A poem says:
When the Numinous Terrace holds nothing, that is what is called clarity;
in stillness upon stillness, not one thought is born.
Pen the ape and the horse fast, and let them not run loose;
hold spirit and vigour circumspect, and let them not rear up.
Cast out the Six Thieves, awaken to the Three Vehicles;
let the ten thousand ties all cease, and clarity comes of itself.
When lust and heresy are quenched for ever, one crosses beyond into the realm of the real,
to sit at ease in the Western City of Utmost Bliss.
The story tells how the Tang Priest, biting nails and chewing iron, by sheer resolve held on to a body that would not be broken; and how, by the grace of Pilgrim and the others, the Scorpion Spirit was beaten to death and he was delivered out of the Cave of the Lute. After that the road passed without a word, and soon it was the season of Vermilion Brightness. Behold now:
The warm south wind sends up the scent of wild orchid;
the washing rain has just cleared, and the new bamboo is cool.
Mugwort leaves fill the hills, with none to gather them;
calamus flowers crowd the gully, vying in fragrance alone.
The pomegranate is tender and bright, and the roving bees rejoice;
the streamside willows are deep in shade, and the yellow finches run wild.
On this long road, how should one wrap the horned millet-cakes?
The dragon boats must be mourning now on the Miluo River.
Master and disciples went along enjoying the sights of the Double Fifth, idling away the festival at the year’s mid-heaven, when of a sudden they saw a high mountain barring the road. The elder reined in his horse, turned his head and called out: “Wukong, there is a mountain ahead. I fear monsters may breed there again — we must be on our guard.”
“Set your heart at rest, Master,” said Pilgrim and the others. “We have given our lives over in submission and come across in sincerity — what monsters have we to fear?”
The elder was greatly pleased to hear it. He plied the whip and urged the fine horse on; he loosed the rein and hurried the dragon along. In a moment they had come up onto the cliff, and raising their heads to look about them, they saw that it was truly:
On the summit, pine and cypress meet the blue of the clouds;
on the stone bluffs, briar and hazel hang with wild vine.
Ten thousand zhàng of towering crag;
a thousand tiers of sheer-cut rock.
Ten thousand zhàng of towering crag, and the peaks and ridges are steep;
a thousand tiers of sheer-cut rock, and the gorge and cliff are deep.
Grey moss and green lichen spread over the shaded rock;
ancient juniper and tall pagoda-tree knot into a great wood.
Deep in the wood, listen to the hidden birds:
their artful notes, clear and sweet, are truly fit to be sung of.
In the gully the water runs as though pouring jade;
beside the road the fallen flowers lie like heaped gold.
The lie of the mountain is vicious, not to be walked:
in ten paces there is not half a pace of level ground.
Fox and elk are met with two by two;
white deer and dark gibbon come out in pairs to greet you.
Of a sudden a tiger’s roar is heard, to startle a man’s gall;
the crane’s cry rings in the ear and pierces to the courts of Heaven.
Yellow plum and red apricot will serve for food;
of the wild grasses and idle flowers, one does not know the names.
The four of them went up into the mountain, walking slowly a good while, and got over the summit. Coming down the western slope, they found a stretch of level open country. Here Zhu Bajie made a great show of his energy: he set Sha Monk to shoulder the carrying-pole while he himself raised his rake in both hands and went on ahead to drive the horse. But the horse was not in the least afraid of him; for all the idiot’s clacking and clattering, it still only ambled along and would not hurry.
“Brother, what are you driving him for?” said Pilgrim. “Let him walk slowly and have done with it.”
“The day is getting late,” said Bajie. “We have been walking this mountain the whole day and my belly is empty. Let us all step out a little, find a house, and beg a meal there.”
Pilgrim, hearing this, said, “If that is how it stands, let me make him go faster.” He gave the gold-hooped staff a flourish and let out a single shout; and the horse slipped its rein and went off down the level road ahead, swift as a flying arrow.
You ask why the horse was not afraid of Bajie, and yet was afraid of Pilgrim? Five hundred years ago Pilgrim was appointed by the Jade Emperor to the Directorate of the Imperial Horse in the Heaven of Grand Network, to pasture the horses there, with the official title of Bimawen; and the thing has been handed down ever since, so that every horse goes in fear of monkeys.
The elder could not hold the rein in. He could only grip the saddle-bow tight and let the horse have its head the whole way; and it was a good twenty li, out to where the land opened up, before it fell at last into a walking pace.
He was going along when all at once he heard a single stroke on a gong, and out from both sides of the road flashed thirty men and more, every one of them with spear or sabre, cudgel or staff, who blocked the way and shouted: “Monk! Where do you think you are going?”
The Tang Priest was so terrified that he shook from head to foot, could not keep his seat, and came tumbling down from the horse; and crouching in the scrub at the roadside he could only cry out, “Spare my life, Great Kings! Spare my life!”
“We will not beat you,” said the two big fellows at their head. “Only leave your travelling money behind.”
Only then did the elder come to himself and understand that these were a band of brigands; and he raised himself up and lifted his head to look at them. Behold them:
One, green of face and jutting of fang, put the Year Star to shame;
one, with bulging pupils and round staring eyes, outdid the Star of Mourning.
At their temples, red hair like flying fire;
below their chins, yellow whiskers like set needles.
The two of them wore tiger-skin patterned headwraps on their heads,
and girded at the waist were battle-skirts of many colours trimmed with sable.
One held in his hand a wolf-tooth club;
one bore crosswise on his shoulder a knotted rattan staff.
In truth they yielded nothing to the tigers of Ba Mountain;
indeed they were as dragons come up out of the water.
Seeing how ferocious they were, Tripitaka had no help for it but to get to his feet; and joining his palms before his breast he said, “Great Kings, this poor monk is one sent by the Tang emperor of the Land of the East to fetch scriptures from the Western Heaven. Since I parted from Chang’an the years have grown deep and the days long, and what little travelling money I had is all spent. One who has left the household lives by begging and nothing else — where should I come by money or silk? I beg the Great Kings will show me a little accommodation and let this poor monk go by.”
The two robbers led their band forward and said, “We have set up a tiger’s heart here, cut the highway, and want nothing whatever but money and silk. What is all this accommodation, accommodation? If you truly have no money, then get your robe off quickly and leave the white horse behind, and we will let you pass.”
“Amitābha Buddha!” said Tripitaka. “This robe of mine is cloth begged from a house in the east and needles begged from a house in the west, got together scrap by scrap. If you strip it off me, will you not have killed me outright? It is only that those who play the bold fellow in this life are turned into beasts in the next.”
The robbers were furious to hear it. They whipped out their great cudgels and came forward to strike. The elder said nothing aloud, but thought within himself: “Poor wretches! You speak only of your own cudgels — you do not yet know about my disciple’s cudgel.”
The robbers would allow no explaining. They raised their staves and struck at him without regard for head or face. Now the elder had never in all his life been able to tell a lie; but having run into this urgent strait he had no help for it, and brought out a falsehood: “Let the two Great Kings hold their hands a moment. I have a young disciple who will be along directly behind me. He has a few taels of silver about him, and you shall have it.”
“This monk is one who will not stand a loss,” said the robbers. “Tie him up for now.” And the whole gang of underlings fell to at once, bound him with a rope, and hung him high up in a tree.
Now the three trouble-makers came hurrying up behind. Bajie laughed aloud and said, “Master went off at a fine speed. There is no telling where he is waiting for us.” Then he caught sight of the elder up in the tree and said again, “Look at Master! Waiting would have been enough, but no — he must have such spirits as this, climbing up a tree and pulling on a vine to play at swinging.”
Pilgrim saw and said, “Idiot, do not talk nonsense. Is that not Master hanging up there? You two come on slowly. Let me go and take a look.”
Splendid Great Sage! He ran up a high bank to look closely, made them out for a band of brigands, and said within himself in secret delight, “What luck, what luck! Business has come to the door.” Then he turned on his heel, shook himself and changed into a neat and tidy little monk in a black robe, no more than sixteen years of age, with a blue cloth bundle slung over his shoulder. He strode out, came up to the front and called, “Master, what is all this talk? And who are all these bad men?”
“Disciple!” said Tripitaka. “You have not so much as got me down yet — and you are still asking questions?”
“What line of business are they in?” said Pilgrim.
“This gang of road-blockers has stopped me and wants money for the use of the road. Having nothing about me, I was hung up here, and there was nothing for it but to wait for you to come and settle the reckoning with them. Failing that, we had better make them a present of this horse.”
Pilgrim heard this and laughed. “Master, you are no good at all. There are monks enough in the world, but few as slack-skinned as you. Taizong of the Tang dispatched you to the Western Heaven to see the Buddha — who told you to make anybody a present of this dragon horse?”
“Disciple! Strung up like this, and beaten for it — what else am I to do?”
“What did you tell them, then?”
“They beat me till I was desperate, and there was no help for it — I gave you up to them.”
“Master, you have no sense at all. What did you inform on me for?”
“I said you had some travelling money on you, so as to make them stop beating me. It was a word said on the moment to get me out of trouble.”
“Good, good, good! I am obliged to you for the compliment. That is just the way to inform on a man. If you would inform on me seventy or eighty times a month, old Monkey would have all the more business.”
The gang of robbers, seeing Pilgrim in talk with his master, spread out their stance and closed in around him. “Little monk! Your master says you have travelling money at your waist. Bring it out at once and we will spare your lives; but let half a ‘no’ out of you and we will make an end of the whole of what is left of you.”
Pilgrim set down his bundle and said, “Gentlemen, officers, do not shout. There is some money here in this bundle — not a great deal: only twenty-odd ingots of horse-hoof gold and twenty or thirty of powder-face silver, and the loose pieces have never been counted. If you want it, take it bundle and all; only do not beat my master. The old books say: ‘Virtue is the root; wealth is the branch.’ This is a matter of the branch. We who have left the household have our own places to beg. If we come upon some elder who feasts monks there will be offering-money, and clothing too — how much can we possibly use? I ask only that you let my master down, and I will hand the whole of it over to you.”
The gang of robbers were all greatly pleased to hear it, and said, “The old monk is a miser; the little monk is handsome enough.” And they gave the order: “Let him down.”
The elder, having got his life back, sprang onto the horse, gave not a thought to Pilgrim, took up the whip and galloped straight back the way they had come.
“You have taken the wrong road!” Pilgrim called out hurriedly. He picked up the bundle and made to go after him, but the gang of robbers barred his way: “Where are you off to? Leave the travelling money behind and spare yourself the rod.”
Pilgrim laughed and said, “Let us be plain about it: the money must be split three ways.”
“This little monk is altogether too sharp,” said the robber chief. “He means to hold something back behind his master’s back. Very well then. Bring it out and let us see. If it comes to much, we will share a little with you as well, to buy fruit with on the quiet.”
“Brother, that is not what I meant at all,” said Pilgrim. “Where should I have any travelling money? I mean the gold and silver you two have taken off other people. You must share some of that with me.”
The robbers were furious to hear it and swore at him: “This monk does not know whether he is alive or dead. You will not give to us, and instead you ask of us. Do not run — take a beating!” And one of them swung up a knotted rattan staff and struck Pilgrim seven or eight times across his bald head.
Pilgrim behaved as though he had noticed nothing, and with a smile all over his face said, “Brother, if that is how you beat, you may go on beating till next year, till the spring ox has been whipped, and it would still not count for earnest.”
The robber was startled. “This monk has a hard head on him!”
Pilgrim laughed. “Not at all, not at all. You do me too much honour — it will pass well enough.”
The robbers would allow no explaining; two or three of them set on him at once and beat him wildly. “Gentlemen, calm your anger,” said Pilgrim. “Let me bring it out.”
Splendid Great Sage! He felt about in his ear, drew out an embroidery needle and said, “Gentlemen, I am one who has left the household, and truly I have brought no travelling money at all. I will give you only this needle.”
“What rotten luck!” said the robbers. “We let a rich monk go and have laid hold of this poor bald donkey instead. Do you take yourself for a tailor? What should we want with a needle?”
Pilgrim, hearing that they did not want it, took it between his fingers, gave it a shake, and it became a cudgel as thick as a rice bowl. The robbers took fright. “This monk is small enough to look at, but he knows some trick of magic.”
Pilgrim planted the cudgel in the ground and said, “Gentlemen, if you can lift it, it is yours.” The two robbers came forward to snatch it up — and, poor wretches, it was as dragonflies shaking a stone pillar: they could not stir it half a hair. This cudgel was in truth the As-You-Will Gold-Hooped Staff, weighed on the scales of Heaven at thirteen thousand five hundred catties. How were those robbers to know?
The Great Sage stepped up, lifted it lightly, threw himself into a python-turning crooked-step stance, and pointed at the brigands: “Your luck is out, the whole pack of you. You have run up against old Monkey.” The robbers came at him again and struck fifty or sixty blows more.
Pilgrim laughed and said, “You must have tired your hands out by now. Let old Monkey have one stroke — but do not take it for earnest.”
Watch him! He drew the cudgel out and gave it a shake, and it was as thick as a well-kerb and seven or eight zhàng in length; and with one swinging blow he struck one of them to the ground, his lips ground into the dirt, never to make a sound again.
The other opened his mouth and cursed: “This bald wretch is monstrously insolent! There was no money to be had, and now he has gone and killed one of my men into the bargain.”
Pilgrim laughed and said, “Steady now, steady. Wait while I deal with you one at a time — I shall cut the root of you at a single go.” With another swinging blow he struck the second one dead as well. The whole gang of underlings were so terrified that they flung down their spears, threw away their staves and fled for their lives in every direction.
Now the Tang Priest was galloping east on his horse when Bajie and Sha Monk headed him off: “Master, where are you going? You have taken the wrong road.”
The elder reined in and said, “Disciples, go quickly and tell your elder brother to show mercy under his staff, and not to beat those brigands to death.”
“Master, stay here,” said Bajie. “I will go and come back.” The idiot ran the whole way to the front and called out at the top of his voice, “Brother! Master says you are not to beat anyone.”
“Brother, when did I ever beat anyone?” said Pilgrim.
“Where have those brigands got to, then?”
“The rest have all scattered. It is only the two chiefs, who are lying here having a sleep.”
Bajie laughed. “You plague-taking pair! I dare say you sat up all night and are worn out with it, and instead of going somewhere else to sleep you must lie down just here.” The idiot walked over to them, took a good look and said, “Why, they are of a kind with me — sleeping with their mouths wide open, and sticky drool running out of them.”
“That is the beancurd old Monkey knocked out of them with a single stroke of the staff,” said Pilgrim.
“Since when do men have beancurd in their heads?”
“It is their brains I knocked out.”
When Bajie heard that it was brains that had been knocked out, he ran hurriedly back and said to the Tang Priest, “The company has broken up.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” said Tripitaka. “Which road did they go off along?”
“They were beaten till their legs went straight. How would they be going anywhere?”
“What do you mean, broken up?”
“They were beaten to death. If that is not breaking up the company, what is?”
“Beaten — what did it look like?” asked Tripitaka.
“There are two great holes in their heads.”
Tripitaka gave the order: “Open the bundle, take out a few coppers of the offering money, go and get two plasters somewhere, and put one on each of them.”
Bajie laughed. “Master, you have no sense at all. A plaster is only good for sticking on a living man’s sore. How would you stick one on a dead man’s hole?”
“They are truly beaten to death?” said Tripitaka. Then he grew angry, and went on muttering without a pause — ape this and monkey that. He turned the horse about and went with Sha Monk and Bajie to where the dead men were, and saw them lying bloody at the foot of the slope.
The elder could hardly bear the sight, and at once directed Bajie: “Quick, take your muckrake and dig a pit to bury them. I will recite a scroll of the Sutra for the Newly Dead over them.”
“Master, you have set the wrong man to it,” said Bajie. “Pilgrim killed them, and he is the one who ought to be sent to burn and bury. Why set old Hog to do the navvy’s work?”
Pilgrim, stung by his master’s scolding, shouted at Bajie: “You lazy blockhead! Get along and bury them at once. Be slow about it and you shall have the staff.”
The idiot took fright and dug down the slope to a depth of some three chǐ, where below it was all stone-feet and stone-roots, and the teeth of the rake jammed fast. So he threw the rake aside and set to with his snout. Rooting down to where it was soft, one thrust of the snout made two chǐ five; two thrusts made five chǐ deep; and he buried the two robbers’ bodies there and heaped the earth into a mound.
Tripitaka called, “Wukong, fetch incense and candles, and wait while I say a prayer, so that I may recite the sutra.”
Pilgrim thrust out his lips and said, “What a want of sense! Here in the middle of a mountain, with no village ahead and no inn behind — where should I get incense and candles? Even if we had the money there is nowhere to buy them.”
“Get away with you, monkey-head,” said Tripitaka bitterly. “Wait while I take up a pinch of earth for incense and make my prayer.”
This was Tripitaka leaving the saddle to grieve at a wild barrow; this was the holy monk, with a kind thought, praying over a desolate grave. His prayer ran:
Reverently to you, brave fellows: hear the ground of this petition.
Think upon me, your disciple, a man of Tang out of the Land of the East.
By the command of the Emperor Taizong I go up into the Western Region
to seek and fetch the scriptures.
Coming but now to this place, I fell in with you, who were many.
I do not know from what prefecture, what department, what district you come,
that you should be gathered into a band here within these hills.
I spoke you fair; I pleaded with you in earnest.
You would not hear it, but turned from good and gave way to wrath.
And so you met with Pilgrim, and took your hurt beneath his staff.
Grieving that your bones should lie exposed, I have covered you with earth and raised a grave.
I break green bamboo for incense and candles: they have no brightness, but they have a diligent heart;
I take rough stones for the food-offering: they have no savour, but they have a true sincerity.
When you come before the Hall of Senluo to lay your plaint, and fell the tree to find the root —
his surname is Sun and mine is Chen; we are of separate houses.
The wrong has its author, the debt has its holder.
Do not, I beg of you, bring your charge against the monk who fetches the scriptures.
Bajie laughed. “Master, you have pushed yourself quite clean of it. But when he did the beating, we two were not there either.”
Tripitaka did indeed take up another pinch of earth and pray again: “Brave fellows, when you lay your charge, charge Pilgrim only. It is no concern of Bajie or of Sha Monk.”
The Great Sage heard this and could not keep from laughing. “Master, you are quite without feeling, sir. For the sake of your scriptures I have spent I know not how much diligence and toil; and now that I have killed these two petty thieves, you would have them go and lay a charge against old Monkey. It was I who raised my hand, true enough — but it was only ever on your account. If you were not going to the Western Heaven for scriptures, and I were not your disciple, how should I ever have come to this place, or have beaten anyone to death? I may as well say a prayer of my own over them.”
He gripped the iron staff, thumped the grave-mound three times with it, and said: “You plague-taking robbers, hear me. You gave me seven or eight strokes in front and seven or eight behind, and beat me till I felt neither pain nor itch; you provoked my temper, and by one slip and two mischances I beat you to death. Go and lay your charge where you please; old Monkey is truly not afraid. The Jade Emperor knows me; the Devarājas defer to me; the Twenty-Eight Lodgings dread me; the Nine Luminaries fear me; the City Gods of the prefectures and districts kneel to me; the Heavenly Equal of the Eastern Peak is in terror of me; the Ten Kings of the Underworld have served me as attendants; and the Wandering Spirits of the Five Roads have been my lackeys. There is not one of the Three Realms and the Five Offices, nor any governor of the Ten Directions, but is on deep and familiar terms with me. Lay your charge where you like.”
When Tripitaka heard such wicked words come out of him he took fright again and said, “Disciple! That prayer of mine was meant to have you embody the virtue that loves life, and become a man of goodness. Why must you take it so much in earnest?”
“Master, this is no amusing business,” said Pilgrim. “Let us get along and find lodging early.”
The elder had no choice but to mount, with his anger inside him.
The Great Sage Sun harboured a discordant heart; Bajie and Sha Monk too had thoughts of jealousy; and master and disciples were all fair to the face and false behind the back. They went along the high road westward, and of a sudden saw, off to the north of the road, a farmstead.
Tripitaka pointed at it with his whip and said, “Let us go over there and beg a night’s lodging.”
“Just so,” said Bajie. So they went as far as the farm buildings and dismounted. Looking at it, they found it a fine place to stop. Behold:
Wild flowers fill the path; mingled trees screen the gate.
On the far bank a hill stream runs; in the level beds are sown wheat and mallow.
Reed and rush are moist with dew, and the light gull roosts;
the willows stir in a slight wind, and the tired birds settle.
Green cypress among the pines contends in emerald;
red fleabane against the smartweed vies in fragrance.
The village dogs bark, the evening cocks crow;
the cattle and sheep have eaten their fill, and the herd-boys are coming home.
Hearth-smoke gathers into mist, the yellow millet is done:
this is the hour when a hill household comes to dusk.
The elder went forward, and of a sudden saw an old man come out of the gate of that village house. He greeted him at once and paid his respects.
“Where have you come from, reverend?” asked the old man.
“This poor monk is one dispatched by the Great Tang of the Land of the East to seek scriptures in the Western Heaven,” said Tripitaka. “Passing just now by your honoured district, and the day drawing to evening, I have come especially to your almsgiving house to beg a night’s shelter.”
The old man laughed. “From your honoured country to this place of mine the road is long and winding. How have you crossed the waters and climbed the hills, and come here alone?”
“This poor monk has three disciples besides, who come with me.”
“And where are your worthy disciples?”
Tripitaka pointed with his hand: “Those standing by the high road, there — those are they.”
The old man jerked his head up, saw how ugly their faces were, and turned on his heel to go straight back inside. Tripitaka caught hold of him: “Old benefactor, of your great mercy — I beg the loan of one night!”
The old man shook all over, his mouth clamped shut so that he could hardly speak, and waving his head and flapping his hands he said, “N— n— n— not like the shape of men! They are — are — are a pack of demons.”
Tripitaka smiled placatingly. “Benefactor, do not be afraid. My disciples were born with such faces as those; they are not demons.”
“Merciful father!” said the old man. “One is a yakṣa, one is a Horse-Face, one is a Thunder God.”
Pilgrim heard this and shouted at the top of his voice, “The Thunder God is my grandson, the yakṣa is my great-grandson, and the Horse-Face is my great-great-grandson!”
The old man heard it, and his souls scattered and his spirits flew; the colour left his face, and he wanted nothing but to get indoors. Tripitaka took his arm and went with him into the thatched hall, smiling placatingly: “Old benefactor, do not be afraid of them. They are all coarse like that, and have no manners in speech.”
Just as they were smoothing it over, an old woman came out from the back, leading a small child of five or six by the hand, and said, “Grandfather, what is all this alarm?”
The old man managed to call out, “Mother, bring tea.” The old woman did indeed put down the child, went inside, and brought out two cups of tea.
The tea over, Tripitaka came down, made his bow to the old woman and said, “This poor monk is one sent by the Great Tang of the Land of the East to fetch scriptures in the Western Heaven. Having only just reached your honoured place, I asked leave of your worshipful house for a night’s lodging; and because my three disciples are ugly, the old master of the house was needlessly alarmed at the sight of them.”
“If the sight of ugly men gives him such an empty fright,” said the old woman, “what would he do if he met a tiger or a wolf?”
“Mother, that their faces are ugly may pass,” said the old man. “It is their talk that is frightening beyond everything. I said they were like a yakṣa, a Horse-Face and a Thunder God — and he bawled at me that the Thunder God was his grandson, the yakṣa his great-grandson, and the Horse-Face his great-great-grandson. Hearing such words, I was naturally terrified.”
“No, no,” said the Tang Monk. “The one like the Thunder God is my eldest disciple, Sun Wukong; the one like the Horse-Face is my second, Zhu Wuneng; the one like the yakṣa is my third, Sha Wujing. Ugly they may be, but they hold to the teaching of the Śramaṇa and have taken refuge in the fruit of goodness. They are no wicked demons or poisonous monsters — what is there to fear in them?”
When the old couple heard their names, and the words about taking refuge in the Śramaṇa, they steadied themselves and got over their fright, and gave the order: “Ask them in, ask them in.”
The elder went out to call them, and gave them a further charge: “Just now this old gentleman took a great dislike to you. When you go in to meet him now, on no account be defiant — each of you be respectable.”
“I am handsome, I am refined,” said Bajie, “not like elder brother, who plays the ruffian.”
Pilgrim laughed and said, “But for the long snout, the big ears and the ugly face, he would be quite a fine fellow.”
“Stop wrangling,” said Sha Monk. “This is no place for showing off and playing clever. Go in, go in.”
So they brought the baggage and the horse up to the thatched hall, made their bows together, and sat down. That good-hearted old woman took the small child away with her at once, gave orders for rice to be cooked, and set out a meatless meal, which master and disciples ate.
It grew steadily later; lamps were lit, and they all sat in the thatched hall talking at leisure. The elder began by asking, “What is the benefactor’s honoured surname?”
“Yang,” said the old man.
He asked his age next. “Seventy-four.”
He asked again, “How many worthy sons have you?”
“Only the one. The child the old woman was leading just now is my little grandson.”
The elder asked that the worthy son be brought to exchange bows with him.
“That wretch is not fit to be bowed to,” said the old man. “My own life has been bitter — I could never raise him properly, and he is not at home now.”
“In what line of business is he?” said Tripitaka.
The old man nodded and sighed. “Pity of it, pity of it! If he would take to any livelihood at all, it would be my good fortune. That wretch does nothing but breed wicked thoughts. He will not keep to any honest calling; he is all for breaking into houses and cutting the roads, killing men and setting fires. The company he keeps is all foxes in a pack and dogs in a gang. He went off five days ago, and has not come back to this hour.”
Tripitaka heard it and dared not draw breath, but thought within himself: “It may well be that the man Wukong killed was this very one.” The elder was uneasy in mind, and half rose from his seat. “Merciful heaven! Merciful heaven! Such worthy parents — how did they beget so wicked and unfilial a son?”
Pilgrim came forward and said, “Old sir, a son of that kind — worthless and unfilial, a thief and a lecher, who drags his parents down with him — what use is he to anybody? Let me go and find him for you, and beat him to death.”
“I have wished myself to be rid of him,” said the old man. “But there is no other issue after him; worthless as he is, he must still be kept to cover my old bones with earth.”
Sha Monk and Bajie laughed and said, “Elder brother, do not meddle in other people’s business. You and I are not the magistrate. If his family will not have it, what concern is it of ours? Rather let us ask the benefactor to grant us a bundle of straw, so that we may make up a bed somewhere and sleep, and take the road at daybreak.”
The old man rose at once and had Sha Monk go to the back garden for two bundles of rice-straw, and settled them for the night in a round thatched shelter in the garden. Pilgrim led the horse, Bajie shouldered the luggage, and they went with the elder into the shelter to settle for the night — of which no more for the present.
Now among that gang of robbers there was indeed old Yang’s son. Since two of their chiefs had been beaten to death by Pilgrim in front of the mountain early that day, they had all scattered and run for their lives; and about the fourth watch they gathered into a band again and beat on the gate.
The old man heard the gate rattle, threw on his clothes at once and said, “Mother, those wretches are here.”
“Since they have come,” said the old woman, “go and open the gate and let him into the house.”
The old man had only just opened the gate when the whole gang of robbers set up a clamour: “We are hungry, we are hungry.” Old Yang’s son hurried inside, roused his wife, and had rice pounded and a meal cooked. But there was no firewood in the kitchen; so he went to the back garden to fetch some, and coming back to the kitchen asked his wife, “Whose is the white horse in the back garden?”
“They belong to some monks from the Land of the East who are fetching scriptures,” said his wife. “They came here last night to beg a lodging, and father and mother gave them a supper and put them to sleep in the straw shelter.”
The wretch heard it, went out into the thatched hall, clapped his hands and laughed. “Brothers! What luck, what luck — our enemy is in my own house.”
“What enemy?” said the robbers.
“It is that monk who beat our chiefs to death. He has come to my house to beg a night’s lodging and is asleep this minute in the straw shelter.”
“Good, good!” said the robbers. “Take these bald wretches and chop them one by one into mince. First, we get that baggage and the white horse; second, we avenge our chiefs.”
“Not so fast,” said the wretch. “Go and sharpen your blades. Wait till I have the rice cooked, and let everybody eat his fill; then we all set on together.” And true enough, those robbers fell to it — the knife-sharpeners sharpening knives, the spear-sharpeners sharpening spears.
The old man heard this, crept quietly out to the back garden and roused the Tang Monk and the other three: “That wretch has brought his gang; he knows you are here and means to do you harm. I, old fool that I am, think of how far you have come, and cannot bear to see you hurt. Get your baggage together quickly. I will see you out by the back gate.”
Tripitaka heard it, and trembling all over he knocked his head to the ground and thanked the old man; then he called Bajie to lead the horse and Sha Monk to shoulder the load, while Pilgrim took up the nine-ringed priestly staff. The old man opened the back gate, let them go, and went quietly back to the front to lie down again.
Now those wretches had ground their blades keen and eaten their fill of the meal; it was already the fifth watch when they came all together into the garden to look — and there was nobody there. They lit lamps and kindled torches at once and searched a good while, but there was no trace on any side — only the back gate standing open. They all cried, “They have gone out by the back gate — gone!” They raised a shout and came after them. Every one of them went like a flying arrow, and they ran on until the sun came up in the east, when at last they caught sight of the Tang Monk.
The elder heard the shouting behind him of a sudden, turned his head to look, and saw twenty or thirty men coming on with spears and blades in a bristling mass. He called out, “Disciples! The robber band is on us — what is to be done?”
“Set your mind at rest, set your mind at rest,” said Pilgrim. “Old Monkey will make an end of them.”
Tripitaka reined in and said, “Wukong, on no account harm anyone. Only frighten them off and let that be enough.”
Pilgrim was not likely to heed him. He whipped out the staff, turned to meet them and said, “Where might you gentlemen be going?”
The robbers swore at him: “Bald wretch, you are insolent! Give us back our chiefs’ lives.” Those wretches formed a ring and closed Pilgrim in the middle of it, and hacked and thrust at him with spear and blade.
The Great Sage gave the gold-hooped staff a shake till it was thick as a rice bowl, and beat that gang of robbers till they scattered like falling stars and driven cloud: those that fended it off died, those that caught at it perished; those that knocked against it had their bones broken, those that grazed it had their skin torn; the quick ones got away, a few of them, and the slow ones all went to see King Yama.
Tripitaka, from his horse, saw so many men struck down that in his alarm he gave the horse its head and fled west. Zhu Bajie and Sha Monk followed hard at whip and stirrup and were gone.
Pilgrim questioned those robbers who were wounded but not dead: “Which of you is old Yang’s son?”
The robbers groaned out, “Sir — the one in yellow is he.”
Pilgrim went up, snatched a blade from them and cut the head off the man in yellow; took it up dripping with blood in his hand, put away the iron staff, opened his cloud-stride, overtook the Tang Monk’s horse, and held out the head. “Master, this is old Yang’s unfilial son. Old Monkey has fetched you his head.”
Tripitaka saw it, and the colour went out of his face; in his fright he fell from the horse, and he cried, “You wretched ape, you have frightened me to death! Take it away, take it away!” Bajie came forward, kicked the head off to the side of the road, and used the muckrake to heap a little earth over it.
Sha Monk set down the load, helped the Tang Monk up by the arm and said, “Master, please rise.”
The elder, on the ground, composed himself, and began to recite the Tight-Fillet spell, which squeezed Pilgrim till his ears were red and his face burned, till his eyes bulged and his head swam and he rolled about on the ground crying only, “Stop, stop!” The elder recited it a good ten times and more, and still would not stop. Pilgrim turned somersaults and stood on his head, unable to bear the pain, and called out only, “Master, forgive my fault! If you have something to say, say it — only stop, stop.”
Only then did Tripitaka stop. “I have nothing to say. I do not want you following me any longer. Go back.”
Pilgrim bore the pain and knocked his head on the ground: “Master, why do you drive me away like this?”
“You wretched monkey, your ferocity is far too great. You are no man to be fetching scriptures. Yesterday, below the mountain slope, you beat those two robber chiefs to death, and I already blamed you then for want of humanity. Then, when evening came and we reached the old man’s house, we had his kindness for our meal and our lodging, and his kindness again when he opened the back gate and let us escape with our lives. Unworthy as his son was, and no concern of mine, still you should not have struck off his head; and beyond that you have killed many more, destroyed I know not how many lives, and injured I know not how much of the harmony of Heaven and Earth. Time and again I have counselled you, and there is not a hair’s weight of good thought in you. What do I want you for? Go, go — before I recite the True Words again.”
Pilgrim was afraid, and cried only, “Stop, stop — I am going.” He said the word and went — one road of somersault cloud, without shadow or trace — and so was gone.
Ah! This was indeed a case of:
While the heart holds ferocity and madness, the cinnabar will not ripen;
while the spirit has no fixed place, the Way cannot be achieved.
In the end we do not know in what direction the Great Sage turned; and for that you must listen to the explanation that follows.