We tell now how the Great Sage Sun, steadying the Tang Monk, hurried with Eight Rules and Sha Monk up onto the highroad and pressed straight on westward. Before half a while had passed they came of a sudden on a place where towers rose tier upon tier and halls stood up in majesty.
The Tang Monk reined in his horse. “Disciples,” he said, “look there — what sort of place is that?”
Pilgrim raised his head to look, and all at once he saw:
Hills ring the towers; a stream winds round the terrace.
Before the gate mixed trees stand thick and dark; beyond the walls wild flowers breathe rich and bright.
White egrets roost among the willows, for all the world like flawless jade in mist;
Yellow orioles warble within the peach trees — gold, rather, that keeps its colour in the fire.
Wild deer, two by two, tread the green sedge at their ease, all care forgotten;
Mountain birds, pair by pair, call to one another in flight, high in the red treetops.
Truly this is the Tiantai grotto of Liu and Ruan; no less, indeed, than the immortals' home at Langyuan.
“Master,” Pilgrim reported back, “that place is no nobleman's mansion, nor is it some rich family's house. It looks more like a convent or an abbey, a religious house of one sort or another. We shall know for certain when we get there.”
At these words Tripitaka laid on the whip and urged his horse forward. Master and disciples came up to the gate and looked. Set into it was a slab of stone, and on the slab three characters: Yellow Flower Abbey.
Tripitaka dismounted. “A Yellow Flower Abbey is a Daoist's house,” said Eight Rules. “It would do no harm to step in and pay the man a call. His cap and gown are not ours, but the practice is the same.”
“Well said,” agreed Sha Monk. “For one thing, we go in and see the sights; for another, it will do to get the animals unloaded. And if it is convenient, they can set out a little vegetarian food for our master.”
The elder took their advice, and the four of them went in together. There on the inner gate they saw a pair of spring couplets:
Yellow sprout and white snow, a mansion of immortals;
Jasper grass and jade blossom, the house of a feathered adept.
Pilgrim laughed. “This is one of your thatch-burning, drug-cooking Daoists — the sort who fiddles with a stove and lugs a pot about.”
Tripitaka gave him a pinch. “Mind your tongue. Mind your tongue. We are not acquainted with the man, and we are no kin of his. Either way it is a short call — what business is he of ours?”
Before he had finished speaking they were through the inner gate, and there they saw the main hall shut fast, and under the eastern gallery a Daoist sitting rolling pills. Look how he was got up:
On his head, a blazing red cap inlaid with gold; on his body, a robe of deepest black; on his feet, a pair of cloud-toed shoes in vivid green; at his waist, a streaming yellow Lü Gong sash.
A face like a melon cast in iron, eyes like bright stars.
The bridge of his nose high and large, in the manner of a Hui; his lips turned out and open, like a Tatar's.
One whole expanse of Daoist heart with thunder hidden rolling inside it — a true feathered adept, tamer of tigers and subduer of dragons.
Tripitaka saw him and called out in a loud voice, “Venerable Immortal! This poor monk pays his respects.”
The Daoist jerked his head up, and the sight of them gave him a start. He dropped the pill in his hand, pressed his hairpin straight, smoothed down his robe, and came down the steps to meet them. “Venerable Master! Forgive me for not coming out to you. Please step inside and be seated.”
The elder went up into the hall, well pleased. They pushed the door open and saw the holy images of the Three Pure Ones, and on the altar table a censer and incense. At once he took up incense, set it in the censer, made three circuits of obeisance, and only then exchanged bows with the Daoist. Then he went through to the guest seats and sat down with his disciples, while the Daoist called hurriedly for the immortal lads to bring tea.
There were two young lads on hand, and in they went to the back — hunting out the tea tray, washing the cups, wiping the spoons, laying out the sweetmeats — bustling about in such a hurry that they roused those several old enemies.
Now as it happened, the seven women-monsters of Gossamer Cave and this Daoist had learned their arts in the same hall. Ever since they had put their old clothes back on and called out their sons, they had come straight here. They were at the back cutting out clothes when they suddenly caught sight of the lad fetching tea, and asked, “Boy — what guests have arrived, that you are in such a scramble?”
“Four monks came in just now,” said the lad, “and the master told me to serve tea.”
“Was there a fat white monk?” asked the woman-monster.
“There was.”
“And one with a long snout and big ears?”
“There was.”
“Go and hand the tea round, quickly,” she said, “and throw your master a look. Have him come in here — I have something urgent to say to him.”
Sure enough, the lad carried out five cups of tea. The Daoist drew his robe together, took up a cup in both hands and presented it to Tripitaka, and after that to Eight Rules, Sha Monk and Pilgrim. The tea done, the cups were cleared. The lad threw him a look, and the Daoist half rose from his seat. “Gentlemen, please keep your places.” He told the boy, “Set down the tea tray and keep our guests company. I shall just step out and be back directly.”
At this the elder and his disciples, with the one young lad, went out onto the hall to look about — of which no more for now.
The Daoist walked into the abbot's chamber, and there he found seven women all kneeling together. “Elder brother! Elder brother!” they cried. “Hear one word from your little sisters.”
The Daoist put out a hand to raise them up. “When you came this morning you had something to say to me. As it happened I was rolling pills today, and this particular drug must not be seen by women — which is why I gave you no answer. And now there are guests outside as well. If you have something to say, let it keep and we shall talk at leisure.”
“We beg to report, elder brother,” said the monsters. “This business is entirely on account of the guests' arrival; only now do we dare tell it. If the guests go, then telling you will be no use at all.”
The Daoist laughed. “Listen to my worthy sisters talk! Why should it be only because guests have come that you will speak? Have you gone quite mad? Never mind that I am one of those who cultivate immortality in quiet and purity — even an ordinary layman, with a wife and children, old and young, and household business to attend to, would wait until his guests had gone before dealing with it. How can you be so ill-mannered, making a public show of me? Now let me get out there.”
The monsters all took hold of him at once. “Elder brother, curb your anger. Let us just ask you — those guests out in front, where have they come from?”
The Daoist pulled a sour face and made no answer.
“Just now the boy came in for the tea,” said the monsters, “and we heard him say they were four monks.”
“And what if they are monks?” said the Daoist crossly.
“Four monks, and among them one with a pale fat face, and one with a long snout and big ears. Elder brother, did you ever ask them where they had come from?”
“There are indeed those two among them,” said the Daoist. “How do you know? You must have seen them somewhere?”
“Elder brother,” said the women, “you do not know the ins and outs of this. Those monks were sent by the Tang court to fetch the scriptures in the West. This morning they came to our cave to beg a meal, and the truth is your little sisters had heard the Tang Monk's name and took him.”
“And what did you take him for?” said the Daoist.
“We have long heard it said that the Tang Monk is the true body of ten lifetimes of cultivation, and that anyone who eats a single piece of his flesh will lengthen his years and live long. That is why we took him. Then that monk with the long snout and the big ears cornered us in the Filth-Cleansing Spring — first he made off with our clothes, then he showed off his arts and forced his way into bathing with us, and we could not stop him.
“He jumped into the water, turned himself into a catfish, and went darting in and out between our legs, meaning to work some lewd trick on us. The creature is shameless through and through. Then he sprang out of the water and showed his own shape again; and when he saw we would not give in to him, he took up a nine-toothed muckrake and made to take our lives.
“If we had not had some wits about us we should have died at his hands, and so we fled, trembling, for our lives. We also sent your foolish nephews to fight him, and we do not know whether they are alive or dead. We have come expressly to throw ourselves on you, elder brother, and we hope that for the sake of our old fellowship at the same window you will be the one to avenge us today.”
Hearing this, the Daoist was seized with anger and resentment, and his voice and face changed. “So the monk is as ill-mannered as that — as shameless as that. Set your minds at rest, all of you. Leave me to deal with him.”
The women thanked him. “Elder brother, if you go to it, let us all come and help you beat him.”
“No need to strike him,” said the Daoist. “No need to strike him. As the common saying has it: strike a blow and you sink three parts. Come with me, all of you.”
The women followed close on either side of him. He went into a room, fetched a ladder, passed round behind the bed, climbed to the roof-beam and brought down a small leather box. The box stood some eight cùn high, a chǐ or so long and four cùn across, with a small brass lock fastening it. From his sleeve he at once drew a square of goose-yellow silk handkerchief, and tied to its fringe was a small key. He opened the lock and brought out a packet of medicine. And this medicine was:
Droppings of a hundred birds out of the hills, swept up and heaped to a thousand catties.
Boiled up then in a copper pot, decocted at an even heat.
A thousand catties boiled down to a single ladle; one ladle refined to three fēn.
Three fēn must then be fried, calcined again and smoked again.
So is this poison made, precious as treasure and gem.
And should you taste the savour of it, it enters the mouth and you meet King Yama.
“Sisters,” said the Daoist to the seven women, “this treasure of mine — give it to an ordinary man and one lí is all it takes; it reaches the belly and he is dead. Give it to an immortal and three lí will finish him. These monks, I dare say, have some attainment of their own, so three lí will be wanted. Fetch the scales, quickly.”
One of the women snatched up a steelyard. “Weigh out one fēn two lí,” she said, “and divide it into four portions.”
Then he took twelve red dates, pinched each one a little open, stuffed in a lí apiece, and shared them out among four tea cups; and with two black dates he made up another cup, set the whole lot out on a tray, and said to the women, “Let me go and question them. If they are not from the Tang, we let it be; but if they are from the Tang, I shall call for the tea to be changed, and you are to have the boys carry this tea out. One drink and every one of them dies, your grievance is avenged and your vexation resolved.”
The seven women were grateful beyond measure.
The Daoist changed his gown, all ceremony and humility, and went out to invite the Tang Monk and the others back to the guest seats. “Venerable Master, do not take it amiss. I was just at the back telling my boys to pick a few greens and turnips and set out a vegetarian meal for you, which is why I left you.”
“This poor monk has come to call empty-handed,” said Tripitaka. “How should I presume to trouble you for a meal?”
The Daoist smiled. “You and I are both of us men who have left the household. Wherever we see a temple gate there are three shēng of stipend grain waiting. Why speak of empty hands? May I ask, venerable master — from what precious mountain? And on what business here?”
“This poor monk,” said Tripitaka, “was sent by the Tang court of the Eastern Land to the Great Thunderclap Monastery in the West, to fetch the scriptures. We were just passing your immortal palace and came in with all sincerity to pay our respects.”
At these words the Daoist's whole face bloomed. “Venerable master, you are a Buddha of loyalty and great virtue! This humble Daoist did not know, and failed to come out and meet you at a distance. Forgive me, forgive me.” He called out, “Boy! Go and change the tea, quickly — and get the meal seen to at the same time.”
The boy went in, and the women beckoned him over. “There is good tea ready here,” they said. “Take it out.”
And sure enough, the boy carried out five cups of tea. The Daoist hurriedly took up in both hands a cup with red dates in it and presented it to the Tang Monk. Seeing that Eight Rules had the biggest frame, he took him for the senior disciple; and Sha Monk for the second; and seeing that Pilgrim was small in build, took him for the third. And so it was only the fourth cup that was handed to Pilgrim.
Pilgrim's eye was sharp. He took his cup, and had already seen that the one left on the tray had two black dates in it. “Sir,” he said, “let me swap cups with you.”
The Daoist laughed. “I shall not deceive you, elder — a poor Daoist here in the wild hills is not always stocked with tea-sweets. I was just now at the back looking for fruit myself, and there were only these twelve red dates, enough to make four cups for you. And I could hardly sit with you drinking nothing, so I made up a cup with two inferior dates to keep you company. This is only my humble respect for you.”
Pilgrim laughed. “What kind of talk is that? As the ancients said: at home, is that poverty? It is poverty on the road that kills a man. You are a man with a home. How can you talk of being poor? It is people like us, monks who go on foot, who are the truly poor. Let me swap with you. Let me swap with you.”
Tripitaka heard this and said, “Wukong, the immortal gentleman means it kindly to his guests. Drink it, and have done. What is there to change?”
Pilgrim, having no choice, took the cup in his left hand, covered it with his right, and watched them.
Now Eight Rules was hungry for one thing and thirsty for another, and his gullet was a large one to start with. Seeing three red dates in his cup, he picked them up and swallowed the lot down into his belly at a gulp. His master ate too. Sha Monk ate too.
In a moment Eight Rules's face changed colour, Sha Monk's eyes streamed with tears, and froth came from the Tang Monk's mouth. None of them could stay upright, and they fainted and fell to the ground.
The Great Sage knew at once it was poison. He raised the cup in his hand and hurled it full in the Daoist's face. The Daoist threw up his gown-sleeve to fend it off, and with a clang the cup fell and smashed to powder.
“You monk!” said the Daoist furiously. “What an utter boor! How dare you fling down my cup?”
“You animal!” swore Pilgrim back. “Look at those three of mine — what do you call that? What have I to do with you, that you should drug my people down with poisoned tea?”
“You coarse animal,” said the Daoist, “you have brought this trouble down on yourself. Can you really not know it?”
“We had only just come in at your door,” said Pilgrim. “We had barely settled who sat where and said where we were from. Not one sharp word had passed. What trouble have we blundered into?”
“Did you ever beg a meal at Gossamer Cave?” said the Daoist. “Did you ever bathe at the Filth-Cleansing Spring?”
“The Filth-Cleansing Spring is where those seven women-monsters are,” said Pilgrim. “Since you bring that up, you must have been carrying on with them, and you must be a monster yourself. Don't run — take my cudgel.”
Splendid Great Sage! He felt in his ear and drew out the gold-banded cudgel, gave it a shake till it was as thick as a bowl, and struck full at the Daoist's face; and the Daoist twisted aside in haste and drew a precious sword to meet him.
The two of them cursed and struck at each other, and the noise soon roused the women-monsters inside. The seven of them came swarming out. “Elder brother, don't trouble yourself,” they called. “Let your little sisters take him.”
Pilgrim, seeing this, grew angrier still. He swung the iron cudgel in both hands, let loose his whole repertoire, and went rolling in among them, laying about him. The seven of them threw open their robes, thrust out their snow-white bellies, and worked a spell from their navels: out gushed silk cords in a rush, building up a canopy of heaven that covered Pilgrim over underneath it.
Pilgrim, seeing things were going badly, turned over at once, spoke a spell, turned a somersault, and with a bang burst through the canopy and was gone. Holding his temper, he stood sullenly in the air and looked, and saw the monsters' silk cords glittering, running back and forth in lines, warp and weft as though from a shuttle. In no time at all the towers and halls of the Yellow Flower Abbey were covered over beyond all trace.
“Formidable,” said Pilgrim. “Formidable. Just as well I did not fall into their hands. No wonder Zhu Eight Rules took so many falls. What is to be done about a thing like this? And my master and my brothers have been struck by poison on top of it. This gang of monsters is of one mind together, and I still do not know what they are. I had better go and ask the local earth god again.”
Splendid Great Sage! He pressed his cloud down, made the finger-sign, spoke the syllable Om, and had the old earth god hauled up before him once more. Trembling, the god knelt at the roadside and knocked his head on the ground. “Great Sage — you went off to rescue your master. Why have you come back?”
“This morning I rescued my master,” said Pilgrim, “and we had not gone far when we came on a Yellow Flower Abbey. My master and I went in to have a look round, and the abbot came out to meet us. We had barely got talking when he drugged my master and the others down with poisoned tea. By luck I did not drink mine, so I set about him with the cudgel. But then he brought up the business of begging a meal at Gossamer Cave and bathing at the Filth-Cleansing Spring, and I knew at once the fellow was a monster. We had only just come to blows when those seven women ran out and spat out silk cords, and old Sun had the sense to get away.
“I reckon that since you are the god in these parts you must know their provenance. What sort of monsters are they? Tell me straight and save yourself a beating.”
The earth god knocked his head. “Those monsters came here less than ten years ago. It was only after an inspection three years ago that I made out their true shape, and they are seven spider spirits. The cords they spit out are spider silk.”
Pilgrim heard this and was hugely pleased. “By your account, then, this is a small matter. That being so, you may go back. Leave me to work a spell and subdue them.”
The earth god knocked his head and went.
Pilgrim went round to the outside of the Yellow Flower Abbey, stripped seventy hairs off his tail, blew an immortal breath on them and cried, “Change!” and at once they became seventy little Pilgrims; then he blew an immortal breath on the gold-banded cudgel too and cried, “Change!” and it became seventy-one two-pronged forked staves.
He gave one to each little Pilgrim and kept one himself, and standing outside they wound the silk cords onto the forks, put out their strength together at a work-chant, wound the cords right through, and each of them wound up ten catties and more. And out from inside they dragged seven spiders, each with a body a good basket-measure in size.
One after another they drew in their legs and hunched their heads, crying only, “Spare us! Spare us!” By now the seventy little Pilgrims had the seven spiders pinned and were in no mood to let go. “Don't kill them yet,” said Pilgrim. “Just make them give me back my master and my brothers.”
The monsters cried out shrilly, “Elder brother! Give him back his Tang Monk and save our lives!”
The Daoist came running out from inside. “Sisters — I mean to eat the Tang Monk. I cannot save you.”
Pilgrim heard that and blazed up. “Since you will not give me back my master, then look what becomes of your sisters.” Splendid Great Sage! He shook the forked staff, and it was one iron cudgel again; he raised it in both hands and beat the seven spider spirits to a pulp.
Then he gave his tail a shake or two, took back the hairs, and swinging the cudgel alone charged inside to attack the Daoist. The Daoist, seeing his fellow students beaten to death, could not bear it, and in a rage raised his sword to meet him. In this bout each nursed his own fury, and each unfolded his full powers. And what a fight it was:
The monster swung his precious sword, the Great Sage raised his gold band.
All for the sake of Tripitaka of Tang, and seven women have died for it first.
Now they unfold hands fit to govern a state, showing their power, working their arts, parading like the palace guard.
The Great Sage's divine light was mighty, the monster-immortal's nerve was coarse and bold.
His whole repertoire like flowered brocade, his two hands shifting like a windlass.
Clash and clatter of sword and staff.
Bleak and dim the wild clouds drift.
Cutting words, laid schemes, a coming and a going like a painted scene.
They fought till the wind roared and sand flew and wolves and tigers took fright, till heaven darkened, earth dimmed, and the Dipper stars were gone.
The Daoist fought the Great Sage through fifty or sixty bouts and gradually felt his hands go weak. All at once his sinews slackened, and he undid his belt, and with a sudden rip he threw off his black gown.
Pilgrim laughed. “My boy — if you can't beat a man, stripping off won't help you either.”
Now it turned out that the Daoist, having stripped off his clothes, raised both arms together, and there under his two flanks were a thousand eyes, and from those eyes burst golden light, most formidable:
Dense yellow mist, blazing golden light.
Dense yellow mist, spouting from under either flank like cloud;
Blazing golden light, as though a thousand eyes had loosed a fire.
Left and right, it was like a golden bucket; east and west, like a bell of bronze.
This was the monster-immortal working his powers, the Daoist displaying his arts: it dazzled the eye, confused the heavens, blotted out sun and moon; it covered a man in a scorching, stifling haze;
And it trapped the Great Sage Sun, Equal to Heaven, inside the golden light and yellow mist.
Pilgrim lost his head and his footing, and could only spin about inside the shadow of the golden light — unable to take a step forward, unable to move a foot backward, exactly like a man turning round inside a bucket. There was no help for it, and the scorching heat past bearing; he grew desperate, gave a good hard jump straight up, broke clean through the golden light — and came down with a thump head over heels, and felt his head aching where he had struck it.
He put a hand up quickly and felt about, and found he had knocked the skin on the crown of his head soft. “Rotten luck! Rotten luck!” he said, fretting to himself. “This head of mine is no good at all today. Ordinarily sword-cuts and axe-blows could do me no injury. How is it this golden light has knocked my skin and flesh soft? Given time this is bound to fester. And even if it heals, it will be a case of lockjaw.”
After a while the scorching heat was past bearing, and he reasoned with himself: “Forward I cannot go, back I cannot go, left I cannot go, right I cannot go, and upward I cannot break through. What then? Down, damn it — I'll go down.”
Splendid Great Sage! He spoke a spell, gave himself a shake, and turned into a pangolin, otherwise called a scaly anteater. And truly:
Four iron claws, boring through hills and crushing rock as though beating powder;
A whole body of scaled armour, splitting ridges and piercing crags as though slicing scallions.
Two eyes bright and clear, for all the world like a pair of shining stars;
One snout sharp and keen, better by far than a steel drill or a golden awl.
Among drugs it has its virtue, the pierce-mountain-armour; in common speech they call it the carp-scale.
Just look at him — he hardened his head, drove down into the ground, bored a good twenty lǐ and more, and only then came up. As it turned out, the golden light covered only ten lǐ or so.
He came out and resumed his own shape, weak in the limbs and numb in the sinews, aching all over, and could not stop the tears in his eyes. All at once he cried out aloud, “Master! —
“In that year I took the teaching and came out of the mountain, and westward together we have toiled at the work.
“On the great sea, in towering waves, I knew no fear — and here in a drainage ditch I am wrecked by the wind.”
The Handsome Monkey King was in the depth of his grief when he suddenly heard somebody weeping behind the hill. He straightened up at once, wiped his eyes and turned to look. And there was a woman in deepest mourning, carrying in her left hand a bowl of cold gruel and rice and in her right a few sheets of paper money for burning, coming from over that way a step and a sob at a time, weeping as she walked.
Pilgrim nodded and sighed. “Just so: weeping eyes meet weeping eyes, and the broken-hearted meet the broken-hearted. Here is a woman, and who knows what she is weeping for? Let me go and ask her.”
Before long the woman came up and met Pilgrim face to face. Pilgrim bowed. “Lady bodhisattva, who is it you weep for?”
The woman answered through her tears, “My husband fell into a dispute with the abbot of the Yellow Flower Abbey over buying bamboo poles, and was poisoned to death by him with drugged tea. I am burning this string of paper money to repay what was between husband and wife.”
Pilgrim heard this, and the tears came into his eyes. The woman saw it and rounded on him angrily. “How ignorant you are! I am grieving in sorrow for my husband — what do you mean by these wet eyes and this long face, playing false and mocking me?”
Pilgrim bowed. “Lady bodhisattva, let your anger rest. I am the senior disciple of Tripitaka of Tang, the imperial commissioner and sworn brother of the Emperor of the Great Tang in the Land of the East — Sun Wukong, called Pilgrim. On our way to the Western Heaven we passed the Yellow Flower Abbey and stopped to rest the horse. The Daoist in that abbey — I do not know what sort of monster he is — has sworn brotherhood with seven spider spirits.
“The spider spirits meant to do my master harm at Gossamer Cave, and it was I and my brothers Eight Rules and Sha Monk who got him free. The spider spirits came here to him, carried their tale, and said we had meant to cheat them. The Daoist drugged my master and my brothers down with poisoned tea — three of them, four counting the horse — and they are trapped inside his abbey.
“Only I did not drink his tea. I dashed the cup to pieces, and he set on me at once. While we were still shouting, out ran those seven spider spirits, spat out silk cords and netted me in — and I got clear by working a spell. I put the question to the local earth god, and he told me their true shapes. Then I used the body-dividing art to wind the silk cords right through, dragged the monsters out, and killed them with one round of the cudgel.
“The Daoist set about avenging them at once, raised his precious sword and fought me. We fought through sixty bouts, he lost the field, and then he pulled off his clothes and let out a thousand eyes from under his two flanks, with ten thousand beams of golden light, and pinned me under it. So I could go neither forward nor back, and I turned into a scaly anteater and bored my way out through the ground.
“I was just there in my grief when I heard you weeping, and so I asked. And seeing that you have this paper money to repay your husband with, while my master has lost his life and I have not one thing to offer him in return — that is why I fell to blaming myself and grieving. How should I dare to mock you?”
The woman set down the gruel and the paper money and made her apologies to Pilgrim. “Forgive me, forgive me — I did not know you were one who had suffered a calamity. Now from what you have been telling me, you do not know who that Daoist is. He is in fact a Hundred-Eyed Demon Lord, also called the Many-Eyed Fiend.
“Since you have such powers of transformation, and got clear of the golden light, and fought him so long, you must certainly have great magic — and still you cannot get near the fellow. Let me tell you of a sage you may go and ask. She can break the golden light and subdue the Daoist.”
Pilgrim heard this and hurriedly made her a bow. “Lady bodhisattva, since you know his provenance — I beg you, tell me, tell me. If she is truly such a sage, I will go and beg her to save my master from his peril — and avenge your husband at the same time.”
“I will tell you,” said the woman, “and you may go and ask her, and she will subdue the Daoist. But that will only avenge the dead. I am afraid it will not save your master.”
“Why will it not save him?” said Pilgrim.
“That fellow's poison is the cruellest there is,” said the woman. “It brings a man down, and within three days the very marrow of his bones has rotted. By the time you have been there and back I fear it will be too late, and so it will not save him.”
“I know how to travel,” said Pilgrim. “However far it is, half a day will do it.”
“If you can travel,” said the woman, “then listen. From here to there is a thousand lǐ. Over that way there is a mountain called Purple Cloud Mountain. In that mountain is a Thousand Flower Cave, and in that cave is a sage called Vairambha, and she can subdue this monster.”
“Where does that mountain lie?” said Pilgrim. “And which way do I go?”
The woman pointed with her hand. “Straight south, and there it is.”
Pilgrim turned his head to look, and the woman was already gone.
Pilgrim hastily made obeisance. “Which bodhisattva is this? Your disciple has bored himself stupid and could not recognise you. I beg you a thousand times, leave your name, that I may thank you properly.”
And a voice called down from the middle air, “Great Sage — it is I.”
Pilgrim looked up quickly, and it was the Old Mother of Mount Li. He flew up into the air to thank her. “Old Mother, where have you come from to instruct me?”
“I was just on my way back from the Dragon Flower Assembly,” said the Old Mother, “and seeing your master in peril I played a mourning wife, borrowing the pretext of a husband's death, to spare him from dying. Go quickly and ask her — but you must not say that I told you. That sage is somewhat inclined to take offence.”
Pilgrim gave his thanks, took his leave, launched his somersault cloud and was at Purple Cloud Mountain directly. He pressed his cloud down, and there was the Thousand Flower Cave. Outside that cave:
Green pines screen a place of beauty, kingfisher cypress rings an immortal's dwelling.
Green willows fill the mountain path, strange flowers crowd the gully stream.
Fragrant orchids surround a stone house, sweet grasses light the rock corner.
Running water joins the stream in green, cloud seals the ancient trees in emptiness.
Wild birds cry in a clatter, secluded deer step slow and slow.
Tall bamboo, branch on branch, stands fine; red plum, leaf on leaf, unfurls.
Winter crows roost in the ancient trees, spring birds clamour in the tall ailanthus.
Summer wheat fills the broad fields, autumn grain lies everywhere to spare.
In the four seasons no leaf falls; through the eight divisions there are always flowers.
Ever it breeds auspicious haze that reaches the Milky Way, ever it looses blessed cloud that touches the Great Void.
The Great Sage went in delighted, stretch by stretch and stage by stage, and could not take in all the endless scenery. He went straight inside, and there was not a soul, all silent and still, not even the sound of a cock or a dog. “The sage must not be at home,” he said to himself.
He went several lǐ further in and looked, and saw a woman in Daoist dress sitting on a couch. Look how she was got up:
On her head a five-flowered cap of quilted brocade, on her body a robe woven with gold.
On her feet cloud-tipped phoenix-head shoes, at her waist a twisted-silk sash with a double tassel.
Her face like autumn's look, aged after the frost; her voice like a spring swallow before the festival, soft and sweet.
In her belly long conversant with the Three Vehicles, in her heart forever cultivating the abundance of the Four Truths.
She has woken to the true fruit of emptiness upon emptiness, refined to a clear clarity and roams at ease.
This is indeed the Buddha within the Thousand Flower Cave — Bodhisattva Vairambha, whose name stands high.
Pilgrim could not hold his feet back. He went up close and called, “Bodhisattva Vairambha — I pay my respects.”
The bodhisattva came down from her couch at once and returned the salute with joined palms. “Great Sage, forgive me for not coming out to meet you. Where have you come from?”
“How do you know at once that I am the Great Sage?” said Pilgrim.
“In the year you made havoc in Heaven,” said Vairambha, “your likeness was passed round everywhere on earth. Who does not know it? Which of us would not recognise you?”
“Just so,” said Pilgrim. “Good deeds never leave the gate; bad ones travel a thousand lǐ. But now that I have turned to the Buddhist gate, you had not heard of that?”
“And when did you turn to the right path?” said Vairambha. “My congratulations, my congratulations.”
“Not long ago I got my life back,” said Pilgrim, “and I am guarding my master Tripitaka on his way west to fetch the scriptures. My master met the Daoist of the Yellow Flower Abbey, and was drugged down with poisoned tea. I fought the fellow, and he loosed a golden light and clapped it over me, and I got away by working my magic. I heard that the bodhisattva can put out his golden light, and so I have come expressly to beg her help.”
“Who told you this?” said the bodhisattva. “Since I attended the Ullambana assembly I have not been out of doors for more than three hundred years. I have hidden my surname and buried my given name, and not one soul knows of me. How is it that you do?”
“I am a ground-ghost,” said Pilgrim. “Wherever it is, I can always find it out for myself.”
“Very well,” said Vairambha. “Very well. By rights I should not go. But since the Great Sage has come down to me in person, I cannot extinguish so good a work as the fetching of the scriptures. I will go with you.”
Pilgrim thanked her. “I was too ignorant, and pressed you on my own account. But I do not know — have you brought a weapon?”
“I have an embroidery needle,” said the bodhisattva, “which can break the fellow.”
Pilgrim could not hold himself. “The Old Mother has led me astray! Had I known it was an embroidery needle I need not have troubled you — ask old Sun for a whole load of them and he has got them.”
“That embroidery needle of yours,” said Vairambha, “is nothing but steel or iron or gold. It will not serve. This treasure of mine is not steel, not iron, not gold. It was refined in my little son's sun-eye.”
“And who is your esteemed son?” said Pilgrim.
“My little son,” said Vairambha, “is the Star Lord of the Pleiades.”
Pilgrim was astonished beyond measure.
Soon he caught sight of the golden light blazing, and turned back to Vairambha. “Where the golden light is, that is the Yellow Flower Abbey.”
Vairambha drew an embroidery needle out of her collar — about the thickness of an eyebrow and five or six fēn in length — took it between her fingers and tossed it into the air. In a moment there was a crack, and the golden light broke.
Pilgrim cried out in delight, “Bodhisattva — wonderful, wonderful! The needle, the needle — find it!”
Vairambha held it out on her open palm. “Is this not it?”
Pilgrim came down with her on the cloud, walked into the abbey, and saw the Daoist standing with his eyes shut, unable to take a step. Pilgrim swore at him. “You vile monster, you are shamming blind!” He took the cudgel out of his ear and struck at him.
Vairambha caught hold of him. “Great Sage, do not strike. Go and see to your master.”
Pilgrim went straight through to the guest seats at the back and looked, and the three of them were lying on the ground bringing up phlegm and foam. Pilgrim wept. “What is to be done? What is to be done?”
“Great Sage, do not grieve,” said Vairambha. “Since I have come out today after all, I may as well store up a little hidden merit. I have here a poison-dissolving elixir. I will give you three pills.”
Pilgrim turned and bowed in entreaty. The bodhisattva brought out of her sleeve a battered paper packet, took three red pills from inside it and handed them to Pilgrim, telling him to put them in their mouths. Pilgrim prised their jaws apart and stuffed a pill into each of them. In a moment the taste of the medicine reached their bellies, and all at once they retched together and brought up the poison, and got their lives back.
Eight Rules was the first to crawl up. “That nearly stifled me to death!” Tripitaka and Sha Monk both woke. “How dizzy I am!”
“There was poison in that tea of yours,” said Pilgrim. “We owe it to Bodhisattva Vairambha that we were saved. Come, all of you, and give thanks.”
Tripitaka raised himself, straightened his robe and gave his thanks.
“Elder brother,” said Eight Rules, “where is that Daoist? Let me put a question to him — why did he do us this injury?”
Pilgrim told him the whole business of the spider spirits over once. Eight Rules said fiercely, “If the fellow is sisters with the spiders, then he must be a monster.”
Pilgrim pointed. “There he stands outside the hall, shamming blind.”
Eight Rules took up his rake to strike, and again Vairambha stopped him. “Marshal Tianpeng, let your anger rest. The Great Sage knows there is nobody in my cave. Let me take him back to watch the gate for me.”
“I am deeply obliged for your great kindness,” said Pilgrim. “How should I not oblige you in turn? Only have him show his true shape first, so that we may see it.”
“Easily done,” said Vairambha. She stepped up and pointed with her hand, and the Daoist dropped flat into the dust and showed his original body — a great centipede spirit some seven chǐ in length. Vairambha hooked him up on her little finger, mounted an auspicious cloud, and went straight back to the Thousand Flower Cave.
Eight Rules gaped up after her. “That old lady is formidable! How did she subdue such a vile creature so easily?”
Pilgrim laughed. “I asked her what weapon she had to break his golden light, and she said she had an embroidery needle, refined by her son inside the eye of the sun. And when I asked who her esteemed son was, she said he was the Star Lord of the Pleiades. Now I reckon the Pleiades Star is a cock, so this old lady must certainly be a hen. And a fowl is the best thing there is for subduing a centipede — which is how she was able to take him.”
Hearing this, Tripitaka bowed without end. He told them, “Disciples — pack up and let us go.”
Sha Monk went inside at once, found some rice and grain, put together a vegetarian meal, and they all ate their fill. They led out the horse, shouldered the luggage, and invited their master to take the road. Pilgrim set a fire going in the kitchen, and in a moment the whole abbey was burnt to embers and ash; and then he strode off down the road. And so indeed:
The Tang Monk got his life and thanked Vairambha; the nature made clear, the Many-Eyed Fiend was done away with.
There is no telling what further business lay ahead as they went on; listen, and the next chapter will explain.