The story tells how the king of Jisai, grateful to the Tang Master and his disciples for the kindness of recovering the treasure and taking the fiend, offered them gold and jade, of which they would accept not the smallest fraction. Instead he ordered the officer of the royal carriage to have two suits made for each of the four after the pattern of the habits they commonly wore, two pairs of shoes and stockings apiece, two sashes and rings apiece, and dry rations and parched grain provided besides. The travel rescript was endorsed and returned, the imperial equipage drawn up in state, and with the civil and military officers, the people of the whole city, and the monks of the Fulong Monastery, amid a great blowing and drumming, the four were seen out of the city.
At about twenty lǐ the king was the first to take his leave. The rest of the company saw them a further twenty lǐ and then turned back.
The monks of Fulong went fifty or sixty lǐ and still would not turn back: some wished to go with them to the Western Heaven, some to take up the religious life and serve them. Pilgrim, seeing that none of them would go back, worked a trick. He plucked thirty or forty of his hairs, blew on them a breath of immortal air, and cried, “Change!” They all turned into striped and brindled tigers that barred the road ahead, roaring and springing. Only then were the monks afraid, and they dared not go forward.
Only then did the Great Sage lead his master on, whipping up the horse, and in a little while they had gone far away. The monks wept aloud, every one of them crying out, “O masters of kindness and of righteousness! We have no affinity with you, and you will not ferry us across.”
But let us say no more of the monks and their weeping. The story turns to the four of them, master and disciples, who took the high road; and only then did Pilgrim call back his hairs, and they went straight westward. Truly the order of the seasons shifts easily: already winter was spent and spring had come, neither warm nor cold, weather made for travelling at ease. Suddenly they saw a long ridge, with the road running along its crest.
Tripitaka reined in his horse to look. On that ridge the brambles forked and crossed and the creepers twined and trailed; and though there was some trace of a path, to left and right there was nothing but thorn and spine. The Tang Monk called out, “Disciples, how is this road to be walked?”
“Why should it not be walked?” said Pilgrim.
“Disciple!” he said again. “The trace of the path lies below and the brambles above. Unless one were a snake or a worm, to crawl belly-down along the ground and so pass through, there is no getting by; and if you were to walk it you could not so much as straighten your backs. How then am I to ride?”
“No matter,” said Eight Rules. “Let me bring out my brushwood-clearing stroke and part the brambles with my muckrake. Never mind riding a horse — I warrant I could carry you through in a sedan chair.”
“You may have the strength,” said Tripitaka, “but it is hard to endure over a long stretch, and there is no knowing how far it runs. How could you spend so much vigour on it?”
“There is no need to deliberate,” said Pilgrim. “Let me go and take a look.”
He flung up his body and sprang into mid-air; and when he looked, there was no end to it as far as sight reached. Truly it was a sight:
Girdling the earth, remote as the sky;
congealed mist, freighted with rain.
Along the road the soft matting lies tangled;
over the hills the green canopies are spread.
Thick and matted, the leaves but newly out;
clutching and dragging, at the very height of their fragrance.
Look far off, and there is no knowing where it ends;
look near, and it is all one green cloud, blurred and vast.
Downy and dense,
sombre and dark.
The voice of the wind comes drifting and rustling;
the shadow of the sun strikes back glittering.
And in the midst of it there are pines, there are cypresses, and bamboo besides;
plum in plenty, willow in plenty, and mulberry more than either.
Fig-vine and creeper wind about the ancient trees;
rattan and kudzu coil round the drooping willows.
Coiled in clumps like trellises,
laced together like couches.
Here and there the blossom opens, brocade truly spread abroad;
from nowhere the flowers break out, and the scent carries far.
Being human, who does not meet with brambles?
But where has one seen the brambles of the West grow long as these?
Pilgrim looked his fill for a good while, then pressed his cloud-head down. “Master, this place runs a long way.”
“How far?” Tripitaka asked.
“As far as the eye reaches there is no end to it. It seems a thousand lǐ off.”
Tripitaka was greatly alarmed. “What is to be done?”
“Do not fret, Master,” said Sha Monk with a laugh. “Let us do as the field-burners do — set a fire to it, burn the brambles clean away, and so get through.”
“Talk no nonsense,” said Eight Rules. “Field-burning has to wait for the tenth month or thereabouts, when the grass has withered and the trees are dry — only then is it fit to put a light to. As things stand it is the very season of rank growth. How is it to be burned?”
“Even if it could be burned,” said Pilgrim, “it would be a fearful business.”
“Then how are we to attain a crossing?” said Tripitaka.
Eight Rules said with a laugh, “If you would attain a crossing, you will have to rely on me after all.”
Splendid Idiot! He pinched a magic sign, recited a spell, gave his back a bow, and cried, “Grow!” — and at once his body grew to a height of some twenty zhàng. He gave the muckrake a shake and ordered, “Change!” — and at once the rake's handle became some thirty zhàng in length. He strode out, worked the rake in both hands, and raked the brambles apart to left and right. “Master, be pleased to follow me.”
Tripitaka was greatly pleased at the sight and whipped up his horse to follow close behind; Sha Monk carried the luggage on his pole; and Pilgrim too used his iron rod to push the growth aside. That whole day they never stayed their hands, and covered a hundred lǐ and more.
As it drew towards evening they saw a stretch of open ground. Full in the road stood a stone tablet. Above were three large characters, Bramble Ridge; below, two lines of fourteen small ones: Brambles clamber and sprawl eight hundred lǐ; a road there has been since of old, and few to walk it.
Eight Rules saw it and said with a laugh, “Let old Hog add a couplet of his own: From this day Eight Rules can break it open, and clean through to the West the road lies level.”
Tripitaka dismounted in delight. “Disciple! I have put you to great trouble. Let us stop just here and pass the night, and set out again when it is light tomorrow.”
“Do not stop, Master,” said Eight Rules. “While the sky holds clear like this and we have the appetite for it, let us rake the road open through the night and be hanged to it.”
The elder had no choice but to fall in with him.
Eight Rules went ahead and put out his strength; master and disciples never stayed their hands nor their horse its hooves, and they travelled another day and a night, until once again the light failed. Ahead the growth was matted and knotted, and they heard besides the wind beating music from the bamboo and the rustling voice of the pines. There happened again to be a stretch of clear ground, and in the middle of it stood an ancient temple. Outside the temple gate pine and cypress held their deep green, and peach and plum contended in beauty. Tripitaka dismounted and looked at it along with his three disciples. And this is what they saw:
Before the crag an old temple pillowed upon a cold stream;
where the eye alights, a desolate mist locks in a ruined mound.
Among the white cranes' thickets the years lie deep;
beneath the green-rank terrace, spring and autumn keep their own account.
Bamboo sways its green pendants — one half hears speech in it;
a bird works at some remnant of a tune — as though it were telling a grief.
No cock nor dog comes through here, and the tracks of men are few;
idle flowers and wild creepers wind about the top of the wall.
Pilgrim looked and said, “This place has few blessings and many ills. It will not do to sit here long.”
“Elder brother is mistaken,” said Sha Monk. “In a place as empty of human smoke as this, with never a monstrous beast nor a demon bird in it, what is there to be afraid of?”
Before he had finished speaking a gust of dark wind sprang up, and from behind the temple gate there came out an old man: a cornered kerchief on his head, plain robes on his body, a staff in his hand, straw sandals on his feet. Behind him came a demon runner, blue of face and tusked, red-bearded and bare-bodied, balancing a tray of wheat cakes on his head.
The old man knelt. “Great Sage, this humble spirit is the local god of Bramble Ridge. Knowing that the Great Sage had come here, and having nothing with which to receive you, I have prepared a tray of steamed cakes on purpose, to present to the venerable master, that each of you may take a meal. For eight hundred lǐ hereabouts there is not another household. Eat a little to stay your hunger.”
Eight Rules was delighted. He came forward and put out his hand, meaning to take a cake. He did not know that Pilgrim had been examining the pair for some while. Pilgrim gave a shout: “Hold! This fellow is no honest man. None of your insolence! What sort of local god are you, to come deceiving old Monkey? Mind the rod!”
The old man, seeing the blow come, gave his body a turn and became a gust of dark wind. With a rushing sound he caught the elder up and away, drifting and tossing, and there was no telling where he had carried him. The Great Sage was thrown into such alarm that he had nowhere to follow and search; Eight Rules and Sha Monk looked at each other and lost all colour; and the white horse could do nothing but whinny in fright. The three brothers and the horse, four of them together, were dazed and bewildered. They gazed far off and strained their eyes high, and there was not the least trace of him. Of their searching back and forth we say no more.
The story turns to the old man and the demon runner, who carried the elder to a stone house among mist and rosy cloud, set him gently down, and taking him by the hand to steady him, said, “Holy monk, do not be afraid. We are no ruffians. I am none other than the Eighteenth Duke of Bramble Ridge. On a night of clear wind and a moon washed bright, I have asked you here on purpose to meet friends and discourse of poetry, and to divert the feelings — no more than that.”
Only then did the elder collect himself; he opened his eyes and looked carefully about. Truly it was:
A far-spread place of mist and cloud;
a clear-washed dwelling of the immortal country.
Just the place for purifying the body and refining it;
fit indeed for planting bamboo and setting out flowers.
Often one sees cranes come to the emerald crag;
at times one hears frogs calling from the blue pool.
It outdoes even the cinnabar stove of Tiantai;
and still looks for the bright mists of Mount Hua.
What talk of ploughing the clouds and angling for the moon?
The seclusion of this place is worth the boasting.
Sit long here and the hidden heart grows wide as the sea;
dim and blurred, the moon climbs the gauze of the window.
Tripitaka was still taking it in when he grew aware that the moon had brightened and the stars come clear, and he heard voices talking together. All of them were saying, “The Eighteenth Duke has got the holy monk here!”
The elder lifted his head and looked. They were three old men: the first of a frosty bearing and a fine presence, the second with green temples and a swaying grace, the third hollow of heart and dark blue in colour. Each differed from the others in face and in dress, and all came forward to pay their respects to Tripitaka.
The elder returned their salute. “What virtue has your disciple, that he should presume to trouble the immortal elders for such kindness?”
“We have long heard that the holy monk possesses the Way,” said the Eighteenth Duke with a smile. “We have waited a great while, and today have the good fortune to meet you. If you will not begrudge us your pearls and jade, but sit at your ease and unfold your mind to us, we shall see for ourselves the true school of the Chan mystery.”
Tripitaka bowed. “May I presume to ask the immortal elders' honoured names?”
“He of the frosty bearing is styled the Duke of Lonely Uprightness,” said the Eighteenth Duke; “he of the green temples is styled the Master Who Rides the Void; he of the hollow heart is styled the Elder Who Brushes the Clouds; and this old fellow is styled Sturdy Joint.”
“And what may the four elders' honoured ages be?” said Tripitaka.
The Duke of Lonely Uprightness said:
My years have now run past a thousand ancient years;
propping the sky, my leaves are thick, and it is spring in all four seasons.
Fragrant boughs, dense and dark, in the shape of dragons and serpents;
broken shadows layer upon layer, a body of frost and snow.
Firm and hard from my youth, I can bear the wearing of age;
upright from this day forward, I delight to refine what is true.
Crows perch and phoenixes roost here — this is no common company;
spreading wide, standing thick, far off from the dust of the world.
The Master Who Rides the Void said with a smile:
A thousand years of my life have braved the wind and the frost;
tall trunk and numinous boughs, my strength is hard of itself.
In the stillness of night there is a sound in me like dripping rain;
in the clear of autumn my shade spreads out like unfurling cloud.
My coiling roots have already got the formula for long life;
the mandate I received best suits the recipe against age.
Keeping cranes and turning to dragons — this is no common company;
grey and bracing, I stand close to the country of the immortals.
The Elder Who Brushes the Clouds said with a smile:
Through the cold of the years I have idled away a thousand autumns;
my late prospect is unconstrained, clear and deeper still.
Unmixed with the clamorous dust, I am cool to the last;
sated with frost and snow, I have a distinction of my own.
The Seven Worthies were my companions and discoursed of the Way with me;
the Six Idlers were my friends and traded songs with me.
Striking jade and sounding bronze — there is nothing trivial in it;
with a nature given by heaven, I roam in company with the immortals.
Sturdy Joint, the Eighteenth Duke, said with a smile:
I too am something over a thousand years;
grey-dark, chaste and fine, and of myself simply so.
Worth cherishing, the power of rain and dew that made me;
borrowed from heaven and earth, the very engine of creation.
In ten thousand ravines of wind and mist I alone flourish;
through the four seasons, for unconstrained ease none rivals my open spread.
My canopy spreads a green shade that keeps immortal guests;
over chess and the tuning of lutes we discourse on the books of the Way.
Tripitaka gave thanks. “The four immortal elders all enjoy a great age, and the elder Sturdy Joint a thousand years and more besides. High in years and possessed of the Way, of a clear and singular presence — can it be that you are the Four Whitehairs of the Han?”
“You praise us too far, you praise us too far,” said the four old men. “We are not the Four Whitehairs. We are the Four Constancies of the deep hills. May we presume to ask the holy monk his own years?”
Tripitaka joined his palms, bowed, and answered:
Forty years ago I came forth from my mother's womb;
before I was born, calamity had already fallen on my fate.
Fleeing for life I fell in the water and rolled along with the waves;
by good fortune I came to Golden Mountain and slipped my mortal frame.
Nurturing my nature and reading the scriptures I have never slackened;
bowing to Buddha with a sincere heart, how should I dare to hang back?
Now by the Emperor's favour I am sent away westward;
and on the road I have met the immortal elders' condescending kindness.
“The holy monk followed the teaching of the Buddha from the moment he left his mother's womb,” said the four old men all together in praise. “He has practised from childhood indeed — a truly upright monk of the Way and of the higher sort. We are fortunate to be admitted to your presence, and presume to beg the great teaching. We hope you will instruct us in a point or two of the Chan dharma. It would content us for a lifetime.”
The elder heard them, and without hesitation or fear addressed the company.
“Chan is stillness; dharma is a crossing over. The crossing that is made within stillness cannot be accomplished but by awakening. Awakening is this: to wash the heart and scour away care, to slough off the common and leave the dust behind. Now, a human body is hard to obtain; birth in the Middle Land is hard to come by; the true dharma is hard to meet with. To have all three of these — no good fortune is greater.
“Highest virtue and the subtle Way are vast and past all hearing or seeing; the six roots and the six consciousnesses may then be swept clean away. Bodhi neither dies nor is born, has nothing over and nothing wanting; emptiness and form are gathered up within it, and sage and common man alike are sent away. Seeking the true, one takes up the tongs and hammer of the Primal Beginning; realising the real, one takes up the handiwork of Śākyamuni. Set Formless-Image to work, and tread nirvana to pieces.
“You must awaken within awakening and realise within realising; one point of numinous light is kept whole and guarded. Let the fierce flame blaze out and light the world of forms; and through the dharma-realm, lengthwise and across, it stands disclosed alone. At its most hidden and most fine, guard it the more closely; the dark gate — and who was ever ferried across by talking of it? I from the first have cultivated the Chan of the great awakening; only he who has the affinity and the will will keep the awakening in mind.”
The four old men inclined their ears and took it in, with boundless delight. One by one they bowed their heads and took refuge, and bending their bodies gave thanks: “The holy monk is the very root of awakening in the Chan mystery.”
Then the Elder Who Brushes the Clouds said, “Chan may be stillness and dharma may be a crossing, but the nature must be settled and the heart sincere. Even were one to become a true immortal of the great awakening, one would end by sitting in the doctrine of no-birth. Our mystery is another thing altogether.”
“The Way is beyond the ordinary,” said Tripitaka; “substance and function are one in it. How should it be another thing?”
The Elder Who Brushes the Clouds said with a smile, “We are hard and solid from our birth, and our substance and function are not as yours. We take our bodies from the stirring of heaven and earth, and our colouring from the nourishment of rain and dew. We laugh in the face of wind and frost, and wear away the sun and moon. Not one leaf withers; a thousand branches keep their constancy.
“Talk like this does not knock at the empty void; you hold fast to Sanskrit words. As for the Way — it was settled in the Middle Kingdom from the first. You turn about and go seeking proof of it in the West, wearing out your straw sandals for nothing. What is it you imagine you are looking for? A stone lion with its heart and liver gouged out; the drool of a wild fox soaked clean through to the marrow. To forget the root and sit in Chan, to seek the fruit of buddhahood in vain — it is all like the tangled riddles of my own Bramble Ridge, the muddled talk of vine and gourd.
“How is a gentleman of that sort to be led on? By what pattern is such a one to be given the seal? You must look to the face that stands before you; within stillness there is a livelihood of its own. A bottomless bamboo basket drawing water; a rootless iron tree putting out flowers. Plant your feet firmly on the peak of Numinous Treasure, and come back to take your seat at the Dragon-Flower assembly.”
Tripitaka heard him out and knocked his head on the ground in thanks. The Eighteenth Duke put out a hand to steady him, the Duke of Lonely Uprightness pulled him bodily to his feet, and the Master Who Rides the Void gave a great laugh: “Cloud-Brusher's words have plainly let something slip. Rise, holy monk; you must not believe it all. We came out under this bright moon in the first place not to argue about cultivation, but simply to chant at our ease and let the heart run free.”
The Elder Who Brushes the Clouds pointed at the stone house with a smile: “If it is chanting you want, come into my little hermitage for a cup of tea. How would that be?”
The elder did indeed rise from his seat and went to look before the stone house. Above the door were three large characters: Hermitage of the Wood Immortals. So they went in together, and places were settled again in order. Suddenly the bare-bodied demon runner appeared, bearing a tray of poria cakes, and presented five cups of fragrant broth. The four old men invited the Tang Monk to eat first. Tripitaka was startled and doubtful, and dared not eat at once. Then the four old men set to together, and only after that did Tripitaka eat two pieces. Each drank his broth, and the things were taken away.
Tripitaka took care to steal a look, and saw that the place shone clear and bright, just as though it lay under the moon:
Water comes flowing out from beside the stone;
fragrance comes drifting in from among the flowers.
The whole room is pure and empty and finely kept;
there is not half a speck of dust in it.
The elder, seeing this immortal place, thought it much to his liking; his feelings ran glad and his breast opened; he was thoroughly delighted, and could not keep from reciting a line aloud:
A mind of Chan is like the moon, remote and without dust.
Old Sturdy Joint smiled and at once linked on: Poetic feeling is like the sky, blue and newer still.
The Duke of Lonely Uprightness said: Fine lines, cut at leisure, are kneaded out of brocade.
The Master Who Rides the Void said: Good writing, unblotted, spits out rare treasure.
The Elder Who Brushes the Clouds said: The Six Dynasties washed clean away, their splendour gone; the Four Beginnings edited afresh, Ya and Song set apart.
“Your disciple let his tongue slip for a moment and talked a few characters of nonsense,” said Tripitaka, “truly, as the saying has it, wielding an axe at Ban's gate. Having just heard the immortals' words, so fresh and so free, I see that you are true elders of poetry.”
“The holy monk need not put us off with talk,” said Old Sturdy Joint. “One who has left the household completes what he begins. Having made the opening line, how can there be no closing one? We hope you will see it through.”
“Your disciple cannot,” said Tripitaka. “It would be best if the Eighteenth Duke would trouble himself to close it and make a whole piece of it.”
“What a fine disposition you have!” said Sturdy Joint. “You made the opening line yourself — how can you refuse to bring it to fruit? To be stingy with your pearls is no way to behave.”
Tripitaka had no choice but to add the last two lines: Half a pillow of pine-wind, and the tea not yet brewed; a chanting heart, unconstrained, and a breast full of spring.
“What a line,” said the Eighteenth Duke — “a chanting heart, unconstrained, and a breast full of spring!”
“Sturdy Joint,” said the Duke of Lonely Uprightness, “you know the flavour of poetry so well that you go on chewing at it. Why not start another piece?”
The Eighteenth Duke, for his part, made no demur. “Then I shall begin from the linking character:
In spring no blossoming, in winter no withering; clouds come and mists go, and it is as though there were nothing at all.”
“I too will follow the pattern and link two lines,” said the Master Who Rides the Void: “With no wind at all, a swaying and dancing shadow; with a guest here, a glad affection for the picture of blessing and long life.”
The Elder Who Brushes the Clouds also linked on: A picture like the firm-jointed elder of the Western Hills; clear as the heartless fellow of the Southern Country.
The Duke of Lonely Uprightness also linked on: That fellow, for his slanting leaves, is called beam and ridgepole; the terrace, for its spreading boughs, is made the Censor's Crow.
The elder heard them out and could not stop praising them. “This is truly Bright Spring and White Snow, a great breath rising to the clouds. Your disciple has no talent, but ventures to start two more lines.”
“The holy monk is a man possessed of the Way, a man of great cultivation,” said the Duke of Lonely Uprightness. “There is no need to go on linking lines with us. Be pleased to grant us a whole piece, so that we too may make shift to answer it.”
Tripitaka, having no way out, could only smile and chant a regulated poem:
With staff and ringed crook I have come west to bow before the King of the Dharma;
my wish is to seek the wondrous canon and carry it far abroad.
Golden fungus thrice in flower is an omen upon the altar of poetry;
a jewelled tree of a thousand blooms, and lotus stamens fragrant.
At the top of the hundred-foot pole one must step forward still;
in the worlds of the ten directions, set up your going out and your withdrawing.
Cultivate until the jade image and the majestic body are made;
before the gate of Utmost Bliss lies the place of the Way.
The four old men heard it out and praised it to the skies. “This old dullard has no ability,” said the Eighteenth Duke, “but makes bold to push in ahead and will venture an answering piece of his own.” Saying:
Sturdy Joint, alone and lofty, laughs at the king of trees;
the numinous cedrela has not my renown.
The hills standing empty, a hundred zhàng of dragon-and-serpent shadow;
the springs drawn a thousand years, and the fragrance of amber.
I know how to breed a bearing along with heaven and earth;
and I am glad that wind and rain transform my going out and withdrawing.
Withered and worn, I am ashamed to have no bones of an immortal;
I have only my poria cake to make a field of long life.
“This poem's opening is bold and strong and its linked lines have force,” said the Duke of Lonely Uprightness, “but the closing line carries modesty a great deal too far. Admirable! Admirable! This old dullard will venture an answering piece as well.” Saying:
A frosty bearing, always glad to lodge the king of birds;
before the Hall of Four Perfections a great vessel is displayed.
Dew lying heavy, a pearl-tasselled fringe over the kingfisher canopy;
the wind light, the stone teeth crumbling a cold fragrance.
In the long gallery, the night still, the sound of chanting is thin;
in the old hall, autumn shade, a pale shadow lies hidden.
On the first day of the year, greeting the spring, I have offered long life;
grown old, I lodge my pride out on the hillside.
“A fine poem, a fine poem,” said the Master Who Rides the Void with a smile — “truly it touches the moon's flank and the heart of heaven. How should this old dullard be able to make an answer? But it will not do to let the occasion pass empty; I must string a few words together too.” Saying:
Timber for beam and ridgepole comes close to emperors and kings;
outside the Palace of Grand Purity my name is carried abroad.
By the sunlit casement it is as though a green vapour had come;
along the dark wall a kingfisher fragrance passes as a matter of course.
Stout joints, austere, are the finest thing in a thousand ages;
deep roots, knotted fast, lie hidden at the Nine Springs.
A cloud-topping bearing overshadows all the swaying shadows;
it is not to be found in the field where the flowers are gaudy.
“The poems of the three gentlemen are lofty and refined, clear and plain,” said the Elder Who Brushes the Clouds — “truly a brocade bag opened out. My body has no strength and my belly no talent, but having had the three gentlemen's instruction, the thatch that stopped me is suddenly cleared. Since there is no help for it, I will knock off a few doggerel lines; be so good as not to laugh at them.” The poem:
In the garden at the bend of the Qi I gave joy to a sage king;
on the thousand mu of the Wei I spread as I please.
My kingfisher culm takes no stain from the tears of the Xiang goddesses;
my mottled sheath is fit to carry the fragrance of Han history.
My frosted leaves have never yet changed colour;
and my misted tips — from this day, where should their colour hide?
Since Ziyou left the world, few have understood the note;
through all antiquity my name has stayed in the field of brush and ink.
“The poems of the immortal elders truly spit forth phoenixes and spout pearls,” said Tripitaka; “Ziyou and Zixia themselves could add nothing to them. Such generous affection and lofty feeling — I am moved past expression. But the night is far gone, and there is no knowing where my three young disciples are waiting for me. Your disciple cannot stay long. I make bold to take my leave and go seeking them, and it would be a kindness past all bounds. I hope the aged immortals will show me the road back.”
“Let the holy monk not be anxious,” said the four old men with a smile. “Ours is a meeting such as comes once in a thousand years; the weather besides is clear and fine, and though the night is deep the moon makes it like day. Sit at your ease a while longer. When it grows light we shall of course see you a good way over the ridge, and your worthy disciples will certainly be met with.”
Just as they were talking, outside the stone house there appeared two serving-girls in blue, carrying a pair of crimson gauze lanterns on poles, and leading in behind them an immortal woman. The immortal woman held a sprig of apricot blossom between her fingers, and came in at the door smiling to greet them. And what did she look like? She was made thus:
A green-blue grace got up with kingfisher;
cheeks of cinnabar that outdo rouge.
Star eyes that shine and glance colour besides;
moth brows, fine and evenly matched.
Below, a pale red skirt lined in five-coloured plum;
above, a light sleeveless jacket of fire-within-smoke.
Bow shoes curved to a phoenix beak;
damask stockings, and brocade trailing the ground.
Bewitching and tender as the girl of Tiantai;
not a whit behind the pretty Daji of that former age.
The four old men rose a little from their seats. “What brings the Apricot Immortal here?”
The woman made her curtsey to the company. “Hearing that there were honoured guests exchanging verses here, I have come on purpose to call, and make bold to ask an introduction.”
The Eighteenth Duke pointed at the Tang Monk. “The honoured guest is here. Why trouble to ask an introduction?”
Tripitaka bowed and did not dare to speak.
“Bring tea quickly,” the woman called out. Then two more serving-girls in yellow came with a red lacquered tray, and on the tray were six fine porcelain tea bowls, and in the bowls were several kinds of rare fruit with little spoons laid across them; and one carried a teapot of white iron inlaid with brass, and the fragrant tea in it struck the nostrils. The tea poured, the woman let her spring-onion fingers show a little, and taking up the porcelain bowls presented one first to Tripitaka, then to the four old men, and last took a cup herself to keep them company.
“Why does the Apricot Immortal not sit?” said the Master Who Rides the Void. Only then did the woman go and take a seat.
The tea over, she rose a little in her seat. “The immortal elders have had great pleasure tonight. Might I be instructed in a line or two of the fine verses?”
“Ours are all coarse and rustic words,” said the Elder Who Brushes the Clouds. “Only the holy monk's are true work of the High Tang, greatly to be admired.”
“If you will not begrudge the instruction,” said the woman, “I beg leave to see them.”
The four old men thereupon recited through the elder's earlier poem, his later one, and his discourse on the dharma of Chan. With the spring wind all over her face the woman said to the company, “Your handmaid has no talent and ought not to display her clumsiness. But having heard such fine lines, it seems they should not be let pass for nothing. How would it be if I made shift to offer an answering piece to the later poem?” And she chanted aloud:
Above the canopy my name was left with the King Han Wu;
and in the days of Zhou, Confucius raised his altar and made it known.
Master Dong so loved me that a whole grove grew thick;
and Sun Chu once cherished my fragrance at the Cold Food feast.
Rain moistens my red form, tender and soft;
mist steams my kingfisher colour, now shown and now hidden.
I know myself that over-ripe I turn a little sour;
and where I fall, year after year, I keep the threshing-floor company.
The four old men heard the poem and every one of them offered congratulations. “Pure and elegant and clean out of the dust, and there is spring feeling packed inside the lines. What a line — Rain moistens my red form, tender and soft! Rain moistens my red form, tender and soft!”
The woman answered softly with a smile, “You overwhelm me, you overwhelm me. Just now I heard the holy monk's pieces — truly a heart of brocade and a mouth of embroidery. If he will not begrudge his pearls and jade, how would it be if he granted me one more stanza?”
The Tang Monk did not dare to answer.
The woman began by degrees to show a feeling of fondness. She pressed and edged nearer, drew close to the side of his seat, and in a low soft voice called to him, “Do not be like this, honoured guest. With a night as good as this, what would you have if not a little sport? How much brightness can there be in a life?”
“The Apricot Immortal has every feeling of looking up to you,” said the Eighteenth Duke. “How should the holy monk have no thought of stooping to her? If you show her no tenderness, that is to know nothing of what is fitting.”
“The holy monk is a man of the Way and of reputation,” said the Duke of Lonely Uprightness; “he will certainly not act in any loose fashion. To behave in this way is for us to bring guilt on ourselves. To soil a man's name and spoil his virtue is not the act of the far-seeing. If the Apricot Immortal is truly minded to it, let the Cloud-Brusher and the Eighteenth Duke be go-betweens, and the Master Who Rides the Void and myself stand surety for the match. Make the marriage properly — would that not be excellent?”
Tripitaka heard it, and his colour changed. He sprang up and cried aloud, “You are every one of you monsters of a kind, and this is how you lure me! At the time it was only talk of humble conduct, discoursing on the mystery and on the Way, and that was well enough. How is it that now you use a beauty-trap to cheat and injure a poor monk? What sort of conduct is that?”
Seeing Tripitaka angry, the four old men bit their fingers in alarm, one after another, and said nothing more. But the bare-bodied demon runner flew into a rage like thunder.
“This monk has no idea when he is being honoured. Where is my sister lacking? Her person is handsome and refined, her substance jade and her form tender; never mind her needlework — on this one stretch of poetic talent alone she is a match for you. Why do you refuse like this? Do not let it slip. The Duke of Lonely Uprightness spoke very properly. If it may not be done irregularly, then let me preside over the wedding for you.”
Tripitaka went pale with terror, and however wildly they talked and argued, he simply would not consent.
“You monk,” said the demon runner again, “we have spoken you fair and you will not listen. If we let our coarse country natures out and carry you off again, we shall see to it that you neither keep your monkhood nor get a wife — and would that not be a whole life lived for nothing?”
The elder's heart was like gold and stone; he held firm and would not consent.
He thought to himself, “There is no knowing where my disciples are looking for me!” He said it aloud, and could not keep the tears from falling.
The woman kept smiling at his side, pressed close against him, drew a honey-coloured damask handkerchief from her kingfisher sleeve, and wiped his tears with it. “Let the honoured guest not distress himself. You and I will lean on jade and nestle against fragrance — let us go and play.”
The elder gave one shout of “Tut!” and sprang up to go. But those people pulled and dragged at him, and the clamour went on till daybreak.
Suddenly he heard voices calling over there: “Master! Master! In what quarter are you speaking?”
It turned out that the Great Sage Sun, with Eight Rules and Sha Monk, leading the horse and carrying the load on the pole, had not rested a foot all night, but had gone through bramble and through thorn, seeking east and searching west. They had just got half in cloud and half in mist over the eight hundred lǐ of Bramble Ridge and down its western side when they heard the Tang Monk shout, and at once they called out in answer.
The elder forced his way out of the door and called, “Wukong, I am here! Come quickly and save me, come quickly and save me!”
The four old men and the demon runner, the woman and her serving-girls, gave a flicker and were gone.
In a moment Eight Rules and Sha Monk were both at his side. “Master, how did you come to be here?”
Tripitaka caught hold of Pilgrim. “Disciple! I have put you all to a great deal of trouble. That old man we saw last evening, who spoke of the local god bringing a meal — when you shouted that you would strike him, he simply carried me off to this place. He took me by the hand to steady me and we went in at a door; and there I saw three more old men who had come to meet me, and every one of them called me holy monk. Each of them spoke in a clear and refined way, and they were excellent at making verses. I traded answering poems with them and climbed along with them; and about midnight, as I felt it, I saw besides a beautiful woman carrying a light who also came here to meet me, chanted a poem, and called me honoured guest.
“Seeing my looks, she wanted a match of it, and only then did I understand. And just as I was refusing, some of them were making the match and some standing surety and some presiding at the wedding; and I swore an oath that I would not. I was struggling to break away and go, and quarrelling with them, when unexpectedly you arrived. In the first place it was getting light, and in the second they were afraid of you after all. A moment ago they were still pulling and dragging at me, and then all at once they were gone.”
“Since you talked and made verses with them,” said Pilgrim, “did you never ask their names?”
“I did ask their styles,” said Tripitaka. “That old man is called the Eighteenth Duke, styled Sturdy Joint; the second is styled the Duke of Lonely Uprightness; the third the Master Who Rides the Void; the fourth the Elder Who Brushes the Clouds; and the woman, they called the Apricot Immortal.”
“And where are these creatures?” said Eight Rules. “Which way did they go just now?”
“As for the direction they went, I do not know where,” said Tripitaka; “but the place where we discoursed on poetry is not far from here.”
The three of them went with their master to look at the place, and saw a stone cliff, and on the cliff three characters: Hermitage of the Wood Immortals.
“This is the very place,” said Tripitaka.
Pilgrim looked at it carefully, and it turned out to be a great juniper, an old cypress, an old pine and an old bamboo, with a red maple standing behind the bamboo. Looking again at the other side of the cliff, there were besides an old apricot, two winter plums and two red osmanthus.
“Have you ever seen the monsters?” said Pilgrim with a laugh.
“No,” said Eight Rules.
“You do not know that it is just these few trees that have become spirits here.”
“Elder brother,” said Eight Rules, “how do you know that the things that became spirits are trees?”
“The Eighteenth Duke is the pine,” said Pilgrim; “the Duke of Lonely Uprightness is the cypress; the Master Who Rides the Void is the juniper; the Elder Who Brushes the Clouds is the bamboo stem; the bare-bodied demon is the maple; the Apricot Immortal is the apricot itself; and the serving-girls are the red osmanthus and the winter plum.”
Eight Rules heard it, and without weighing good or ill gave one bout with the muckrake and three or four thrusts of his long snout, rooting and pounding together, and swept the two winter plums, the red osmanthus, the old apricot and the maple all flat to the ground — and sure enough, at the roots of every one of them the fresh blood ran and dripped.
Tripitaka came forward and caught hold of him. “Wuneng, you must not injure them. Though they have come into their powers, they did me no harm. Let us find the road and be off.”
“Master, do not spare them,” said Pilgrim. “If they should become great monsters in days to come, the harm they do will not be small.”
So the Idiot, once and for all, gave another bout with the rake and pounded the pine, the cypress, the juniper and the bamboo all down together; and only then did he ask his master to mount, and they went west along the highroad in company.
And there is no knowing yet how the road ahead may go. Listen to the explanation in the next chapter.