The causes and effects of this chapter urge men toward the good: on no account do evil.
Let a single thought arise and the bright spirits see straight through it, whatever a man goes on to do.
Dull and stupid, or artful and able — which of them, sir, will you study? Either way the medicine is a mind without intent.
While you are alive and the Way is at hand, this is the very time to cultivate it — do not drift.
Know the root and the source; shed the husk you were born in.
Seek out long life; you must lay hold of it.
See clearly hour by hour, and measure out the clarified butter.
Pierce the three passes, fill the black sea, and the good man will surely ride the simurgh and the crane.
Then, pitying the old bonds and more merciful still, he climbs to Utmost Bliss.
The story tells how Tripitaka of Tang held to a single devout thought. Say nothing of the heavenly spirits who guarded him — even the souls of grass and wood came out to see him on his way, kept elegant company for a night, and got him clear of the brambles and thorns, with no more creeping fruit-vines to catch at him.
The four went on westward, and when they had travelled a good while winter waned once more, and it was just those days of spring's three months:
The splendour of things came into concord; the Dipper's handle swung back to yin.
Grass shoots greened the ground from end to end; willow eyes filled the dyke with blue.
A whole ridge of peach blossom, red brocade stained through; half a stream of misted water, kingfisher gauze alight.
How much wind and rain; how boundless the mood.
Sun on the flower hearts burned them bright; swallows carried moss buds, light in the beak.
The mountain's colour, Wang Wei painting in wash and depth; the birdsong, Jizi's tongue running every way.
Fragrance spread its embroidery with no one to admire it; butterflies danced and bees sang, and they at least had feeling.
Master and disciples went looking for the fragrance and treading the green, following the horse's pace at their leisure. As they went, a high mountain suddenly came into view; from far off it looked joined to the sky. Tripitaka raised his whip and pointed. “Wukong, there is no telling how high that mountain is. It looks as though it touches the blue sky and drives right up through the sapphire river.”
“Does the old poem not say,” said Pilgrim, “Only heaven stands above it, and no mountain is level with it? That only says the mountain is extremely high, with nothing to set beside it. How could there be any question of its touching the sky?”
“If it does not touch the sky,” said Eight Rules, “then why is Mount Kunlun called the Pillar of Heaven?”
“You do not understand,” said Pilgrim. “From of old it has been said, Heaven is not full in the northwest. Mount Kunlun stands in the northwest, at the Qian position, and so it carries the sense of propping up heaven and filling the void — hence the name Pillar of Heaven.”
Sha Monk laughed. “Elder brother, do not give him that fine bit of talk. He will carry it off and use it to put somebody else down. Let us get on with the road. Once we have climbed that mountain we shall know its height.”
The idiot went chasing after Sha Monk, the two of them larking and scuffling as they walked, while the old master's horse went quick as flight. In a moment they had reached the foot of the cliff and were working their way up it step by step. And this was the mountain:
Wind soughing in the woods; water purling at the gully floor.
Crow and sparrow cannot get across it; even an immortal calls it hard.
A thousand cliffs, ten thousand ravines; a hundred million turns, a hundred bends.
Dust rolling on and on, and nobody comes; strange rocks ranked thick, and one never tires of the sight.
Wherever there is a hollow there is cloud, rocking like water; wherever there is ground there is a tree, thick with birdsong.
A deer carries the magic fungus off; a gibbon picks a peach and comes back.
Fox and raccoon dog come and go, springing along the cliff; big deer and river deer pass in and out, romping on the ridge-crest.
Then a tiger's roar to shake the gall; striped leopard and grey wolf barring the road.
Tripitaka of Tang took one look and his heart shook. But Sun the Pilgrim's powers were vast. See him with that gold-banded cudgel: one roar, and wolves, serpents, tigers and leopards were frightened off. He split a road open and led his master straight up the high mountain.
They crossed the ridge-crest, and on the level ground below to the west there was suddenly an auspicious glow lying soft and thick, and coloured mists in confusion, and a range of towers and terraces, halls and pavilions, with bells and stone chimes carrying faintly on the air.
“Disciples,” said Tripitaka, “look — what sort of place is that?”
Pilgrim raised his head, made a shade of his hand, and looked carefully. Over on that side it was a fine place indeed. And it was truly this:
Precious towers, jewelled thrones; a high monastery, a famous ground.
The valley empty, and the earth's pipes many; the precinct still, and heaven's incense scattering.
Green pines carrying rain screen the high pavilion; kingfisher bamboo holding cloud guards the preaching hall.
Rose light faint and drifting, and a dragon palace shows; colours blowing loose, and the sand-grain worlds stretch long.
Vermilion railings, jade doors; painted ridgepoles, carved beams.
Sutra-talk, and incense fills the seats; register-talk, and the moon faces the window.
Birds cry within the cinnabar trees; cranes drink beside the stone spring.
On four sides flowers open, the jade garden lovely; on three sides gates stand wide, the light of Śrāvastī.
Towers and terraces jutting up, the gate facing a screen of peaks; bells and chimes unhurried, the sound running long.
Windows open, and the wind fine; blinds rolled, and the haze wide.
There are monks, and their manner is easy and unhurried; there is nothing of the world, and the mood is harmonious and flourishing.
Red dust does not reach this true immortal realm; a quiet land, a temple foundation, a fine place of the Way.
Pilgrim finished looking and reported back. “Master, that place is a monastery right enough, but I cannot tell why there should be a breath of malice in among all that meditation-light and auspicious haze. Looking at the aspect of it, it is like Thunderclap — and yet the road is out of true. When we get over there we must on no account walk in uninvited. I am afraid of a treacherous hand.”
“If it has the look of Thunderclap,” said the Tang Monk, “can it not be Vulture Peak itself? Do not spoil my sincerity or hold up the purpose I came for.”
“It is not. It is not,” said Pilgrim. “I have gone the road to Vulture Peak several times myself. How could this be that road?”
“Even if it is not,” said Eight Rules, “there must be good people living there.”
“No need for all this doubting,” said Sha Monk. “The road cannot help passing that gateway, and one look will tell us whether it is or not.”
“Wujing speaks sense,” said Pilgrim.
The elder whipped his horse forward, and at the front of the mountain gate he saw three great characters reading Thunderclap Monastery. It so alarmed him that he tumbled off the horse and lay flat on the ground, cursing as he went down. “You wretched ape! You have been the death of me! It is Thunderclap Monastery, plain in front of us, and you were still fooling me!”
Pilgrim said with a placating laugh, “Master, do not be angry. Look again. There are four characters over the gate. How is it you read out only three, and then blame me for it?”
The elder got up trembling and looked again, and there were indeed four characters: Lesser Thunderclap Monastery.
“Even if it is the Lesser Thunderclap Monastery,” said Tripitaka, “there is bound to be a Buddha inside. The scriptures speak of three thousand Buddhas, and I suppose they are not all in one quarter — as Guanyin is at the Southern Sea, Samantabhadra on Emei, and Mañjuśrī on Wutai. There is no telling which Buddha's place of practice this may be. The ancients said: where there is a Buddha there are scriptures; where there is no such quarter there is no treasure. Let us go in.”
“We must not go in,” said Pilgrim. “There is little luck about this place and much harm. If disaster comes of it, do not blame me.”
“Even if there is no Buddha,” said Tripitaka, “there is bound to be a Buddha image. It is this disciple's own vow: where I meet a Buddha I bow to a Buddha. How should I blame you?”
He had Eight Rules fetch out the cassock at once, changed his monk's cap, put his vestments in order, and stepped forward. And a voice was heard calling from inside the mountain gate: “Tang Monk! You have come from the Land of the East to pay your respects to our Buddha — why are you still so slow about it?”
Tripitaka heard it and went straight down; Eight Rules knocked his head on the ground too, and Sha Monk went down on his knees. Only the Great Sage stayed at the back, holding the horse and seeing to the luggage.
They had barely got inside the second gate when the great hall of the Tathāgata came into view. Outside the hall door, below the jewelled terrace, were ranged five hundred arhats, three thousand guardians, four vajra-kings, eight bodhisattvas, nuns and laymen, and holy monks and adepts beyond counting. Truly the incense and flowers were gorgeous and the auspicious vapours thick. In his fluster the elder, with Eight Rules and Sha Monk, bowed at every step, bowing his way right up to the numinous terrace.
Pilgrim openly did not bow.
Then from the lotus seat a harsh voice was heard calling loudly: “You there, Sun Wukong! You have seen the Tathāgata — why do you not bow?”
What it did not know was that Pilgrim had been looking carefully again and had seen it was a fraud. He dropped the horse and the packs, snatched out his cudgel and shouted: “You pack of vicious beasts! Bold indeed — how dare you lean on a Buddha's name and ruin the Tathāgata's pure repute? Do not run!” He swung the cudgel with both hands and went forward to strike.
There came a clang from the middle air, and a pair of golden cymbals was flung down, closing over Pilgrim from head to foot and shutting him inside them. Pig Eight Rules and Sha the Monk in their alarm hurriedly got the rake and the staff going, and the arhats, guardians, holy monks and adepts came crowding in around them all at once. The two of them were caught unready and both were taken. Tripitaka was seized. All of them together were wound with cord and bound with rope, tied tight and made fast.
It turned out that the one got up as a Buddha on the lotus seat was a demon king, and the arhats and the rest were all minor fiends. So he put away the Buddha's bodily likeness and showed his demon shape as before. The three were carried off to the back and stowed away, and Pilgrim was left shut inside the golden cymbals, never to be opened, set down on the jewelled terrace, and given three days and nights to turn to pus and blood. Once he had melted, they would put the other three in an iron cage and steam them for their own eating. And this was just it:
The green-eyed ape knew the false from the true; the meditating mind saw an image and bowed to a golden body.
The Yellow Dame, blind, joined in the worship; Mother Wood, foolish of heart, joined in the talk.
The wicked monster grew violent and bullied the original nature; the demon chief nursed his malice and cheated gods and men.
Truly, where the Way is small the demon is great; enter by a side gate and you throw your body away for nothing.
At that the crowd of fiends stowed the Tang Monk and the three of them away at the back; tethered the horse behind; and put his cassock and monk's cap into the luggage-pack, and stowed those away too. On that side all was kept close, and no more of it.
Now Pilgrim, shut inside the golden cymbals, was in pitch darkness, so parched that he was running with sweat all over. He shoved left and butted right and could not get out. In desperation he laid about him with the iron cudgel, but there was no hope of shifting the thing a hair's breadth. He was at the end of his devices. He gave one heave outward, meaning to burst the cymbals apart; then he made a sign and grew a thousand zhàng and more in height — but the cymbals grew with his body, and there was not the smallest flaw or seam to let light through. Then he made another sign and shrank himself downward, small as a mustard seed; and the cymbals shrank with him, and there was not the least little opening.
So he took the iron cudgel, blew a magic breath on it, and cried, “Change!” It turned at once into something like a banner-pole and propped the cymbals apart. Then he took the hairs at the back of his head, picked out two of the long ones and pulled them free, and cried, “Change!” They turned into a five-petalled plum-blossom-headed drill. Pressing it close along the cudgel he bored a thousand times and more, and all the boring got him was a hard ringing: it would not bite in at all.
Pilgrim was desperate now. He made a sign and recited a spell — Oṃ lán, still the dharma realm; Qián: origin, success, benefit, constancy — and it fetched up the Guardians of the Five Quarters, the Six Dings and Six Jias, and the eighteen protectors of the faith, who all spoke from outside the cymbals: “Great Sage, every one of us is guarding your master and keeping the demons from harming him. What have you called us up for?”
“That master of mine would not listen when I tried to talk him round,” said Pilgrim. “If they kill him it will be no more than he deserves. But look — how quickly can you work something to prise these cymbals open and let me out? Then we can see about dealing with it. No light gets in here and I am parched all over. Am I not going to be stifled to death?”
The gods did indeed try to prise the cymbals up, but it was as if the thing had grown that way, and there was no hope of lifting it a hair's breadth. “Great Sage,” said the Gold-headed Guardian, “there is no telling what sort of treasure these cymbals are. Top and bottom together, they have closed into one piece. Your minor deities are weak and cannot shift them.”
“I have been in here using I do not know how many transformations,” said Pilgrim, “and I cannot move it either.”
When the Guardian heard this he set the Six Ding gods to protect the Tang Monk, the Six Jia gods to keep watch over the golden cymbals, and the protectors of the faith to patrol front and back. Then he sprang up on an auspicious light and in a moment came bursting in at the Southern Gate of Heaven. Without waiting to be summoned he went straight up beneath the Divine Mists Treasure Hall, saw the Jade Emperor, prostrated himself and reported: “Lord, your servant is the Guardian Envoy of the Five Quarters. Now the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, escorting the Tang Monk to fetch the scriptures, came on a mountain along the road with a place upon it called the Lesser Thunderclap Monastery. The Tang Monk mistook it for Vulture Peak and went in to worship. It turns out to have been set up falsely by demons, who have trapped master and disciples and shut the Great Sage inside a pair of golden cymbals with no way forward or back. He looks like death. I have come expressly to report it.”
An edict went out at once: “Send the star-lords of the twenty-eight lunar mansions to go quickly, relieve the distress and subdue the demons.”
The star lords dared not delay in the least. They went out at the Gate of Heaven with the Guardian, and by the time they were inside the mountain gate it was about the second watch. The demons great and small, having taken the Tang Monk, had all had their rewards from the old fiend and gone off to sleep. The star lords made no disturbance at all. They came right up outside the cymbals and reported: “Great Sage, we are the twenty-eight lunar mansions, dispatched here by the Jade Emperor to rescue you.”
Pilgrim was delighted to hear it and directed them: “Bring your weapons to bear and smash it open, and old Sun will be out.”
“We dare not strike it,” said the star lords. “This thing is a treasure of solid gold. Strike it and it will ring; when it rings it will rouse the demons; and then getting you out will be hard. Let us try prising at it with our weapons instead. The moment you see any light in there, get out.”
“Just so,” said Pilgrim.
See them at it — the spearmen with their spears, the swordsmen with their swords, the knifemen with their knives, the axemen with their axes; heaving, hoisting, prising, scraping. They worked at it until it was about the third watch, and it never stirred: it was as though the thing had been cast whole. Inside, Pilgrim peered east and looked west, crawled this way and rolled that, and there was no hope of seeing the least gleam of light.
“Great Sage,” said the Metal Dragon of Kang, “do not fret. Looking at this treasure, it must be a thing that answers to the will, and it can certainly transform. You in there — feel along the seam with your hand, and wait until I have worked the tip of my horn in. Then change yourself and slip out where it gives.”
Pilgrim did as he was told and groped about inside in earnest. The star lord made his body small, until the tip of his horn was like the point of a needle, and worked it in along the mouth of the cymbals' seam. It cost him, poor creature, a whole thousand catties of strength before he could pierce through to the inside. Then he worked a spell on his own body and on the horn together, and called: “Grow! Grow! Grow!” And the horn grew to about the thickness of a bowl.
But the lip of the cymbals was not like cast metal at all — more like something grown of skin and flesh. It closed along the Metal Dragon's horn and held it fast in its mouth, and all round there was not a thread of a gap to pull at. Pilgrim felt along the horn and called out, “This is no good. There is not a hair's slack anywhere, above or below. There is nothing for it. Bear a little pain and carry me out with you.”
Fine Great Sage! He turned the gold-banded cudgel into a steel drill on the spot, bored a hole in the tip of the horn, changed his body to the size of a mustard seed, burrowed into the drilled hole and crouched there, calling: “Pull the horn out! Pull the horn out!” The star lord spent who knows how much more strength before he got it free, and it left him with his strength spent and his sinews slack, and he collapsed on the ground.
Pilgrim came out of the drilled hole in the tip of the horn, showed his own shape again, snatched out the iron cudgel and struck at the cymbals with a clang — like a copper mountain toppling, like a gold seam cracked open. A pity, to take a vessel of the Buddha's house and beat it into a thousand loose scraps of gold. It so startled the twenty-eight mansions that they scattered, and the Guardians of the Five Quarters that their hair stood on end, and every demon great and small woke out of sleep.
The old demon king started up in a fright out of his sleep, threw on his clothes, beat the drum, mustered the demons and had them take their weapons. By now it was near daybreak. They came crowding down to the jewelled terrace, and there was Sun the Pilgrim with the ranked mansions standing round the smashed cymbals. The colour went out of their faces. He gave the order at once: “You there, my lads! Shut the front gate tight and let nobody out.”
Pilgrim heard him, took the star host with him, and sprang up on a cloud into the ninth heaven. The demon king gathered up the broken gold, drew out his troops and ranged them outside the mountain gate. Nursing his grudge and with nothing else for it, he put on his armour, took up a short pliant wolf-tooth cudgel, came out of his lines and shouted: “Sun the Pilgrim! A good man does not run far and fly high. Come forward and give me three bouts.”
Pilgrim could not bear it. He brought the star host down on their clouds and had a look at what sort of thing this demon was. And they saw him:
Hair in a tangle, bound with a flat thin gold fillet; eyes bared, and above them two yellow brows bristling up in a clump.
A nose like a hanging gallbladder, the nostrils open and splayed; a square mouth, the teeth sharp and keen.
He wore a suit of chain-linked mail buckled at the joins, and a raw-silk sash cinched round with gathered tassels.
On his feet a pair of felted boots, in his hand a single wolf-tooth cudgel.
This shape was like a beast and not a beast's; this face was no man's and yet a man's.
Pilgrim levelled the iron cudgel and shouted: “What sort of monster are you, that you dare get yourself up as a Buddha, seize a mountain top and set up a false Lesser Thunderclap Monastery?”
“This ape does not know my name,” said the demon king, “and that is why he comes to offend against a holy mountain. This place is called the Lesser Western Heaven. Because I cultivated myself and attained the true fruit, Heaven bestowed these precious halls and towers on me. My name is the Old Buddha Yellow Brow. The people here do not know it and simply call me the Great King Yellow Brow, or Grandfather Yellow Brow. I have long known that you were going west and that you have some skill, so I set up the images and showed my powers to draw your master in, meaning to make a wager with you. If you can beat me, I shall spare you and your master and let you all attain the true fruit; and if you cannot, I shall beat the lot of you to death, and go myself to see the Tathāgata and fetch the scriptures, and take the true fruit in the Middle Land.”
Pilgrim laughed. “Demon, no need for big talk. If you want a wager, come up and take a taste of my cudgel.”
The demon king, delighted, brought his wolf-tooth cudgel up to meet it. And this was a fine fight:
Two cudgels, and not alike; set it out and each has its own shape — one short and pliant, a weapon of the Buddha's house; one hard, the treasure stored in the sea.
Each has the power to change at its owner's will, and this time they have met to see which is the stronger.
The short pliant wolf-tooth, gaudy in mixed brocade; the hard gold-banded one, in the likeness of a river dragon.
Thick or slender as you please, it is a thing to boast of; short as you want or long as you want, and always just right.
Ape and demon, joined in battle, and this bout was no idle boast.
The tamed ape, holding to the teaching, plays the mind-monkey; the rascal monster, cheating Heaven, works a false likeness.
Angry and angry, spiteful and spiteful, neither with any feeling; wicked and wicked, savage and savage, and both of them with a style of it.
That one, striking straight down with the hand raised, would not slacken; this one, throwing up a guard full in the face, would not give ground.
Blown cloud dulled the sun; spat mist hid the peaks.
Cudgel came and cudgel went, the two of them meeting; and both forgot life and forgot death — because of Tripitaka.
See the two of them go fifty bouts, with nothing to choose between them. At the mountain gate they beat the gong and rolled the drum, and the demons raised a shout and waved their flags. On this side the heavenly troops of the twenty-eight mansions together with the holy Guardians of the Five Quarters shouldered their weapons, gave one shout, and ringed the demon chief about — which so frightened the demons outside the mountain gate that they could not manage the drum, and their hands shook too much to strike the gong.
The old demon was openly unafraid. With one hand he worked the wolf-tooth cudgel and fended off the whole company; and with the other he loosed from his waist an old white cloth bag, tossed it up, and with one slithering ring it took the Great Sage, the twenty-eight mansions and the Guardians of the Five Quarters all together into the bag, and he slung it on his shoulder and swung round on his heel. The lesser demons went back in delight, every one of them, as victors.
The old demon had his lads fetch thirty or fifty hemp ropes, opened the bag, and took them out one at a time and bound them one at a time. Every one of them had gone soft in the bone and numb in the sinew, with the skin sunk and wrinkled. Bound, they were carried off to the back, and without sorting the good from the bad they were all thrown down on the ground. The demon king then ordered a banquet set out and drank his fill, and they did not break up until dusk, when each went off to his sleeping quarters — and no more of that.
Now Sun the Great Sage and the gods lay bound until the middle of the night, when suddenly there came a sound of weeping. He turned an ear to listen, and it was Tripitaka's voice after all, crying: “Wukong! I —”
I hate myself for not listening to him then, which has brought me to this day's calamity and peril.
Inside the golden cymbals you were hurt; bound with hemp rope, who knows of me?
Four of us met this by the bitterness of our fate, and three thousand meritorious acts are all thrown down.
By what means shall this floundering calamity be undone, so that we may go west by an open road and come back again?
Pilgrim heard it and said to himself in pity: “That master of mine would not listen to me and has come to this harm for it; but in the middle of his calamity he still has a thought to spare for old Sun. While the night is quiet and the demons asleep and nobody on guard, let me go and get the rest of them loose and away with their lives.”
Fine Great Sage! He worked an escaping spell, made his body small, slipped out of the ropes, went over to where the Tang Monk lay and called softly, “Master.” The elder knew the voice. “How do you come to be here?”
Pilgrim told him quietly, once through, everything that had gone before. The elder was delighted. “Disciple, hurry and get me out of this. From now on I leave everything to your handling. I shall not be headstrong again.”
Only then did Pilgrim set to work: he loosed his master first, then let Eight Rules and Sha Monk go. Then he loosed the twenty-eight mansions and the Guardians of the Five Quarters, every one of them. Then he brought the horse over and told them to get out quickly and ahead of him. They had just got out of the door when it turned out nobody knew where the luggage was, so back he came to look for it.
“You do think a great deal more of goods than of people,” said the Metal Dragon of Kang. “You have got your master out, and that should be enough. What do you want with luggage now?”
“People matter, certainly,” said Pilgrim, “but the robe and the bowl matter more. In that bundle are the travel rescript, the brocade cassock and the purple-gold almsbowl — all of them treasures of the Buddha's house. How could we do without them?”
“Elder brother,” said Eight Rules, “you go and look for it. We will go on ahead and wait for you on the road.”
See the star host close about the Tang Monk, work a spell of carrying, put their powers together, and in one gust of wind lift him out over the wall — away to the highroad, down the slope, and there they camped on the level to wait.
It was about the third watch. Sun the Great Sage shifted his weight lightly and stepped slowly, went in, and found the doors shut fast layer upon layer. He climbed the high tower and looked, and every window and casement was shut. He meant to go down, and then was afraid the window lattice would creak, so he did not dare push at it. He made a sign, shook himself, and changed into an immortal rat — the common name is a bat. And what did he look like?
Head pointed like a rat's, eyes bright the same way.
Having wings, it comes out at dusk; wanting light, it stays in by day.
It hides its body through a hole in the tiles and hunts its food by striking at gnats.
It likes a clear bright moon above all, and in its flying it knows the hour best of anything.
He followed the line of an unsealed tile-gap under the rafters, bored his way in, crossed door after door, and when he had got to the middle and looked, there below the window of the third storey was one glittering thread of light — and it was not lamplight or candlelight or the light of fireflies, nor the light of flying cloud or of lightning. Half flying and half hopping, he got up close to the window and looked, and it was the bundle giving off the light.
The demon had stripped the Tang Monk's cassock off, had not folded it, and had simply stuffed it anyhow into the bundle. That cassock is by nature a treasure of the Buddha: set on it are a wish-granting pearl, a maṇi jewel, red agate, purple coral, a relic bead and a night-shining pearl — which is why the brightness comes through.
At the sight of the robe and bowl his heart lifted. He showed his own shape again, took the thing up, and without troubling whether the carrying-rope sat straight he swung it onto his shoulder and started down. Unexpectedly one end came loose, and down it went flat on the floorboards with a clattering crash.
Alas! And this is how it fell out: the old demon happened to be sleeping directly below, and the crash woke him. He sprang up shouting wildly, “There's somebody! There's somebody!” The demons great and small all got up, struck lights and lit lamps, raised a shout together, and went to look front and back.
One came and reported, “The Tang Monk has gone.” Another came and reported, “Pilgrim and the rest have all gone.” The old demon hurriedly gave the word: “Watch every gate.” Pilgrim heard it, and fearing he would be caught in the net again he gave up carrying the bundle on a pole, turned a somersault, and was out of the tower window and away.
The demon hunted front and back and could not find the Tang Monk or the rest; and seeing that the sky was getting light he took up his cudgel, led his host out in pursuit, and saw the twenty-eight mansions and the Guardians of the Five Quarters with cloud and mist boiling about them, camped below the mountain slope. The demon king gave a shout: “Where do you think you are going? Here I am!”
Horn Wood Dragon called out urgently, “Brothers! The monster is coming.”
Neck Metal Dragon, Base Earth Bat, Room Sun Hare, Heart Moon Fox, Tail Fire Tiger, Winnower Water Leopard, Dipper Wood Xiè, Ox Metal Ox, Woman Earth Raccoon-dog, Void Sun Rat, Rooftop Moon Swallow, House Fire Pig, Wall Water Yǔ, Straddler Wood Wolf, Bond Metal Dog, Stomach Earth Boar, Mane Sun Cock, Net Moon Crow, Turtlebeak Fire Monkey, Triaster Water Ape, Well Wood Àn, Ghost Metal Ram, Willow Earth Muntjac, Star Sun Horse, Net Moon Deer, Wing Fire Snake, Chariot Water Earthworm — leading the Gold-headed Guardian, the Silver-headed Guardian, the Six Jia and Six Ding and the rest, and the protectors of the faith, together with Eight Rules and Sha Monk (they did not bring the Tang Monk, and they had left the white dragon horse behind), each with his weapon in hand, all rushed forward together.
The demon king saw them, laughed a cold ha-ha, gave one whistle, and four or five thousand demons great and small, every one of them formidable and strong, joined in a general battle on the western slope. A fine fight:
The demon chief, rank and wicked, bullies the true nature; the true nature, warm and yielding, can do nothing with the demon.
A hundred schemes put in action, and hard to escape the suffering; a thousand clever devices, and no reconciling it.
The devas come to guard; the assembled saints lend their arms.
Mercy owed to Mother Wood; steadiness felt by the Yellow Dame.
A general battle startling heaven and shaking earth; a hard contest of set nets and spread snares.
On that side they wave the flags and raise a shout; on this side they beat the drum and bang the gong.
Spears and knives thick together, cold light rocking; swords and halberds in confusion, and the killing air heavy.
The demon troops are savage and brave besides; what are the heavenly soldiers to do?
Sorrowing cloud covers sun and moon; grim mist blankets hill and river.
Bitterly they brace and bitterly they haul, and come to blows — and all of it because Tripitaka bowed to a Buddha.
The demon grew twice as fierce and led his host forward to fall on them. Just at the point when there was no telling who had the better of it, they heard Pilgrim's shout: “Old Sun has come!”
Eight Rules met him with, “What about the luggage?”
“Old Sun barely got out with his life,” said Pilgrim, “and you talk to me about luggage!”
Sha Monk, gripping his precious staff, said, “Never mind the talk — get on and fight the demons.”
The mansions, the Guardians, the Ding and Jia gods and the rest were ringed about by the demon host and fought in the thick of it, and the old demon came at the three of them with his cudgel. Pilgrim, Eight Rules and Sha Monk opened out with cudgel and staff, swung the muckrake and held him off. Truly the earth went dark and the sky dim, and neither could win. They fought until the sun sank in the west behind the root of the hills and the moon rose in the east over the sea-peaks.
The demon saw that it was late, gave a whistle, told his host to look sharp and brought out his treasure. Sun the Pilgrim saw it clearly: the monster loosed the bag from his waist and took it in his hand. Pilgrim called out, “This is bad — run!” Then, unable to trouble himself about Eight Rules, Sha Monk or the host of devas, he went up in a somersault straight into the ninth heaven. The gods, Eight Rules and Sha Monk did not take his meaning; the thing was thrown up over them and they were all packed inside again — only Pilgrim got away.
The demon king called in his troops and went back to the monastery, had the ropes fetched out again, and had them bound as before. The Tang Monk, Eight Rules and Sha Monk were strung up high from the beams, the white horse was tethered behind, and the gods were all bound and carried into a cellar, and the lid locked down over them. The demons did as they were told, stowed them one by one, and no more of that.
Now Sun the Pilgrim, having leapt into the ninth heaven, had kept his life whole. He saw the demon troops going back without their flags flying, and knew at once that the rest had been taken. He brought his auspicious light down and landed on the top of the eastern hill — gritting his teeth in hatred of the monster, dropping tears at the thought of the Tang Monk, lifting his face to look at the sky, and suddenly losing his voice in grief. He called out: “Master! In which former life did you lay up this floundering calamity, that in this one you meet a demon at every step? Suffering like this and no escaping it — what is to be done?”
Alone by himself, sighing a long while, he settled his spirit and thought again, questioning his own heart: “There is no telling what sort of bag this demon has, that it packs away so many things like that. And now the gods of heaven and the generals of heaven, a great many of them, have been packed in there too. I mean to ask heaven for help, but I am afraid the Jade Emperor will take it amiss. I remember there is the True Warrior of the North, styled the Demon-Quelling Heavenly Honoured One, and he is at present on Mount Wudang in the Southern Jambūdvīpa Continent. Let me go and ask him to come and deliver my master out of this calamity.”
And it was just this:
The immortal Way not yet achieved, the ape and the horse are scattered; the heart-spirit without a master, the five phases wither.
There is no knowing, in the end, how this journey will really turn out; listen to the next chapter, and it will be explained.