圍在垓心 Surrounded and Driven Off
孫行者一條棒與那三個妖魔鬥經百五十合,天色將晚,勝負未分。只見那辟塵大王把扢撻藤閃一閃,跳過陣前,將旗搖了一搖。那夥牛頭怪簇擁上前,把行者圍在垓心,各掄兵器,亂打將來。行者見事不諧,唿喇的縱起觔斗雲,敗陣而走。那妖更不來趕,招回群妖,安排些晚食,眾各吃了。也叫小妖送一碗與唐僧,只待拿住孫行者等才要整治。那師父一則長齋,二則愁苦,哭啼啼的未敢沾唇不題。孙行者一条棒与那三个妖魔斗经百五十合,天色将晚,胜负未分。只见那辟尘大王把扢挞藤闪一闪,跳过阵前,将旗摇了一摇。那伙牛头怪簇拥上前,把行者围在垓心,各抡兵器,乱打将来。行者见事不谐,唿喇的纵起觔斗云,败阵而走。那妖更不来赶,招回群妖,安排些晚食,众各吃了。也叫小妖送一碗与唐僧,只待拿住孙行者等才要整治。那师父一则长斋,二则愁苦,哭啼啼的未敢沾唇不题。
逐句解 Line by line
Sun the Pilgrim with his single cudgel fought those three demons through a hundred and fifty bouts; the sky was growing late, and neither side had won.
合 is a bout or exchange, the unit these novels count a fight in, and a hundred and fifty of them is a very long engagement — thirty is the usual measure of a hard one. Pilgrim is not losing. He is simply not winning.
Then the Dust-Averting King gave his vine-staff a flourish, sprang out to the front of the line, and waved the banner once.
The king with the stick turns out to be the one with the tactics. He does not fight better; he signals. A reading: 辟 is bì.
That crowd of ox-headed monsters pressed forward in a mass, penned Pilgrim in the middle of the ring, and each swinging his weapon, laid on wildly.
垓心 is the dead centre of a surrounding formation — the word comes out of military writing and means precisely the place you do not want to be. A reading: 將 in 亂打將來 is the little jiāng that gives a verb its direction, not the jiàng of a general.
Seeing that things were going badly, Pilgrim sprang up on his somersault cloud with a whoosh and fled the field, beaten.
敗陣而走 — left the field defeated. The novel does not soften it, and Pilgrim does not either. He was outnumbered in the middle of a ring and he left. A reading: 斗 in 觔斗雲 is dǒu, the somersault.
The demons did not even come after him, but called their crowd back, laid on some supper, and all of them ate.
The most contemptuous line in the chapter, and nobody in it is trying to be contemptuous. 更不來趕 — they did not so much as give chase. They won, so they had dinner.
They also had a little demon take a bowl to the Tang Monk, meaning to see to him properly only when they had caught Sun the Pilgrim and the rest.
They feed their prisoner. It is not kindness — 整治 is what they are saving him for, a word that covers both dealing with a person and preparing a dish — but they feed him, because meat keeps better alive.
That master, first because he kept a lifelong fast and second because he was sick with grief, wept and sobbed and did not dare put it to his lips — of which no more for now.
The chapter's saddest sentence, and it gives two reasons in the wrong order. 長齋 is a permanent vegetarian fast, so he cannot eat demon food on principle; and he is weeping. A reading: 長 is cháng, long-sustained. 不題 is the storyteller closing a thread he means to pick up.
A hundred and fifty bouts and no result — and then somebody waving a flag decides it. The Dust-Averting King, the one who came out with a knotty stick instead of a weapon, is the one who thinks to signal the troops forward; the ox-headed rank and file close up, Pilgrim is penned in the 垓心, the dead centre of the ring, and he leaves.
The novel is entirely unsentimental about it. 敗陣而走, fled the field beaten, with no qualification. And the demons' response is worse than pursuit: 更不來趕 — they did not even bother to chase him. They called the troops in and had supper.
Then the chapter puts its prisoner in one sentence and leaves him there. A bowl is sent back to the Tang Monk, and he will not touch it — partly because he keeps a lifelong fast and partly because he is crying. The two reasons are given in that order, principle first and grief second, which is exactly how Tripitaka would have given them himself.