We were telling you that when the king saw Pilgrim Sun’s ability to summon dragons and command sages, he immediately applied his treasure seal to the travel rescript. He was about to hand it back to the Tang Monk and permit him to take up the journey once more, when the three Daoists went forward and prostrated themselves before the steps of the Hall of Golden Chimes. The king left his dragon throne hurriedly and tried to raise them with his hands. “State Preceptors,” he said, “why do you three go through such a great ceremony with us today?” “Your Majesty,” said the Daoists, “we have been upholding your reign and providing security for your people here for these twenty years. Today this priest has made use of some paltry tricks of magic and robbed us of all our credit and ruined our reputation. Just because of one rainstorm, Your Majesty has pardoned even their crime of murder. Are we not being treated lightly? Let Your Majesty withhold their rescript for the moment and allow us brothers to wage another contest with them. We shall see what happens then.”
That king was in truth a confused man: he would side with the east when they mentioned east, and with the west when they mentioned west. Indeed, putting away the travel rescript, he said, “State Preceptors, what sort of contest do you wish to wage with them?” “A contest of meditation,” said the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal. “That’s no good,” said the king, “for the monk is reared in the religion of meditation. He must be well trained in such mysteries before he dares receive the decree to acquire scriptures. Why do you want to wage such a contest with him?” “This contest,” said the Great Immortal, “is not an ordinary one, for it has the name of the Epiphany of Saintliness by the Cloud Ladder.” “What do you mean by that?” asked the king. The Great Immortal said, “We need one hundred tables, fifty of which will be made, by piling one on top of the other, into an altar of meditation. Each contestant must ascend to the top without using his hands or a ladder, but only with the help of a cloud. We shall also agree on how many hours we shall remain immobile while sitting on the top of the altar.”
When he learned that it was to be such a difficult contest, the king put the question to the pilgrims, saying, “Hey, monks! Our State Preceptor would like to wage with you a contest of meditation, called the Epiphany of Saintliness by the Cloud Ladder. Can any one of you do it?” When Pilgrim heard this, he fell silent and gave no reply. “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “why aren’t you saying anything?” “Brother, to tell you the truth,” said Pilgrim, “I’m quite capable of performing such difficult feats as kicking down the sky or overturning wells, stirring up oceans or upending rivers, carrying mountains or chasing the moon, and altering the course of stars and planets. I’m not afraid, in fact, of even having my head split open or cut off, of having my stomach ripped apart and my heart gouged out, or of any such strange manipulations. But if you ask me to sit and meditate, I’ll lose the contest even before I begin! Where could I, tell me, acquire the nature to sit still? Even if you were to chain me to an iron pillar, I would still try to climb up and down. I can never manage to sit still.”
“But I know how to sit and meditate,” the Tang Monk blurted out suddenly.
“Marvelous! Just marvelous!” said Pilgrim, highly pleased. “How long can you do this?” “I met some lofty Chan masters when I was young,” said Tripitaka, “who expounded to me the absolutely crucial foundation of quiescence and concentration in order to preserve my spirit. Shut up alone in the so-called Lifeand-Death Meditative Confinement, I had managed to sit still for two or three years at least.” “If you do that, Master,” said Pilgrim, “we won’t need to go acquire scriptures! At most, I don’t think it will be necessary for you to sit for more than three hours here before you will be able to come down.” “But Disciple,” said Tripitaka, “I can’t get up there.” “You step forward and accept the challenge,” said Pilgrim. “I’ll send you up there.” Indeed, the elder pressed his palms together before his chest and said, “This humble priest knows how to sit in meditation.” The king at once gave the order for the altars to be built. Truly, a nation has the strength to topple mountains! In less than half an hour, two altars were built on the left and right of the Hall of Golden Chimes.
Coming down from the hall, the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal went to the middle of the courtyard. He leaped into the air and at once a mat of clouds formed under his feet and took him up to the altar to the west, where he sat down. Pilgrim meanwhile pulled off one strand of his hair and caused it to change into a spurious form of himself, standing down below to accompany Eight Rules and Sha Monk. He himself changed into an auspicious cloud of five colors to carry the Tang Monk into the air and lift him to sit on the altar to the east. He then changed himself into a tiny mole cricket and flew to alight on Eight Rules’s ear to whisper to him, “Brother, look up and watch Master with care. Don’t speak to the substitute of old Monkey!” Laughing, Idiot said, “I know! I know!”
We tell you now about the Deer-Strength Great Immortal sitting on the embroidered cushion in the hall, where he watched the two contestants for a long time and found them quite equally matched. This Daoist decided to give his elder brother some help: pulling a stubby piece of hair from the back of his head, he rolled it with his fingers into a tiny ball and filliped it onto the head of the Tang Monk. The piece of hair changed into a huge bedbug and began to bite the elder. At first, the elder felt an itch, after which it changed to pain. Now, one of the rules in meditation is that one cannot move one’s hands; when one does, it is an immediate admission of defeat. As the elder found the itch and pain to be quite unbearable, he sought to find relief by wriggling his head against the collar of his robe. “Oh dear!” said Eight Rules. “Master is going to have a fit!” “No,” said Sha Monk, “he might be having a headache.” Hearing this, Pilgrim said, “My master is an honest gentleman. If he said he knew how to practice meditation, he would be able to do it. A gentleman does not lie! Stop speculating, the two of you, and let me go up to take a look.”
Dear Pilgrim! He buzzed up there and alighted on the head of the Tang Monk, where he discovered a bedbug about the size of a bean biting the elder. Hurriedly, he removed it with his hand, and then he gave his master a few gentle scratches. His itch and pain relieved, the elder once more sat motionless on the altar. “The bald head of a priest,” thought Pilgrim to himself, “can’t even hold a louse! How could a bedbug get into it? It must be, I suppose, a stunt of that Daoist, trying to harm my master. Ha! Ha! Since they haven’t quite reached a decision yet in this contest, let old Monkey give him a taste of his own tricks!” Flying up into the air until he reached a height beyond the roof of the palace, he shook his body and changed at once into a centipede at least seven inches in length. It dropped down from the sky and landed on the Daoist’s upper lip before his nostrils, where it gave him a terrific bite. Unable to sit still any longer, the Daoist fell backwards from the altar head over heels and almost lost his life. He was fortunate enough to have all the officials rush forward to pull him up. The horrified king at once asked the Grand Preceptor before the Throne to help him go to the Pavilion of Cultural Florescence to be washed and combed. Pilgrim, meanwhile, changed himself again into the auspicious cloud to carry his master down to the courtyard before the steps, where he was declared the winner.
The king wanted to let them go, but the Deer-Strength Great Immortal again said to him, “Your Majesty, my elder brother has been suffering from a suppressed chill; when he goes up to a high place, the cold wind he’s exposed to will bring on his old sickness. That was why the monk was able to gain the upper hand. Let me now wage with them a contest of guessing what’s behind the boards.” “What do you mean by that?” asked the king. Deer-Strength said, “This humble Daoist has the ability to gain knowledge of things even if they were placed behind boards. Let’s see if those monks are able to do the same. If they could outguess me, let them go; but if not, then let them be punished according to Your Majesty’s wishes so that our fraternal distress may be avenged and that our services to the kingdom for these twenty years may remain untainted.”
Truly that king is exceedingly confused! Swayed by such fraudulent words, he at once gave the order for a red lacquered chest to be brought to the inner palace. The queen was asked to place a treasure in the chest before it was carried out again and set before the white-jade steps. The king said to the monks and the Daoists, “Let both sides wage your contest now and see who can guess the treasure inside the chest.” “Disciple,” said Tripitaka, “how could we know what’s in the chest?” Pilgrim changed again into a mole cricket and flew up to the head of the Tang Monk. “Relax, Master,” he said, “let me go take a look.” Dear Great Sage! Unnoticed by anyone, he flew up to the chest and found a crack at the base, through which he crept inside. On a red lacquered tray he found a set of palace robes: they were the empire blouse and cosmic skirt. Quickly he picked them up and shook them loose; then he bit open the tip of his tongue and spat a mouthful of blood onto the garments, crying, “Change!” They changed instantly into a torn and worn-out cassock; before he left, however, he soaked it with his bubbly and stinking urine. After crawling out again through the crack, he flew back to alight on the Tang Monk’s ear and said, “Master, you may guess that it is a torn and worn-out cassock.” “He said that it was some kind of treasure,” said Tripitaka. “How could such a thing be a treasure?” “Never mind,” said Pilgrim, “for what’s important is that you guess correctly.”
As the Tang Monk took a step forward to announce what he guessed was in the chest, the Deer-Strength Great Immortal said, “I’ll guess first. The chest contains an empire blouse and a cosmic skirt.” “No! No!” cried the Tang Monk. “There’s only a torn and worn-out cassock in the chest.” “How dare he?” said the king. “This priest thinks that there is no treasure in our kingdom. What’s this worn-out cassock that he speaks of? Seize him!” The two rows of palace guards immediately wanted to raise their hands, and the Tang Monk became so terrified that he pressed his palms together and shouted, “Your Majesty, please pardon this humble priest for the moment. Open the chest; if it were indeed a treasure, this humble priest would accept his punishment. But if it were not, wouldn’t you have wrongly accused me?” The king had the chest opened, and when the attendant to the throne lifted out the lacquered tray, sitting on it was indeed one torn and worn-out cassock! “Who put this thing here?” cried the king, highly incensed, and from behind the dragon seat the queen of the three palaces came forward. “My lord,” she said, “it was I who personally placed the empire blouse and the cosmic skirt inside the chest. How could they change into something like this?” “Let my royal wife retire,” said the king, “for we are well aware of the fact that all the things used in the palace are made of the finest silk and embroidered materials. How could there be such a shabby object?” He then said to his attendants, “Bring us the chest. We ourselves will hide something in it and try again.”
The king went to his imperial garden in the rear and picked from his orchard a huge peach, about the size of a rice bowl, which he placed in the chest. The chest was brought out and the two parties were told to guess once more. “Disciples,” said the Tang Monk, “he wants us to guess again.” “Relax,” said Pilgrim. “Let me go and take another look.” With a buzz, he flew away and crawled inside the chest as before. Nothing could have been more agreeable to him than what he found: a peach. Changing back into his original form, he sat in the chest and ate the fruit so heartily that every morsel on both sides of the groove was picked clean. Leaving the stone behind, he changed back into the mole cricket and flew back onto the Tang Monk’s ear, saying, “Master, say that it’s a peach’s pit.” “Disciple,” said the elder, “don’t make a fool of me! If I weren’t so quick with my mouth just now, I would have been seized and punished. This time we must say it’s some kind of treasure. How could a peach’s pit be a treasure?” “Have no fear,” said Pilgrim. “You’ll win, and that’s all that matters!”
Tripitaka was just about to speak when the Goat-Strength Great Immortal said, “This humble Daoist will guess first: it is a peach.” “Not a peach,” said Tripitaka, “but a fleshless peach’s pit.” “It’s a peach we put in ourselves,” bellowed the king. “How could it be a pit? Our third Preceptor of State has guessed correctly.” “Your Majesty,” said Tripitaka, “please open the chest and see for yourself.” The attendant before the throne went to open the chest and lifted up the tray: it was in truth a pit, entirely without any peel or flesh. When the king saw this, he became quite frightened and said, “O State Preceptors, don’t wage any more contests with them. Let them go! The peach was picked by our own hands, and now it turns out to be a pit. Who could have eaten it? The spirits and gods must be giving them secret assistance.” When Eight Rules heard the words, he grinned sardonically to Sha Monk, saying, “Little does he realize how many years of peach eating are behind this!”
Just then, the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal walked out from the Pavilion of Cultural Florescence after he had been washed and combed. “Your Majesty,” he said as he walked up the hall, “this monk knows the magic of object removal. Give me the chest, and I’ll destroy his magic. Then we can have another contest with him.” “What do you want to do?” asked the king. Tiger-Strength said, “His magic can remove only lifeless objects but not a human body. Put this Daoist youth in the chest, and he’ll never be able to remove him.” The youth indeed was hidden in the chest, which was then brought down again from the hall to be placed before the steps. “You, monk,” said the king, “guess again what sort of treasure we have inside.” Tripitaka said, “Here it comes again!” “Let me go and have another look,” said Pilgrim. With a buzz, he flew off and crawled inside, where he found a Daoist lad. Marvelous Great Sage! What readiness of mind! Truly
Such agility is rare in the world!
Such cleverness is uncommon indeed!
Shaking his body once, he changed himself into the form of one of those old Daoists, whispering as he entered the chest, “Disciple.”
“Master,” said the lad, “how did you come in here?” “With the magic of invisibility,” said Pilgrim. The lad said, “Do you have some instructions for me?” “The priest saw you enter the chest,” said Pilgrim, “and if he made his guess a Daoist lad, wouldn’t we lose to him again? That’s why I came here to discuss the matter with you. Let’s shave your head, and we’ll then make the guess that you are a monk.” The Daoist lad said, “Do whatever you want, Master, just so that we win. For if we lose to them again, not only our reputation will be ruined, but the court also may no longer revere us.” “Exactly,” said Pilgrim. “Come over here, my child. When we defeat them, I’ll reward you handsomely.” He changed his golden-hooped rod into a sharp razor, and hugging the lad, he said, “Darling, try to endure the pain for a moment. Don’t make any noise! I’ll shave your head.” In a little while, the lad’s hair was completely shorn, rolled into a ball, and stuffed into one of the corners of the chest. He put away the razor, and rubbing the lad’s bald head, he said, “My child, your head looks like a monk’s all right, but your clothes don’t fit. Take them off and let me change them for you.” What the Daoist lad had on was a crane’s-down robe of spring-onion white silk, embroidered with the cloud pattern and trimmed with brocade. When he took it off, Pilgrim blew on it his immortal breath, crying, “Change!” It changed instantly into a monk shirt of brown color, which Pilgrim helped him put on. He then pulled off two pieces of hair which he changed into a wooden fish and a tap. “Disciple,” said Pilgrim, as he handed over the fish and the tap to the lad, “you must listen carefully. If you hear someone call for the Daoist youth, don’t ever leave this chest. If someone calls ‘Monk,’ then you may push open the chest door, strike up the wooden fish, and walk out chanting a Buddhist sūtra. Then it’ll be complete success for us.” “I only know,” said the
lad, “how to recite the Three Officials Scripture, the Northern Dipper Scripture,
or the Woe-Dispelling Scripture. I don’t know how to recite any Buddhist sūtra.”
Pilgrim said, “Can you chant the name of Buddha?” “You mean Amitābha,” said the lad. “Who doesn’t know that?” “Good enough! Good enough!” said Pilgrim. “You may chant the name of Buddha. It’ll spare me from having to teach you anything new. Remember what I’ve told you. I’m leaving.” He changed back into a mole cricket and crawled out, after which he flew back to the ear of the Tang Monk and said, “Master, just guess it’s a monk.” Tripitaka said, “This time I know I’ll win.” “How could you be so sure?” asked Pilgrim, and Tripitaka replied, “The sūtras said, ‘The Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṅgha are the Three Jewels.’ A monk therefore is a treasure.”
As they were thus talking among themselves, the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal said, “Your Majesty, this third time it is a Daoist youth.” He made the declaration several times, but nothing happened nor did anyone make an appearance. Pressing his palms together, Tripitaka said, “It’s a monk.” With all his might, Eight Rules screamed, “It’s a monk in the chest!” All at once the youth kicked open the chest and walked out, striking the wooden fish and chanting the name of Buddha. So delighted were the two rows of civil and military officials that they shouted bravos repeatedly; so astonished were the three Daoists that they could not utter a sound. “These priests must have the assistance from spirits and gods,” said the king. “How could a Daoist enter the chest and come out a monk? Even if he had an attendant with him, he might have been able to have his head shaved. How could he know how to take up the chanting of Buddha’s name? O Preceptors! Please let them go!”
“Your Majesty,” said the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal, “as the proverb says, ‘The warrior has found his peer, the chess player his match.’ We might as well make use of some martial arts we learned in our youth at Zhongnan Mountain and challenge them to a greater competition.” “What sort of martial arts did you learn?” asked the king. Tiger-Strength replied, “We three brothers all have acquired some magic abilities: cut off our heads, and we can put them back on our necks; open our chests and gouge out our hearts, and they will grow back again; inside a cauldron of boiling oil, we can take baths.” Highly startled, the king said, “These three things are all roads leading to certain death!” “Only because we have such magic power,” said Tiger-Strength, “do we dare make so bold a claim. We won’t quit until we have waged this contest with them.” The king said in a loud voice, “You priests from the Land of the East, our Preceptor of States are unwilling to let you go. They wish to wage one more contest with you in head cutting, stomach ripping, and going into a cauldron of boiling oil to take a bath.”
Pilgrim was still assuming the form of the mole cricket, flying back and forth to make his secret report. When he heard this, he retrieved his hair that had been changed into his substitute, and he himself changed at once back into his true form. “Lucky! Lucky!” he cried with loud guffaws. “Business has come to my door!” “These three things,” said Eight Rules, “will certainly make you lose your life. How could you say that business has come to your door?” “You still have no idea of my abilities!” said Pilgrim. “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “you are quite clever, quite capable in those transformations. Aren’t those skills something already? What more abilities do you have?” Pilgrim said,
“Cut off my head and I still can speak,
Sever my arms, I still can beat you up!
My legs amputated, I still can walk.
My belly, ripped open, will heal again,
Smooth and snug as a wonton people make:
A tiny pinch and it’s completely formed.
To bathe in boiling oil is easier still;
Like warm liquid cleanse me of dirt it will.”
When Eight Rules and Sha Monk heard these words, they roared with laughter. Pilgrim went forward and said, “Your Majesty, this young priest knows how to have his head cut off.” “How did you acquire such an ability?” asked the king. “When I was practicing austerities in a monastery some years ago,” said Pilgrim, “I met a mendicant Chan master, who taught me the magic of head cutting. I don’t know whether it works or not, and that’s why I want to try it out right now.” “This priest is so young and ignorant!” said the king, chuckling. “Is head cutting something to try out? The head is, after all, the very fountain of the
six kinds of yang energies in one’s body. If you cut it off, you’ll die.” “That’s
what we want,” said Tiger-Strength. “Only then can our feelings be relieved!” Besotted by the Daoist’s words, the foolish ruler immediately gave the decree for an execution site to be prepared.
Once the command was given, three thousand imperial guards took up their positions outside the gate of the court. The king said, “Monk, go and cut off your head first.” “I’ll go first! I’ll go first!” said Pilgrim merrily. He folded his hands before his chest and shouted, “State Preceptors, pardon my presumption for taking my turn first!” He turned swiftly and was about to dash out. The Tang Monk grabbed him, saying, “O Disciple! Be careful! Where you are going isn’t a playground!” “No fear!” said Pilgrim. “Take off your hands! Let me go!”
The Great Sage went straight to the execution site, where he was caught hold of by the executioner and bound with ropes. He was then led to a tall mound and pinned down on top of it. At the cry “Kill,” his head came off with a swishing sound. Then the executioner gave the head a kick, and it rolled off like a watermelon to a distance of some forty paces away. No blood, however, spurted from the neck of Pilgrim. Instead, a voice came from inside his stomach, crying, “Come, head!” So alarmed was the Deer-Strength Great Immortal by the sight of such ability that he at once recited a spell and gave this charge to the local spirit and patron deity: “Hold down that head. When I have defeated the monk, I’ll persuade the king to turn your little shrines into huge temples, your idols of clay into true bodies of gold.” The local spirit and the god, you see, had to serve him since he knew the magic of the Five Thunders. Secretly, they indeed held Pilgrim’s head down. Once more Pilgrim cried, “Come, head!” But the head stayed on the ground as if it had taken root; it would not move at all. Somewhat anxious, Pilgrim rolled his hands into fists and wrenched his body violently. The ropes all snapped and fell off; at the cry “Grow,” a head sprang up instantly from his neck. Every one of the executioners and every member of the imperial guards became terrified, while the officer in charge of the execution dashed inside the court to make this report: “Your Majesty, that young priest had his head cut off, but another head has grown up.” “Sha Monk,” said Eight Rules, giggling, “we truly had no idea that Elder Brother has this kind of talent!” “If he knows seventy-two ways of transformation,” said Sha Monk, “he may have altogether seventy-two heads!”
Hardly had he finished speaking when Pilgrim came walking back, saying, “Master.” Exceedingly pleased, Tripitaka said, “Disciple, did it hurt?” “Hardly,” said Pilgrim, “it’s sort of fun!” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “do you need ointment for the scar?” “Touch me,” said Pilgrim, “and see if there’s any scar.” Idiot touched him and he was dumbfounded. “Marvelous! Marvelous!” he giggled. “It healed perfectly. You can’t feel even the slightest scar!”
As the brothers were chatting happily among themselves, they heard the king say, “Receive your rescript. We give you a complete pardon. Go away!” Pilgrim said, “We’ll take the rescript all right, but we want the Preceptor of State to go there and cut his head off too! He should try something new!” “Great Preceptor of State,” said the king, “the priest is not willing to pass you up. If you want to compete with him, please try not to frighten us.” Tiger-Strength had no choice but to go up to the site, where he was bound and pinned to the ground by several executioners. One of them lifted the sword and cut off his head, which was then kicked some thirty paces away. Blood did not spurt from his trunk either, and he, too, gave a cry, “Come, head!” Hurriedly pulling off a piece of hair, Pilgrim blew on it his immortal breath, crying, “Change!” It changed into a yellow hound, which dashed into the execution site, picked up the Daoist’s head with its mouth, and ran to drop it into the imperial moat. The Daoist, meanwhile, called for his head three times without success. He did not, you see, have the ability of Pilgrim, and there was no possibility that he could produce another head. All at once, bright crimson gushed out from his trunk. Alas!
Though for wind and rain he can send and call,
’Gainst a right-fruit god he’s no match at all.
In a moment, he fell to the dust, and those gathered about him discovered that he was actually a headless tiger with yellow fur.
The officer in charge of the execution went again to memorialize. “Your Majesty,” he said, “the Great Preceptor of State’s head was cut off, but it could not grow back again. He perished in the dust and then he became a headless tiger with yellow fur.” On hearing this, the king paled with fright and stared at the remaining two Daoists with unblinking eyes. Rising from his cushion, DeerStrength said, “My Elder Brother must have been fated to die at this particular moment. But how could he be a yellow tiger? This has to be that monk’s roguery. He is using some kind of deceptive magic to change my elder brother into a beast. I won’t spare him now. I insist on having a competition of stomach ripping and heart gouging.”
When the king heard this, he calmed down and said, “Little priest, our Second Preceptor of State wants to wage another contest with you.” “This little priest,” said Pilgrim, “has not eaten much prepared food for a long time. The other day when we were journeying to the West, a kind patron kept asking us to eat and I stuffed myself with more pieces of steamed bread than I should have taken. I have been having a stomachache since, and I fear that I may have worms. This contest, therefore, can’t be more timely, for I want very much to borrow Your Majesty’s knife to rip open my stomach, so that I may take out my viscera and clean out my stomach and spleen before I dare proceed to see Buddha in the Western Heaven.” When the king heard this, he gave the order, “Take him to the execution site.” A throng of captains and guards came forward to pull and tug at Pilgrim, who pushed them back, saying, “I don’t need people to hold me. I’m going to walk there myself. There’s one thing, however. I don’t want my hands tied, for I want to wash and clean out my viscera.” The king at once gave the order, “Don’t tie his hands.”
With a swagger, Pilgrim walked down to the execution site. Leaning himself on a huge pillar, he untied his robe and revealed his stomach. The executioner used a rope and tied his neck to the pillar; down below, another rope strapped his two legs also to the pillar. Then he wielded a sharp dagger and ripped Pilgrim’s chest downward, all the way to his lower abdomen. Pilgrim used both his hands to push open his belly, and then he took out his intestines, which he examined one by one. After a long pause, he put them back inside, coil for coil exactly as before. Grasping the skins of his belly and bringing them together with his hands, he blew his magic breath on his abdomen, crying, “Grow!” At once his belly closed up completely. So astonished was the king that he presented with both his hands the rescript to Pilgrim, saying, “Holy monk, please do not delay your westward journey any further. Take your rescript and leave.” “The rescript is a small matter,” said Pilgrim, chuckling. “How about asking Second Preceptor of State to go through with the cutting and ripping?” “Don’t put the blame on us,” said the king to Deer-Strength. “It’s you who wanted to be his opponent. Please go! Please go!” “Relax!” said Deer-Strength. “I don’t think I’ll ever lose to him!”
Look at him! He even imitated the swagger of Pilgrim Sun as he headed for the execution site. There he was bound with ropes, and then his stomach was also ripped open by the dagger of the executioner. He, too, took out his guts and manipulated them with his hands. Pilgrim at once pulled off a piece of his hair, on which he blew a mouthful of his divine breath, crying, “Change.” It changed into a hungry hawk; spreading its wings and claws, it flew up to the Daoist and snatched him clean of his guts. Then it flew off somewhere to enjoy its catch leisurely, while the Daoist was reduced to
Of torn belly and empty trunk a ghost so drippy,
With less innards and no guts a soul most ditsy!
Kicking down the pillar, the executioner dragged the corpse over to have a closer look. Ah! It was actually a white-coated deer with horns.
The officer in charge of the execution again ran hurriedly to make the report: “Second Preceptor of State is most unlucky! As his stomach was ripped open, his viscera were snatched away by a hungry hawk. After he perished, his original form was a white-coated deer with horns.” More and more alarmed, the king asked, “How could he turn into a deer with horns?” The Goat-Strength Great Immortal said, “Yes, how could my elder brother die and turn into the form of a beast? It has to be the magic of that monk, used by him to plot against us. Let me avenge the deaths of my elder brothers.” “With what magic can you triumph over him?” asked the king, and Goat-Strength replied, “I’m going to wage with him the contest of bathing in a cauldron of hot oil.” The king indeed sent for a huge cauldron filled with fragrant oil and told them to begin the contest. “I thank you for your kindness,” said Pilgrim, “for this young priest has not had a bath for a long time. My skin, in fact, has been rather dried and itchy these past two days, and I must have it scalded to take away the irritation.”
The attendant before the throne indeed lighted a great fire on a huge pile of wood, and the oil in the cauldron was heated to boiling. When he was asked to step into it, Pilgrim pressed his palms together in front of him and asked, “Will it be a civil or a military bath?” “What’s the difference?” asked the king. Pilgrim said, “A civil bath means that I shall not remove my clothing. With my hands on my hips, I’ll jump in and jump out again after one little roll, so swiftly, in fact, that the clothes are not permitted to be soiled. If there’s the tiniest speck of oil on the garments, I lose. A military bath, however, will require a clothes rack and a towel. I’ll undress before I dive in, and I shall be permitted to play in there as I wish, including doing somersaults and cartwheels.” The king said to GoatStrength, “How do you want to compete with him? A civil or a military bath?” “If we take the civil bath,” said Goat-Strength, “I fear that his robes may have been treated so that oil will slide off him. Let’s have the military bath.” Stepping forward instantly, Pilgrim said, “Pardon me again for the presumption of taking my turn first.” Look at him! He took off his shirt and untied his tiger-skin kilt. With a bound, he leaped straight into the cauldron, splashing and frolicking in the boiling oil as if he were swimming in it.
When Eight Rules saw this, he bit his finger and said to Sha Monk, “We truly have misjudged this ape! During those sarcastic exchanges and the banter between us all this time, I thought he was simply joking! Little did I realize that he really had such ability!” They could hardly refrain from their marveling, but when Pilgrim saw them whispering back and forth to each other, he became highly suspicious and thought to himself, “That Idiot must be laughing at me! This is what the proverb means: ‘Intelligence has its work and incompetence its leisure.’ Old Monkey has to go through all this, and he’s quite comfortable over there! Let me put some ropes on him and see whether he’ll be more cautious!” As he bathed himself, he suddenly dove toward the bottom of the cauldron with a splash. There he changed himself into a small tack and all but disappeared.
The officer in charge of the proceedings went forward again to make the report: “Your Majesty, the young priest has been fried to death by the boiling oil.” Delighted, the king gave the order for the bones to be fished out for him to see, and the executioner went forward to rake the oil with an iron strainer. The holes in the strainer, however, were quite large, whereas the tack into which Pilgrim had changed himself was very tiny, and repeatedly, it fell through the holes after it had been scooped up. The officer had no choice but to come back with this word: “The priest’s body is tender and his bones are frail. He seems to have melted completely!”
The king at once shouted, “Seize those three monks!” Seeing how savage were the looks of Eight Rules, the palace guards rushed at him first and threw him to the ground, tying both of his hands behind his back. Tripitaka was so terrified that he cried out in a loud voice, “Your Majesty, please pardon this humble cleric for the moment. Since that disciple of mine embraced our faith, he has made merit again and again. Today his affront to the Preceptor of State has led to his death in a cauldron of oil, and this humble cleric certainly has no desire to cling to my own life. Moreover, just as the officials are ruling over the people, so are you the ruler above all, and if you as king ask me, your subject, to die, how could I dare not die? But the one who died first has already become a spirit, and this is the reason I beg you for a moment’s grace. Grant me half a cup of cold water or a bowl of thin gruel; give me also three paper horses and permit me to go before the cauldron to present these offerings and to express my regard for him as a disciple. Then I will accept whatever punishment you have for me.” On hearing this, the king said, “All right! The Chinese are a very loyal people indeed!” He asked that the Tang Monk be given the rice gruel and paper money.
The Tang Monk requested that Sha Monk go with him below the steps, while a few of the guards dragged Eight Rules by the ears up to the cauldron. Facing it, the Tang Monk offered the following invocation:
“My dear disciple, Sun Wukong!
Since taking precepts at the grove of Chan,
What love you showed me on our westward way.
We hoped jointly to perfect the Great Dao.
How could I know you would perish this day!
You lived for finding scriptures when alive;
In death your mind from Buddha must not stray.
Your gallant soul afar should wait to rise
To Thunderclap as ghost from Hades’ dark sway.”
On hearing this prayer, Eight Rules said, “Master, that’s not the proper invocation. Sha Monk, hold up the rice offering for me. Let me pray!” Bound and pinned to the ground, Idiot gasped out these words:
“You brazen, disaster-courting ape!
You ignorant BanHorsePlague.
You brazen, death-deserving ape!
You deep-fried BanHorsePlague!
Monkey is bumped off!
HorsePlague’s uprooted!”
Pilgrim Sun was, of course, still in the bottom of the cauldron. When he heard these castigations from Idiot, he could no longer restrain himself and at once changed back into his original form. Standing up stark naked in the cauldron, he shouted, “You overstuffed coolie! Whom are you castigating?” “Disciple,” said the Tang Monk when he saw Pilgrim, “you almost frightened me to death!” Sha Monk said, “Elder Brother simply loves to play dead!” The civil and military officials all rushed up the steps to report: “Your Majesty, that priest did not die. He has emerged again from the cauldron.” Fearing that he might be found guilty of making a false report to the throne, the officer in charge of execution said, “He is dead all right. But today happens to be a rather inauspicious day and the ghost of that young priest is now manifesting itself.”
Maddened by what he heard, Pilgrim leaped out of the cauldron, dried himself from the oil, and threw on his clothes. Dragging that officer over, he whipped out his iron rod and one blow on the head reduced him to a meat patty. “What ghost is this who’s manifesting itself?” he huffed. Those officials were so terrified that they freed Eight Rules at once and knelt on the ground, pleading, “Pardon us! Pardon us!” The king, too, wanted to leave his dragon throne, but he was caught by Pilgrim, who said, “Your Majesty, don’t walk away. Tell your third Preceptor of State to go into the cauldron also.” Trembling all over, the king said, “Third Preceptor of State, save our life. Go into the cauldron quickly so that the monk won’t hit us.” Goat-Strength went down the steps from the hall and took off his clothes like Pilgrim. Leaping into the cauldron of boiling oil, he began to cavort and bathe himself.
Letting go of the king, Pilgrim approached the cauldron and told the fire tenders to add more wood while he put his hand into the oil. Aha! That boiling oil felt ice cold. He thought to himself: “It was very hot when I took the bath, but feel how cold it is now that he’s washing in there. I know. It has to be some dragon king who is giving him protection here.” Leaping into the air, he recited a
spell that began with the letter Oṁ and instantly summoned the Dragon King of
the Northern Ocean to his side. “You horn-growing earthworm!” said Pilgrim to him. “You scaly lizard! How dare you assist that Daoist by coiling a cold dragon around the bottom of the cauldron? You want him to display his power and gain the upper hand on me?”
Terribly intimidated, the Dragon King stammered out his answer: “Aoshun dares not do that! Perhaps the Great Sage has no knowledge of this: this cursed beast did go through quite an austere process of self-cultivation, to the point where he was able to cast off his original shell. He has acquired the true magic of the Five Thunders, while the rest of the magic powers he has are all those developed by heterodoxy, none fit to lead him to the true way of the immortals. The performance of this right now is also part of the Great Ripoff, which he has learned in the Little Mao Mountain,1 but the magic of his two associates had already been destroyed by the Great Sage and they had to reveal their original forms. This cold dragon which he has managed to cultivate by himself may deceive worldly folks, but how could it ever deceive the Great Sage? I shall arrest that cold dragon at once, and you can be certain that he will be deep-fried —bones, skins, and all!” “Take him away,” said Pilgrim, “and you’ll be spared a whipping!” Changing into a violent gust of wind, the Dragon King swooped down to the cauldron and dragged the cold dragon back to the ocean.
Pilgrim dropped down from the air and stood again before the steps with Tripitaka, Eight Rules, and Sha Monk. They saw that the Daoist was bobbing up and down in the oil, but his desperate efforts to get out were all to no avail. Every time he climbed up the wall of the cauldron, he would slip back down; in no time at all, his flesh dissolved, his skin was charred, and his bones left his body. “Your Majesty,” another officer in charge of execution went forward to report, “the Third Preceptor of State has passed away!” As tears streamed from his eyes, the king clutched at the imperial table before him and sobbed uncontrollably, crying:
“The human form is hard, hard indeed, to get!
Make no elixir when there’s no true guide.
You have charms and water to send for gods
But not the pill to make your life abide.
If perfection’s undone,
Could Nirvāṇa be won?
Your life’s precarious, your efforts are vain.
If you knew before such hardships you’d meet,
Why not stay safely in the mount? Abstain!”2
Truly
To touch gold, to smelt lead—of what use are they?
To summon wind, to beckon rain—still all is vain!
We do not know what will happen to master and disciples; let’s listen to the explanation in the next chapter.