Now the tale relates that Tripitaka and his disciples reached the Sea-Calming Meditation Grove Monastery, where the assembled monks received them and set out a vegetarian meal. When the four had eaten, the young woman too drew a little strength from the food. Little by little the sky darkened, and in the abbot's quarters the lamps were lit.
The monks had two reasons for gathering: first to ask the Tang Monk the history of his scripture-quest, and second to feast their eyes on the young woman. They pressed in close together, ranged in rows below the lamplight. Tripitaka turned to the lama monk he had met on arrival and said, “Abbot, when we leave your treasured mountain tomorrow, what is the westward road like?”
The monk went down on both knees. Startled, the Elder caught hold of him with one hand and said, “Abbot, please get up. I asked you about a stage of the road. Why are you making obeisance to me?” The monk said, “Old master, tomorrow you go west; the road runs level and true, and you need not trouble yourself over it.
“It is only that just now there is a matter somewhat awkward. I wanted to speak of it the moment you came through the gate, but feared to give offence to your great authority. Only now that the meal is over do I dare make bold to inform you. Master, you have come from the east, the road is long and the journey hard, and it is quite well that you should all lodge in the little monks' rooms. It is only this lady bodhisattva who is inconvenient, and I do not know where it would be best to invite her to sleep.”
Tripitaka said, “Abbot, you must not harbour suspicions and say that my disciples and I have any improper intent. This morning we were passing through the Black Pine Wood and came upon this young woman bound to a tree. My little disciple Sun Wukong was unwilling to save her; it was I who raised the heart of enlightenment and rescued her. Now that we are here, send her wherever you please to sleep.”
The monk thanked him and said, “Since the master is so generous, let her be taken to the Hall of the Heavenly Kings, and there behind His Lordship the Heavenly King let a straw pallet be arranged, and let her sleep there.” Tripitaka said, “Very good, very good.”
So at that time the little monks led the young woman away to sleep behind the hall. The Elder settled in the abbot's quarters, begged the assembled cloister-heads to make themselves easy, and so they all dispersed. Tripitaka instructed Wukong, “You have worked hard. Early to bed and early to rise.” So they slept all in one place, not daring to leave his side, guarding their master.
The night deepened by degrees, and it was just as the verse has it:
The jade hare climbs high, ten thousand hollow voices still;
The streets of heaven lie silent, no traveller on the road.
The Silver River glitters, the starlight blazing bright;
Drums sound from the watchtower, hurrying the change of watch.
Of the night's talk nothing more need be told. When day broke, Pilgrim rose and told Bajie and Sha Monk to gather up the baggage and the horse, and went to ask the master to take the road. At that hour the Elder was still deep in sleep and had not woken. Pilgrim went close and called out, “Master.”
The master raised his head a little, and yet could get no answer out. Pilgrim asked, “What does the master say?” The Elder groaned and said, “Why am I like this — my head swimming, my eyes swollen, my whole body aching to the skin and bone?”
Bajie, hearing this, reached out to feel him over, and found him somewhat hot. The idiot laughed and said, “I have it. Last night he saw a meal that cost nothing, ate a few bowls too many, then lay down with his head sunk low, and has given himself indigestion.”
Pilgrim shouted at him, “Nonsense! Let me ask the master what exactly is the matter.” Tripitaka said, “In the middle of the night I got up to relieve myself, and had not put a cap on. I suppose the wind got at me.” Pilgrim said, “That much sounds right. Can you travel the road today?”
Tripitaka said, “I cannot even sit up now — how am I to mount the horse? It only means the journey is delayed.” “But it only means the road is delayed.” Pilgrim said, “What sort of talk is that, master? The common saying goes, 'One day a teacher, a father for life.'
“We who are your disciples are just the same as sons to you. And it is also said, 'Raising a son is not a matter of gold and silver — it is enough that he reads the moment and feels what it calls for.' Since your body is unwell, what is this talk of delaying the journey?
“What harm is there in bearing it patiently a few days?” So the brothers all waited on their master, and before they knew it morning had run into noon and noon into dusk, and no sooner had the good night gone by than dawn came stealing in again.
Time went swiftly by, and three days had already passed. On that day the master raised himself and called, “Wukong, these two days I have been heavy with sickness and have not asked you: that lady bodhisattva who escaped with her life — has anyone taken her food to eat?”
Pilgrim laughed and said, “What are you bothering about her for? Look after your own illness first.” Tripitaka said, “True, true. Now help me up, and get out my paper, brush and ink, and borrow an inkstone from the monastery for me to use.”
Pilgrim said, “What for?” The Elder said, “I want to write a letter, and enclose it together with our travel rescript, and have you take it for me to the throne at Chang'an, and see the Emperor Taizong face to face.”
Pilgrim said, “That is easy enough. Old Sun may be good for nothing else, but when it comes to delivering letters he is the first in the world of men. Get the letter ready and hand it to me. In one somersault I will have it to Chang'an and put it in the Tang king's hand, and in one somersault more I will be back, and your brush and inkstone will not have dried yet.”
“But what are you sending a letter for? Read me the sense of it first; there will be time enough to write it after.”
The Elder let fall his tears and said, “I would write:
“Your servant monk bows his head, three times to the ground,
And with shouts of Ten Thousand Years does reverence to his sage lord;
“Let the two ranks, civil and military, set eyes on this alike,
And the four hundred lords and ministers hear it and know:
“In that year I took the decree and departed the Eastern Land,
Hoping upon Spirit Mountain to look upon the World-Honoured One.
“I did not reckon on the hardships met upon the way,
Nor look for the disasters that waited at the road's midpoint.
“This monk lies sick of a deep sickness and cannot go a step further;
The gate of Buddha is deep and far, and reaches to the gate of heaven.
“With scriptures there and no life left, all this toil comes to nothing;
I report it to Your Majesty: send another man instead.”
When Pilgrim heard this he could not hold back a great roar of laughter. “Master, you are far too feeble. You have a touch of some little illness and at once you get up notions like these. If you were truly gravely ill, if it were life or death, you need only ask me. Old Sun has a talent of his own for it. Which King of Hell would dare conceive the notion?
“Which judge would dare issue the warrant? Which demon runner would come to make the arrest? If they anger me I shall bring out that temper I had when I made havoc in heaven, and with one road of my cudgel I shall smash my way into the shades, seize the Ten Kings of Hell, and pull the sinews out of every one of them — and even then I would not let them off.”
Tripitaka said, “Disciple, I am gravely ill. Do not talk so big.”
Bajie stepped forward and said, “Brother, when the master says he is bad you keep insisting he is well. That is thoroughly awkward. We had better talk it over early: sell the horse first, pawn the baggage, buy a coffin to see him off, and break up the company.”
Pilgrim said, “The idiot is talking nonsense again. You do not understand. The master is the second disciple of our Buddha Tathagata, and was originally called the Elder Golden Cicada. It is only because he made light of the Buddha's Law that he must have this great ordeal.”
Bajie said, “Brother, if the master made light of the Buddha's Law, he was demoted back to the Eastern Land, into the sea of right and wrong and the arena of wagging tongues, given human form to be born into, and vowed to go west to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. He meets a fiend and is trussed up, runs into a demon and is strung up, and suffers every kind of torment. Surely that is enough. Why must he be given an illness on top of it?”
Pilgrim said, “How would you know? The old master was not listening when the Buddha expounded the Law. He nodded off, and slumping down he let his left foot scuff a single grain of rice. Coming down to the mortal world, he was to have these three days of illness.”
Bajie said in alarm, “Then the way old Hog slops and scatters his food about, there is no telling how many ages of illness I am in for.”
Pilgrim said, “Brother, the Buddha does not hold you common creatures in mind, and again you do not understand. As people say: 'Hoeing grain under the noonday sun, sweat drips on the soil below; Who knows that the meal there in the dish is grain by grain all bitter toil?'
“The master will be ill only today; by tomorrow he will be well.” Tripitaka said, “Today I am different from yesterday: my throat is parched with thirst. Go and find where there is cool water, and fetch me some to drink.”
Pilgrim said, “Good. If the master wants water to drink, then he is well. Let me go and fetch water.”
At once he took the alms bowl and went to the fragrant kitchen at the back of the monastery to draw water. Suddenly he saw those monks, every one of them red about the eyes, sobbing and choking, only not daring to cry out loud.
Pilgrim said, “You monks are behaving in a thoroughly small-minded way. We have stayed a few days; when we leave we will thank you, and reckon up the firewood money by the day and pay it back. Why be such spineless things?”
The monks knelt down in a fluster and said, “We dare not, we dare not.” Pilgrim said, “Why dare you not? I suppose that long-snouted monk of mine has a big enough gut that he has eaten you clean out of capital?”
The monks said, “Your reverence, on this barren mountain of ours, great and small, we number a hundred-odd monks. If each one of us kept your reverence for a day, we could keep you a hundred days and more. How should we dare be so mean-hearted as to reckon up what you eat?”
Pilgrim said, “If you are not reckoning it up, then what are you weeping for?” The monks said, “Your reverence, we do not know from which mountain the fiend has come that is here in this monastery.”
“In the evenings we send two young monks out to strike the bell and beat the drum, and we hear the bell and drum sound and stop, and then never see the men come back. Next day we search, and find only monks' caps and monks' shoes flung down in the garden at the back, the bones still there, the men eaten.”
“You have stayed three days, and our monastery has lost six monks. That is why we brothers cannot help being afraid and cannot help grieving. And because we saw that your old master was gravely unwell, we did not dare speak of it, and could not hold back the tears that fell in secret.”
When Pilgrim heard this he was both startled and delighted, and said, “No need to say more. It must be a demon here harming people. Let me root him out for you.”
The monks said, “Your reverence, a fiend that is not cunning is not potent. It will certainly know how to mount the clouds and ride the mist; it will certainly know how to pass into the dark and enter the shades. The ancients put it well: 'Do not trust the straightness of what looks straight; be on guard against the man who is not humane.'”
“Your reverence, do not take it amiss that we say so: if you can lay hold of him and hold him, and rid our barren mountain of this root of calamity, that is three lifetimes of good fortune indeed; but if you cannot hold him after all, then there are a good many inconvenient consequences.”
Pilgrim said, “What do you mean, a good many inconvenient consequences?” Those monks said, “To be plain with your reverence and hide nothing: on this barren mountain of ours there are a hundred-odd monks, and yet all of them have been in religion since they were small children.
“When the hair is long we look for a knife to shave it; when the robe is thin we sew up the torn patchwork. In the morning we rise and wash our faces, fold our hands and bow, and take refuge in the great Way; at night we put things away and burn incense, and with sincere hearts we click our teeth and recite Amitabha.”
“Lifting our heads we see the Buddha's lotus of nine grades, and the three vehicles, the boat of mercy and the cloud of the Law together, and we wish to see the World-Honoured One in the Jeta Grove; lowering our heads we look into the heart, take the five precepts, ferry over the great thousandfold world, and through life after life among the ten thousand teachings wish to awaken to stubborn emptiness and to form-emptiness.”
“When the almsgivers come, old and young, tall and short, fat and thin, every one of us beats the wooden fish and strikes the bronze chime, crowding and jostling, two scrolls of the Lotus Sutra and one volume of the Liang Emperor's Confession;
“when the almsgivers do not come, new and old, raw and seasoned, rough and polished, every one of us puts his palms together, closes his eyes, and quiet as quiet enters meditation on the prayer mat, with the gate under the moon barred fast.”
“Let the orioles cry and the birds chatter and quarrel idly as they please; it does not reach up to our great vehicle of expedient means and mercy. And so we cannot subdue tigers, and we cannot tame dragons; and we cannot tell a monster, and we cannot tell a spirit.”
“If your reverence should provoke that demon after all, our hundred-odd monks would be barely one full meal for him. First, it would cast us living beings down into the wheel of rebirth; second, it would blot out this ancient site of the meditation grove;
“and third, at the assembly of the Tathagata there would not be half a spark of glory left. These, then, are the good many inconvenient consequences.”
When Pilgrim heard the monks come out with this piece of talk, anger rose in his heart and malice was born at the edge of his gall, and he cried out loudly, “You monks are a set of fools! You only know about that fiend — do you not know what old Sun is capable of?”
The monks answered softly, “We truly do not know.” Pilgrim said, “Today I shall give you the short account of it. Listen. I once subdued tigers and tamed dragons on the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit; I once went up to heaven and made havoc in the Heavenly Palace.
“When I was hungry I took Lord Lao's elixir and bit off two or three pills, just casually; when I was thirsty I took the Jade Emperor's wine and knocked back six or seven cupfuls, quite lightly.”
“Glaring with a pair of golden pupils neither white nor black, the sky goes dull and the moon goes dim; gripping a single rod neither short nor long, the gold-banded cudgel, it comes without a shadow and goes without a trace.”
“What are you telling me about great spirits and little monsters? What do I care for their lazy, festering kind? One chase and I am on them: the runners run, the tremblers tremble, the hiders hide, the panickers panic; one grab and I have them: the filed get filed, the burnt get burnt, the ground get ground, the pounded get pounded.”
“It is a case of the Eight Immortals crossing the sea together, with each showing his own powers alone. Monks, I will catch this fiend for you to see, and then you will know what old Sun is.”
The monks listened, and nodded to themselves, saying, “This bald thief opens a big mouth and talks big. He must have some history behind him.” And every one of them murmured his agreement, over and over.
Only that lama monk said, “Hold on. Your old master is gravely unwell. Your catching this fiend is not the urgent thing.
“The common saying goes, 'The gentleman who comes to the banquet, if he is not drunk is full; the strong man who comes to the battle line, if he is not dead is wounded.' When the two of you are locked in combat, if harm should come to your master through it, that would not be a safe arrangement.”
Pilgrim said, “Right, right. Let me take the cool water to my master to drink, and then come back.” He caught up the alms bowl, poured cool water into it, turned out of the fragrant kitchen, went straight to the abbot's quarters and called, “Master, drink some cool water.”
Tripitaka was just then at the height of his thirst, and he raised his head, took the water in both hands, and drank it down in one draught. Truly: in thirst one drop is like sweet dew; when the medicine reaches the true prescription, the sickness is gone at once.
Pilgrim saw that the Elder's spirits were gradually reviving and his brows and eyes had opened out, and asked, “Master, could you eat a little soup and rice?” Tripitaka said, “This cool water is just like an elixir of the spirits. The sickness is reduced by half. If there is soup and rice I could eat some.”
Pilgrim called out loudly, over and over, “My master is well! He wants soup and rice!” He set those monks bustling to get things ready: washing rice and boiling it, rolling dough and griddling flatbreads, steaming buns and making noodle soup, and they carried in four or five tables of it.
The Tang Monk could manage only half a bowl of rice gruel; Pilgrim and Sha Monk used up no more than one setting between them; and all the rest went into Bajie's belly at a sitting. The dishes were cleared away, the lamps were lit, and the monks all dispersed.
Tripitaka said, “How many days have we stayed here now?” Pilgrim said, “Three whole days. Towards evening tomorrow it will be four suns.”
Tripitaka said, “Three days have lost us a great deal of road.” Pilgrim said, “Master, it hardly counts as road at all. We will go tomorrow.” Tripitaka said, “Just so. Even carrying a touch of the illness, there is no help for it.”
Pilgrim said, “Since we are to go tomorrow, then let me catch the fiend tonight and have a look at him.” Tripitaka said in alarm, “What fiend is this you are catching now?” Pilgrim said, “There is a fiend here in this monastery. Let old Sun catch him on their behalf.”
The Tang Monk said, “Disciple, my sick body is not yet mended. How is it you take up this notion again? If that monster should have magic powers and you could not hold him, would that not be doing me harm after all?”
Pilgrim said, “You are very good at snuffing out a man's spirit. Old Sun subdues fiends wherever he goes. When have you seen me the weaker against anyone? It is only that I do not start it; and once I start it, I mean to win.”
Tripitaka held him back and said, “Disciple, the common saying puts it well: 'When the chance of an easy course comes, take the easy course; where there is room to spare a man, spare him.' 'How can scheming compare with keeping a good heart? How is winning an argument as high as swallowing one?'”
The Great Sage Sun, seeing his master press him so hard and forbid him to subdue the fiend, brought out the plain truth and said, “Master, to be honest with you and hide nothing: that fiend has eaten people here.” The Tang Monk said in great alarm, “Eaten what people?”
Pilgrim said, “In the three days we have stayed, he has already eaten six of the young monks of this monastery.” The Elder said, “'When the hare dies the fox grieves; creatures are wounded by the fate of their own kind.'
“Since he has eaten monks of this monastery, and I too am a monk, I release you to go. Only be careful and take great pains.” Pilgrim said, “No need to say it. The moment old Sun lays a hand on him he is done away with.”
See him now: before the lamplight he charged Bajie and Sha Monk to keep watch over their master, then sprang gleefully out of the abbot's quarters and went straight to the Buddha hall to look. There were stars in the sky, the moon was not yet up, and inside that hall it was pitch dark.
So he blew out his true fire, lit the glass lamp, beat the drum on the east side and struck the bell on the west. When the sound had ceased, he shook himself and changed, and became a little monk of only twelve or thirteen years, in a jacket of yellow silk and a white cloth robe, tapping a wooden fish in his hand and reciting scripture aloud.
He waited until the time of the first watch, and there was no sign of movement. At the time of the second watch the waning moon had just risen, and he heard only a gust of wind come whistling.
A fine wind it was:
Black mist curtains the sky to darkness, grieving cloud shines the earth to dusk.
On all four sides it is as though ink were flung; one wash of indigo, thickly laid.
When it first blows it raises the dust and scatters the soil; afterwards it topples the trees and breaks the woods.
Dust raised and soil scattered, the starlight shows through; trees toppled and woods broken, the moon's colour dims.
It blows so hard that: the Moon Goddess clutches her cassia tree tight, the jade hare runs round and round hunting his medicine bowl;
the officers of the nine luminaries all shut their doors, the dragon kings of the four seas all close theirs;
in the shrine the city god hunts for his little ghosts, and how shall the fairy in mid-air ride her cloud;
in the earth prison King Yama looks for Horse-Face, and the judge runs about chasing his headscarf.
It blows the rocks off the summit of Kunlun, and rolls the rivers and lakes into a churn of waves.
No sooner had that wind passed by than he caught the sudden scent of orchid and musk, and the sound of girdle-pendants. At once he sat up and raised his head to look — and ah! It was a beautiful woman, going straight up onto the Buddha hall.
Pilgrim mumbled and droned away in his throat, keeping steadily at his recitation. The woman came up close, put her arms about him and said, “Little elder, what sutra is it you are chanting?” Pilgrim said, “One I promised.”
The woman said, “Everyone else is sleeping at their ease. Why are you still chanting?” Pilgrim said, “It is promised. How should I not chant it?”
The woman held him and kissed him, and said, “Come to the back with me and we will amuse ourselves.” Pilgrim deliberately twisted his head aside and said, “You do not understand things very well.”
The woman said, “Can you read faces?” Pilgrim said, “I know a little of it.” The woman said, “What sort do you read me for?”
Pilgrim said, “I read you as one who has been filching from strangers and scrounging off friends, and was driven out of doors by her husband's parents.” The woman said, “You have read it wrong, read it wrong.
“I am
“not one driven out by a husband's parents, nor one who filched from strangers and scrounged off friends.
“It is that my lot in a former life was thin, and I was matched to a husband young in years.
“We never had our bridal chamber and painted candles; this is the tale of a wife who fled her husband.
“Now while the starlight is out and the moon is bright, it is a case of those with the affinity meeting though a thousand lǐ apart. You and I will go into the back garden and be joined as mates.”
Hearing this, Pilgrim nodded to himself and thought, “Those few foolish monks were all of them lured by lust, and so lost their lives. And now she comes to fool me as well.”
So he answered readily, “Madam, I am one who has left the household, and still young in years, and I know nothing of these matters of joining.” The woman said, “Come with me, and I will teach you.” Pilgrim laughed inwardly and said, “Very well. I will go with her and see what she means to do with me.”
The two of them went with arms about each other's shoulders and hands linked, out of the Buddha hall and straight to the garden at the back. There the monster hooked her leg round his and tripped him, and he fell to the ground. Crying out over and over in her throat, “Sweetheart, my darling,” she put her hand down and seized him below.
Pilgrim said, “My child, you really do mean to eat old Sun.” But Pilgrim caught hold of her hand, used a low sitting throw, and sent that monster head over heels and flat onto the ground. The monster still cried out, “Sweetheart, my darling, you certainly know how to throw your mother.”
Pilgrim reckoned to himself, “If I do not take him now, when am I to do it? It is just as they say: 'He who strikes first is the strong one; he who strikes second meets disaster.'” So he crossed his hands, arched his back, sprang up with a leap, showed forth his original body and its magic form, swung up the gold-banded iron cudgel and struck straight at her head.
That monster too was startled. She thought to herself, “This little monk, and as dangerous as this.” She opened her eyes and looked, and there he was, the disciple of that Tang elder, the one surnamed Sun. She was not afraid of him either.
Do you ask what kind of spirit this spirit was?
Her nose is made of gold, her fur laid on like snow.
An earthen passage serves her for door and house; wherever she settles, the place is secure.
She has nourished up three hundred years of breath, and went more than once to Spirit Mountain.
One full meal of incense flowers and candles, and the Tathagata sent word down to the courts of heaven.
Beloved daughter of the Pagoda-Bearing Heavenly King, sworn sister of the Prince Nezha.
She is not the bird that would fill the sea, nor the great turtle that bears the mountains.
She has no fear of the sword of Lei Huan, nor any fear of the blade of Lü Qian.
Coming and going as she pleases, she lets the waters run wide as the Yangtze and the Han;
up and down as she pleases, what does she care how high Mount Tai and Mount Heng may rear?
Look at her, with a face like the moon and flowers and every charm about her — and who would know her for an old rat turned spirit, putting on a show of daring?
Trusting to her own wide magic powers, she brought up a pair of matched swords to hand, ringing and clashing, warding to the left and parrying to the right, following east and toppling west. Pilgrim was the stronger, and yet he could not knock her over.
A dark wind rose on all four sides, and the waning moon lost its light. Look at the two of them. In the back garden, a fine killing:
The dark wind rises out of the ground, the waning moon shakes its faint light.
Still and empty, the halls of the Brahma King; guttering low, the gallery of the little ghosts; and there in the back garden, one whole field of war.
Sun the great one, a sage from heaven above;
the furred and lovely maid, a queen among women: they wager their magic powers and neither will yield.
The one of them twists her fragrant heart and rages at the black baldpate; the other opens wide his wise eyes and hates the fresh-painted face.
Two swords in her hands go flying — what would they know of a lady bodhisattva?
One cudgel striking is fiercer than a living guardian king.
Where it sounds, the gold band flashes like lightning; in an instant the white iron blazes with the light of stars.
In the jade tower she claws at the kingfishers; in the golden hall she shatters the mandarin ducks.
Gibbons cry, and the moon over Ba is small; wild geese call, and the sky over Chu is long.
The eighteen arhats quietly call their applause; the thirty-two devas are every one of them alarmed.
That Great Sage Sun had his spirits well roused, and there was not half a hair's error in his cudgel. The fiend reckoned for herself that she could not hold out against him, knitted her brows all at once, and a plan came into her heart, and she pulled away and ran.
Pilgrim shouted, “Filthy creature, where do you run? Come and submit, quickly now.” The fiend paid no attention at all, and simply went on retreating.
When Pilgrim had chased her to the pressing point, she took off the embroidered shoe from her left foot, blew a breath of magic on it, recited a spell, and called out, “Change!” It changed at once into the very image of herself, and came dancing in with a pair of swords;
her true body flickered once and went off, turned into a gust of clear wind. Was this not the very star of disaster for Tripitaka? For she went straight and burst into the abbot's quarters, seized the Tang Tripitaka and carried him off up onto the clouds, and in the dark and the dimness, in the blink of an eye, she reached the Mountain of Hollow Emptiness, went into the Bottomless Cave, and called her little ones to lay out a vegetarian wedding feast — of which no more for now.
Now Pilgrim had fought himself into a fret and a fury; he found an opening, and with one blow of the cudgel he knocked that fiend down — and it was a single embroidered shoe. Pilgrim knew he had been caught by her trick, and turned back at once to look for his master — and where was any master?
He saw only that idiot and Sha Monk mumbling something or other in their throats. Pilgrim, his chest packed full of rage, cared nothing for right or wrong, caught up his cudgel and laid about him, calling out over and over, “I will beat you to death, I will beat you to death.” That idiot was so flustered there was nowhere for him to run.
But Sha Monk was a great general from Spirit Mountain, and had seen much of affairs; so he went gentle and mild, came forward and knelt down, and said, “Elder brother, I understand. I suppose you mean to beat the two of us to death, and then not go to rescue our master, but take yourself off home.”
Pilgrim said, “I will beat the two of you to death, and I will go and rescue him myself.” Sha Monk laughed and said, “Elder brother, what sort of talk is that? Without the two of us it would be a case of a single thread making no cord, and one palm being unable to clap.”
“Brother, this baggage and this horse — who is to look after them? Better to learn from Guan and Bao dividing the gold than to copy Sun and Pang matching wits. As the old saying goes, 'To beat a tiger you still want your own brothers; to go into battle you must have fathers and sons for troops.'”
“I beg you, elder brother, spare the beating for now; wait till daylight and we will join hearts and put our strength together, and go looking for our master.” Pilgrim, for all his wide magic powers, was also a reasonable creature who knew the moment.
Seeing Sha Monk plead so hard, he turned his heart round and said, “Bajie, Sha Monk, get up, the pair of you. Tomorrow we look for our master. But you are to put your backs into it.”
That idiot, hearing he was let off, could have promised away half the sky, and said, “Brother, this business is all on old Hog's shoulders.” The brothers turned it over and over in their minds, and how were they to sleep? They could have wished to nod the sun of the eastern mulberry out of the ground, and blow every star in the sky away with one breath.
The three of them only sat until daybreak, and were making ready to set out, when the monastery monks were already at the gate to stop them and ask, “Where is your reverence going?” Pilgrim laughed and said, “It is not good to tell.”
“Yesterday I boasted before the whole company and told them I would catch the fiend for them. The fiend I never did manage to catch, and instead I have gone and lost my master. We are off to look for our master.”
The monks were frightened and said, “Your reverence, a trifling matter of ours, and instead it has brought harm on your old master; but where will you go to look for him?” Pilgrim said, “There is a place to look for him.”
The monks said hurriedly, “Since you are going, do not rush; take a little morning meal first.” And in great haste they carried in two or three basins of soup and rice. Bajie ate the lot clean up with a will, and said, “Good monks — when we have found our master we will come back here and enjoy ourselves.”
Pilgrim said, “Come back here and eat their food again, would you? Go to the Hall of the Heavenly Kings and see whether that woman is there or not.”
The monks said, “Your reverence, she is not there, she is not there. She lodged one night, and by the second day she was gone.”
Pilgrim, cheerful now, took his leave of the monks, set Bajie and Sha Monk to lead the horse and carry the load, and went straight back eastward. Bajie said, “Brother, you have it wrong. Why are we going east again?” Pilgrim said, “How should you know?”
“That woman tied up in the Black Pine Wood the other day — old Sun has fire eyes and golden pupils, and I saw clean through her, and the lot of you took her for a decent person. The one eating the monks today was her too, and the one who carried off our master was her too.”
“A fine lady bodhisattva the pair of you rescued. Now that she has carried off our master, we go and look for her back along the old road.”
The two of them said in admiration, “Good, good, good — truly there is a fineness inside the roughness.” “Let us go, let us go.”
The three of them came in haste into the wood, and saw only this:
Clouds thick and low, mist wide and drifting;
rocks in layer on layer, the path winding and winding.
Fox tracks and hare tracks run criss-cross together; tigers, leopards, jackals and wolves come burrowing back and forth.
Within the wood there is no shadow of a fiend at all, and no knowing where Tripitaka may be.
Pilgrim, frantic, pulled out his cudgel, shook himself and changed into the very shape he wore when he made havoc in heaven — three heads and six arms, six hands holding three cudgels — and in the wood he laid about him, clattering and cracking. Bajie saw it and said, “Sha Monk, our brother has got himself into a rage. He cannot manage to find our master and has worked himself into a fit of temper.”
As it happened, Pilgrim had beaten his way along a stretch and beaten out two old fellows — one the mountain god and one the local earth god — who came forward and knelt down, saying, “Great Sage, the mountain god and the earth god present themselves.”
Bajie said, “What a fine touch he has — beat along a stretch and beat out a mountain god and an earth god; beat along another stretch and he would beat out the Year Star himself.”
Pilgrim demanded, “Mountain god, earth god — you two are as insolent as this, and here you are running a band of robbers as a sideline. The robbers make their haul, buy a few pigs and sheep to sacrifice to you, and you throw in with the fiends besides, and between you you have carried my master off. Where is he hidden now? Quick now, out with the truth, and save yourselves a beating.”
The two gods were flustered and said, “Great Sage, you blame us wrongly. The fiend is not on your humble gods' mountain, and is not under our jurisdiction. But of where the wind sounded in the night, your humble gods do know a little.”
Pilgrim said, “Since you know, then out with it, every bit.” The earth god said, “That fiend who carried off your master went away to the due south of here, a thousand lǐ distant. There is a mountain over there, called the Mountain of Hollow Emptiness.
“In the mountain there is a cave, called the Bottomless Cave. It is the fiend of that mountain who came here, worked her transformations and carried him off.”
Pilgrim heard it, and privately his heart was shaken. He shouted the mountain god and the earth god away, gathered in his magic body, showed his true form again, and said to Bajie and Sha Monk, “Our master has gone a long way off.” Bajie said, “If it is far, we ride the cloud and chase after him.”
That fine idiot — with one bound he raised a wild wind and went first; after him came Sha Monk riding his cloud; and the white horse, being a dragon prince by birth, carried the baggage and trod the wind and mist as well; and the Great Sage at once rose on his somersault, and came straight south.
Before long a great mountain came in sight and blocked the feet of their clouds. The three of them took hold of the horse and all brought their clouds to a stop. They saw that mountain:
Its summit rubs the blue river of heaven, its peaks join the azure sky.
Round about, ten thousand thousand mingled trees; birds coming and going, chattering and squalling.
Tigers and leopards move in ranks; roebuck and deer travel in clumps.
On the sunward side, jewel flowers and jasper grasses are fragrant;
on the shaded side, the winter snow and the stubborn ice do not melt.
Rugged steeps and ridges, pared walls and hanging cliffs.
Peaks standing bolt upright, gorges winding and deep.
Pines darkly massed, rocks in glittering scree — the traveller sees it and his heart shrinks.
Of the woodcutter who gathers firewood there is not a shadow; of the immortal lad who picks herbs there is not a trace.
The tigers and leopards before your eyes can raise a mist; over all the ground the foxes work their wind at will.
Bajie said, “Brother, a mountain as sheer as this must surely have a fiend on it.” Pilgrim said, “No need to say it — high mountains have always had monsters; how should steep ridges be without spirits?”
He called, “Sha Monk, you and I will stay here, and set Bajie to go down first into the fold of the mountain and listen about — see which road is good to walk, whether there really is a cave dwelling, and then see where the door opens; make careful enquiry into it all, so that we may go together to look for our master and rescue him.”
Bajie said, “Old Hog's bad luck — always me taken first to carry the pot.” Pilgrim said, “Last night you said the whole thing rested on you. Why are you flinching now?” Bajie said, “Do not shout. Wait, I will go.”
The idiot put down his rake, shook out his clothes, and empty-handed sprang down the high mountain to look for a path.
As for how this venture turned out, whether for good or ill, listen to the explanation in the next chapter.