師父不曾吃 The Master Was Never Eaten
行者才解救了八戒、沙僧,尋著行李、馬匹,與他二人說:「師父不曾吃,都跟我來。」引他兩個徑入內院,找著錦香亭,打開門看,內有一個鐵櫃,只聽得三藏有啼哭之聲。行者才解救了八戒、沙僧,寻着行李、马匹,与他二人说:「师父不曾吃,都跟我来。」引他两个径入内院,找着锦香亭,打开门看,内有一个铁柜,只听得三藏有啼哭之声。
逐句解 Line by line
Pilgrim then freed Bajie and Sha Monk, found the luggage and the horse, and said to the two of them, "The master was never eaten. Come along with me, both of you."
著 in 尋著 is zháo, the reading that marks a thing sought and got. And that is the whole correction in five characters: the master was never eaten. No apology, no explanation of the rumour — just the fact, handed to two men who have spent a day and a night believing him dead.
He led the two of them straight into the inner court, found the Pavilion of Brocade Fragrance, opened the door and looked, and inside was an iron chest, and out of it came the sound of Tripitaka weeping.
找著 takes zháo as well. The sentence is built as a series of small discoveries — court, pavilion, door, chest — and then withholds the sight and gives you a sound instead. 啼哭之聲 is the noise of weeping, heard through iron.
Six characters undo a hundred and eighty of grief. The master was never eaten, and Pilgrim does not stop to soften it or explain where the story came from.
The approach to the chest is beautifully staged. Court, pavilion, door, chest — four containers opened one after another, exactly the nest the third fiend described when he proposed the plan, now being undone in the reverse order.
And what is inside is not shown. The reader is given the sound of crying coming out of a locked iron box, and that is more than enough. Tripitaka has been in there since the middle of the night with no idea whether anyone was left alive to look for him.