the deep grove, he opened his eyes and stole a look:
from afar he beheld the Reliever of Suffering, seated cross-legged on a worn rush mat.
Idle and loose, she had shrunk from dressing her hair;
her face and features were soft and lovely still.
Her hair was gathered loosely in a single coil, not yet bound up with its tasselled net;
she wore no plain blue robe, but a small close-fitting jacket bound to the body;
a brocade skirt loosely sashed at the waist, and a pair of feet left bare.
No embroidered stole across her shoulders; her two arms bright and bare.
In her jade hand she held a steel knife, and was paring strips of bamboo skin.
Pilgrim, seeing this, could not hold back but cried out in a sharp voice: “Bodhisattva, your disciple Sun Wukong pays reverence with a whole heart.”
“Wait outside,” said the Bodhisattva.
Pilgrim knocked his head. “Bodhisattva, my master is in peril. I have come on purpose to ask the source of the fiend in the River That Reaches to Heaven.”
“Go on out, and wait while I come.”
He dared not press her, and could only walk out of the bamboo grove and say to the assembled Devas: “The Bodhisattva has set her household in order all over again today. Why does she not sit on the lotus dais, nor put on her adornments, nor look glad, but sits in the grove paring bamboo strips — what is it for?”
“We do not know either. This morning she came out of her cave without dressing and went straight into the grove. She also charged us to wait here and receive the Great Sage, so it must certainly be on the Great Sage's account.”
Pilgrim, having no help for it, could only wait.
In a little while she came out of the grove, a purple bamboo basket in her hand. “Wukong, I'll go with you to save the Tang Monk.”
Pilgrim hurriedly knelt. “Your disciple dared not press you. I beg the Bodhisattva to put on her robes and mount her seat.”
“No need to robe — I'll go just as I am.”
So the Bodhisattva left the Devas behind, and mounting an auspicious cloud rose into the sky. The Great Sage could only follow.
In an instant they reached the bounds of the River That Reaches to Heaven. Eight Rules and Sha Monk, seeing them, said: “Our elder brother is a hasty one — no telling what shouting and bawling he did in the Southern Sea, to force an unadorned Bodhisattva to come like this.” Before they had finished, she reached the riverbank, and the two of them bowed low. “Bodhisattva, we acted presumptuously — our fault, our fault.”
The Bodhisattva at once loosed the silk cord that sashed her jacket, made the basket fast to it, and holding the cord, half-astride her cloud, cast the basket into the river; then, drawing it upstream, she recited a verse-charm: “The dead, be gone; the living, remain. The dead, be gone; the living, remain!” When she had recited it seven times, she lifted the basket — and behold, within it, gleaming bright, a single golden fish, its scales still stirring, its eyes still blinking.
“Wukong,” she called, “quick, go down into the water and save your master.”
“But the fiend is not yet caught — how are we to save our master?”
“Is he not here in the basket?”
Eight Rules and Sha Monk bowed and asked: “How does this fish come to have such powers?”
“He was originally a golden fish reared in my lotus pool. Each day he floated up to hear the scriptures, and so cultivated his powers. That nine-petalled copper mallet was an unopened lotus-bud, which he wrought and tempered into a weapon. I do not know on what day a sea-tide swelled and he made his way to this place. This morning I leaned on my railing to look at the flowers and did not see this creature come to make his bow. I reckoned on my fingers, tracing the lines, and worked out that he had turned sprite here and was harming your master; and so, before I could dress my hair, I worked my divine power and wove a bamboo basket to catch him.”
“Bodhisattva,” said Pilgrim, “since it is so, wait a little while. We will call the faithful folk of Chen Village to look upon your golden countenance: first to leave them your grace, and second to tell them of this taking of the fiend, so that mortal men may believe with a whole heart and make their offerings.”
“Very well; go quickly and call them.”
Eight Rules and Sha Monk ran together at full speed to the front of the village, crying aloud: “Come, all of you, and see the living Guanyin Bodhisattva! Come and see the living Guanyin Bodhisattva!”
The whole village, old and young, men and women, went to the riverside; heedless of the mud and water, they all knelt down in it and knocked their heads in worship. Among them was one skilled in drawing, who handed down her likeness — and this is how the Fish-Basket Guanyin first showed her form. At that time the Bodhisattva went straight back to the Southern Sea.
Eight Rules and Sha Monk parted the water and went straight to the Mansion of the Water Turtle to seek their master. It turned out that within it the water-fiends and fish-sprites were all dead and rotting. They entered the rear palace, lifted the lid of the stone chest, took the Tang Monk on their backs, came out from the waves, and met the others.
Chen Qing and his brother knocked their heads and gave thanks: “Old master, because you would not heed our plea to stay, you were brought to such suffering.”
“No need to speak of it,” said Pilgrim. “You people of this place need hold no more sacrifices in years to come. That Great King is now cut off at the root, and will do harm no more. Old Chen — now is just the time to trouble you: go quickly and find a boat to send us across the river.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Chen Qing, and gave orders to saw planks and build a boat. The village folk, hearing these words, one and all gave gladly. One said: “I'll buy the mast and sail.” Another said: “I'll provide the pole and oars.” Some said: “I'll put up the ropes.” Others said: “I'll hire the boatmen.”
They were all in an uproar of haggling at the riverside when suddenly, from the middle of the river, came a loud cry: “Great Sage Sun, do not build a boat, do not waste the people's goods and money. I will carry you and your master across.”
When the people heard it, every one of them took fright. The faint-hearted ran home; the bold stood watching in fear and trembling. In a moment, a monster bored up out of the water. Consider what it looked like:
A square-headed numinous creature, no common kind;
by ninefold workings of the spirit, styled the Water Immortal.
Trailing his tail, he can draw out a thousand ages of life;
hiding his body, he lies quiet in the deeps of a hundred rivers.
Churning the waves, leaping the billows, he buffets the river-bank;
facing the sun, meeting the wind, he lies at the sea's edge.
Nurturing his breath and holding the numen, he truly has the Way:
for many a year the powder-crusted, scabby-headed turtle.
The old turtle cried again: “Great Sage, do not build a boat. I will carry you and your master across.”
Pilgrim whirled his iron rod. “You accursed beast! If you come near the edge, one stroke of this rod and I'll kill you.”
“I am grateful for the Great Sage's kindness and gladly offer, with a good heart, to carry you across. Why do you turn instead and want to strike me?”
“What kindness have I done you?”
“Great Sage, you do not know: this Mansion of the Water Turtle down below was my own dwelling, handed down from my forefathers through the generations. Because I awoke to my own root and nature and nurtured the numinous breath, and did my cultivation in this place, I rebuilt my ancestral home from top to bottom and made of it a Mansion of the Water Turtle. That fiend, nine years ago, when the sea roared and the waves turned over, rode in on the tide-head, came to this place, and relying on his ferocity and violence, fought with me. He wounded many of my sons and daughters and carried off many of my kin. I could not out-fight him, and my den and burrow were taken from me for nothing. Now, thanks to the Great Sage coming here to rescue the Tang master, and inviting the Guanyin Bodhisattva to sweep clean the fiendish vapours, take away the monster, and return the mansion to me, I now have my whole household reunited, old and young, and need no more heap up earth and daub on mud, but may dwell in my old home. This kindness is heavy as a mountain, deep as the great sea. And not my kind alone have had the benefit: the people of this one village are spared their yearly sacrifice, and how many households' sons and daughters are kept whole. This is truly what is called a kindness that gains two ends at a single stroke — how should I not repay it?”
Pilgrim, hearing this, was secretly glad at heart. He put away his iron rod. “Is this the real truth of your feeling?”
“Because the Great Sage's kindness and virtue are broad and deep, how should I dare speak falsely?”
“Since it is your true feeling, swear an oath to Heaven.”
The old turtle, opening his red mouth, swore an oath to Heaven: “If I do not truly carry the Tang Monk across this River That Reaches to Heaven, may my body dissolve into a pool of blood.”
Pilgrim laughed. “Come up, come up.”
The old turtle then bore himself close to the bank, gave a heave of his body, and clambered up onto the river-cliff. The people came near to look, and saw a great white shell four zhàng round in circumference.
“Master,” said Pilgrim, “we will get up on his body and cross over.”
“Disciple,” said Tripitaka, “even that thick ice of the frozen layer was hard going and slippery; how much less safe will this turtle's back be?”
“Set your mind at rest, master,” said the old turtle. “I am far steadier than that thick ice of the frozen layer. If I so much as tilt a hair's breadth, I do not accomplish the fruit of merit.”
“Master,” said Pilgrim, “among all living creatures, one that can speak human speech will surely not tell a lie.” And he gave the order: “Brothers, be quick and lead the horse over.”
When they came to the riverside, the old and young, men and women, of Chen Village came all together to bow them farewell. Pilgrim had the horse led up onto the white turtle's shell, set the Tang Monk standing at the left of the horse's neck, Sha Monk at the right, Eight Rules behind the horse, and himself in front of the horse. And fearing the turtle might play some trick, he loosed the tiger-sinew cord, ran it through the old turtle's nose, drew it up like a bridle-rein, then set one foot on the shell and one foot on its head, held his iron rod in one hand and the rein in the other, and called out: “Old turtle, go gently now. If you tilt so much as a hair, I'll give you one straight on the head.”
“I dare not, I dare not,” said the old turtle. He then spread out his four feet and trod the surface of the water as if walking on level ground.
The people were all on the bank, burning incense and knocking their heads, all chanting “Homage to Amitābha Buddha.” This is truly a case of a real arhat come down among mortals, a living bodhisattva made manifest. They bowed until the forms could no longer be seen, and only then turned back.
The master, riding the white turtle, in less than a day passed over the eight hundred lǐ of the River That Reaches to Heaven, and stepped ashore with dry hands and dry feet. Tripitaka went up the bank, joined his palms, and gave thanks: “Old turtle, I have troubled you, and have nothing to give you. I'll thank you when I come back with the scriptures.”
“No need for the master to give thanks. I have heard that the Buddha-Patriarch of the Western Heaven is without death and without birth, and knows the things of past and future. I have been at my cultivation here for over one thousand three hundred years. Though my span is lengthened and my body grown light, and I have learned to speak human speech, I still cannot shed my original shell. I earnestly beg the old master, when you reach the Western Heaven, to ask the Buddha-Patriarch on my behalf: when shall I be able to shed my shell and win a human body?”
“I will ask, I will ask,” Tripitaka promised readily. And only then did the old turtle plunge down into the water and go.
Pilgrim then waited upon the Tang Monk to mount, Eight Rules shouldered the luggage, Sha Monk followed to left and right, and master and disciples found the main road and made straight for the west. This is it:
The holy monk, by imperial charge, goes to worship Amitābha;
the waters far, the mountains distant, his calamities are many.
His will and heart are true, and he fears not death;
the white turtle bore him in ferry across the River of Heaven.
In the end there is no knowing how many stages of road lay ahead, nor what ill or good was yet to come; and for that you must listen to the next chapter's telling.