The poem says:
That mind1 is called pure when it holds nothing—
All quiet with not one thought arising.
Firmly restrain the monkey and the horse.
Guard both spirit and sperm to stay on course.
Discard the Six Robbers;
Awake to the Three Wains;2
Causations halted, all things will be plain.
Depraved forms destroyed, to true realm you rise
To sit and enjoy the Western paradise.3
We were telling you about our Tripitaka Tang, who, with such grim determination that he would have bitten through an iron nail, had managed to preserve his body from ruin. Moreover, he was fortunate enough to have had Pilgrim and his other assistants slaughter the scorpion spirit and rescue him from the Cave of the Lute. As they set out on their journey, it was the season of clear, clement weather again, when
Warm breezes oft wafted the wild-orchid scent;
Young bamboos cooled off as cleansing rain ceased.
None picked the moxa leaves all o’er the hills;
Rush flowers filled the streams to display their hues.
Bright pomegranates pleased the wandering bees.
Yellow birds bustled in the brook’s willow-shade.
Rice-cakes4 were not wrapped on a long journey
Though dragon boats now mourned at Miluo Stream.
As master and disciples enjoyed this scenery of the Double Fifth Festival season when the sun was high in the sky, they found once more a tall mountain blocking their path. Reining in his horse, the elder turned his head to address his disciples: “Wukong, there’s a mountain ahead of us. I fear that it may breed fiends. Please be careful.”
“Please don’t worry, Master,” replied Pilgrim. “We make submission to the faith in complete obedience. Why worry about fiends?” Delighted by what he heard, the elder urged his horse forward, and in a little while they arrived at a tall ledge on the mountain. This was what they saw as they looked around:
The peak’s pines and cedars join the clouds in blue;
Wild creepers hang on the cliff’s briars and thorns.
Ten thousand feet, lofty—
A thousand tiers, sheer hanging—
Ten thousand feet of lofty, rugged peak;
A thousand tiers of sheer, hanging buff.
Jade-green moss and lichen on dark rocks spread;
Large forests formed by tall junipers and elms.
Deep in the forest,
Listen to the birds:
Their skillful voices make singable songs.
The brooklet’s water flows like splashing jade;
The roadside’s petals rest as mounds of gold.
This wretched mount
So hard to scale!
Walk ten steps and not even one is flat!
Travelers meet in pairs the foxes and deer;
They face in twos both black apes and white fawns.
All at once there’s a fearsome tiger-roar,
Or the crane-cry that reaches Heaven’s court.
Yellow plums, red apricots make worthy fruits;
Wild grass and flowers are of name unknown.
The four of them entered the mountain and journeyed slowly for a long time. After they passed the summit, they went down the west slope until they came to a piece of level ground. Attempting to show off his energy, Zhu Eight Rules asked Sha Monk to pole the luggage while he raised high his muckrake with both his hands and went forward to drive the horse. The horse, however, was not at all afraid of him; though Eight Rules whooped and hollered, he kept on trotting slowly. “Brother,” said Pilgrim, “why are you driving him? Let him walk slowly.” “It’s getting late,” answered Eight Rules, “and we’ve been walking for a whole day since we ascended this mountain. I’m getting hungry. Let’s hurry and see if we can find a house where we can beg some food.” When Pilgrim heard this, he said, “In that case, let me make him run.” He waved the golden-hooped rod once and gave a shout: immediately, the horse shot away like an arrow on the level road. For what reason, you say, is the horse afraid of Pilgrim and not of Eight Rules? Pilgrim, you see, was appointed an official, the title being BanHorsePlague, at the Imperial stable in Heaven by the Jade Emperor five hundred years ago. Ever since that time, horses have been afraid of apes. Unable to hang on to the reins, our elder at this moment could only cling to the saddle and allow the horse to go in a gallop some twenty miles before it slowed again as it came upon some open fields.
At that moment, a sudden clang of gongs brought out from both sides of the road some thirty men, all armed with spears, scimitars, staffs, and rods. They barred the way and cried, “Monk! Where are you off to?” The Tang Monk was so terrified and shaking so violently that he fell down from the horse. Crouching in the bushes by the road, he could only say, “Great kings, spare me! Please spare me!” Two burly men at the head of the band said, “We won’t hit you, but you must leave us your travel money.” Only then did the elder realize that these were bandits. As he got up slowly, he stole a glance at them and saw that
One had a green face with fangs beating Jupiter’s;
One had round and bulging eyes like Death himself.
Their temples’ red hair seemed like soaring flames;
Like pins stuck to their chins were their yellow beards.
The two had striped tiger-skin caps on their heads
And sable battle kilts around their waists.
One held in his hands a wolf-teeth club,
And on one’s shoulder rested a knotty staff.
Indeed, this one was no less than a hill-pawing tiger!
Truly, that one looked like a dragon darting out of water!
When he saw how ferocious they were, Tripitaka had no choice but to get up, and pressing his palms together before him, he said, “Great kings, this humble priest is someone sent by the Tang emperor in the Land of the East to go to the Western Heaven to acquire scriptures. Since I left our capital, Chang’an, it has been many years; even if I had any travel money, I have long spent it. Those of us who have left the family live by begging. Where do I have cash? I beg the great kings to be kind and let this humble priest pass through.” The two bandit chiefs drew near and said, “We have resolved to stand guard by this main road like a tiger with the sole intention of picking up some cash or money. What do you mean by kindness? If you don’t have any money, take off your clothes quickly and leave us the white horse, too. We’ll let you pass then.” “Amitabha!” replied Tripitaka. “The robe on this poor priest has been made from cloth begged from one family and needles from another. It is a garment, in fact, that has come from patchwork begging! Wouldn’t it be just like killing me if you stripped me of it? You might be valiant men in this life, but you might become beasts in the next.”
Angered by what he heard, one of the bandits wielded a big rod and wanted to hit the elder, who did not say a word but thought to himself, “Alas! Now you boast of your rod, but you have little idea of my disciple’s rod!” The bandit, of course, did not permit any further discussion; lifting his rod, he started to shower the elder with blows. Now, our elder had never lied in his life before, but faced with such a dilemma, he had no choice but to mouth falsehood. “Please do not raise your hands, great kings, both of you,” he said. “I have a young disciple, who should arrive any moment. He has on him several ounces of silver, which I’ll be glad to give to you.” “This monk,” said the bandit, “can’t take any pain. Let’s tie him up.” His followers acted at once and bound their victim with a rope, after which he was hung high on a tree.
We tell you now about those three rowdy troublemakers, who were chasing the horse from behind. Laughing uproariously, Eight Rules said, “Master has gone off so quickly! I wonder where he’s waiting for us.” Then he caught sight of the elder hanging on a tree in the distance, and he said, “Look at master! He should have just waited for us. But no, he’s so spirited that he has to climb a tree for fun, swinging back and forth on a vine!” When Pilgrim saw that, he said, “Idiot, don’t babble! Isn’t master being hung up there? The two of you stay back, and let me go take a look.” Dear Great Sage! He jumped up to a knoll nearby, and when he stared in front of him, he recognized at once that there was a group of bandits. Secretly pleased, he thought to himself: “Lucky! Lucky! Business is at the door!” Walking down from the knoll, he changed with one shake of his body into a young priest wearing a clerical robe. He was only about sixteen years old, and he had a blue cloth-wrap on his shoulder. In big strides, he came up to where his master was, crying, “Master, what do you have to say for yourself? Who are these bad men?” “O disciple,” replied Tripitaka, “aren’t you going to rescue me? Why all these questions?”
“What sort of business are they engaged in?” asked Pilgrim. Tripitaka replied, “They are highwaymen; they barred my way and asked for toll money. As I had nothing on me, they tied me up and hung me here. They are waiting for you to show up to finish the discussion with them. If nothing works, we may have to give them this horse of ours.”
On hearing this, Pilgrim chuckled and said, “Master, you are so weak! There are many monks in the world, but few are as thin-skinned as you. The Tang emperor, Taizong, sent you to see Buddha in the Western Heaven. But who told you to give away this dragon horse?” “O disciple!” said Tripitaka. “They’ve already tied me up like this. If they want to beat me for fun, what shall I do?” “What did you say to them anyway?” asked Pilgrim. “They threatened me with beatings,” said Tripitaka, “until I had no choice but to make a confession about you.” “Master,” said Pilgrim, “you are such a lark! What kind of confession did you make about me?” Tripitaka replied, “I said that you had some travel money, just to make them stop hitting me. It was something to get me out of a jam.” “Fine! Fine! Fine!” said Pilgrim. “Thanks for doing me this favor! That’s exactly the sort of confession about me I want! If you can make it seventy or eighty times a month, old Monkey will have lots of business.”
When those bandits saw him chatting with his master like that, they spread out and had them entirely surrounded. “Little monk,” one of them said. “Your master told us that you had some travel money. Take it out quickly and your lives will be spared. If you but utter half a no, both of you will die on the spot!” Putting down his cloth wrap, Pilgrim said, “Officers, don’t make a clamor! There is some travel money, not much, in this wrap: about twenty shoes of gold and perhaps thirty ingots of polished silver. I haven’t made a count of the small change. If you want it, take the wrap, too, but please don’t hit my master. As an ancient book says:
Virtue is fundamental;
Riches are accidental.
What you want is really the most peripheral thing. We are those who have left the family, and there will be other places for us to beg. When we run into some aged person who wishes to feed and supply the monks, we will have allowances and we will have clothing. How much can we use or spend? I just hope that you will release my master, and I’ll offer you everything.” When those bandits heard these words, they were most pleased, all saying, “That old monk is so stingy, but this young one is quite generous.” One of the chiefs gave this command: “Release him!” When that elder got his life again, he leaped on the horse; without another thought for Pilgrim, he took whip in hand and headed straight back on the road from which he came.
“You are going the wrong way!” shouted Pilgrim hurriedly. Picking up his wrap, he gave chase at once, only to be barred by the bandits. “Where do you think you are going?” said the bandit leader. “Put your money down, before I start the torture!” “As I was saying,” chuckled Pilgrim, “the travel money ought to be divided into three portions.” “This young priest,” said a bandit chief, “is pretty cagey! Now he wants to keep a little for himself after his master’s gone. All right! Take it out first and let’s have a look. If there’s enough, we’ll let you have a tiny bit—so that you can buy some goodies to eat when you are by yourself.” “Oh, dear elder brother,” said Pilgrim, “that’s not what I meant. You think I really have travel money? What I meant was, that gold and silver you robbed from other people you must divide with me.” When the thief heard this, he became enraged. “This monk doesn’t know what’s good for him!” he hollered. “You are not willing to give me anything, and you ask me instead for something? Bah! Watch the beating!” He raised up his knotty staff and gave the bald head of Pilgrim seven or eight blows, but Pilgrim behaved as if nothing whatever had happened. “Dear elder brother,” he said, full of smiles, “if that’s how you hit people, you can hit me until next spring and I won’t consider you doing it for real.” Horrified, the bandit said, “This monk has quite a hard head!” “Hardly! Hardly!” said Pilgrim, chuckling. “You praise me too much! It’s just passable!” Without permitting further discussion, two more of the bandits joined their leader and started to shower blows on Pilgrim. “Please calm your anger, all of you,” said Pilgrim. “Let me take out something.”
Dear Great Sage! He gave his ear a rub and brought out a tiny embroidery needle. “Sirs,” he said, “I’m someone who has left the family, and I haven’t any travel money with me. I have only this needle, which I’ll be glad to give to you.” “What rotten luck!” said the bandit. “We released a wealthy priest and we have caught instead this poor, bald ass! You must be quite good at tailoring, I suppose. What do I need a needle for?”
When Pilgrim heard that he did not want the needle, he waved it once in his hand and it changed immediately into a rod with the thickness of a rice bowl. Growing fearful, the bandit said, “Though this monk appears to be young, he knows magic.” Sticking the rod into the ground, Pilgrim said to them, “If any of you can pick it up, it’s yours.” The two bandit chiefs at once went forward to try to grab it, but alas, it was as if dragonflies were attempting to shake a stone pillar. They could not even budge it half a whit! This rod, you see, happened to be the compliant golden-hooped rod, which tipped the scale in Heaven at thirteen thousand, five hundred pounds. How could those bandits have knowledge of this? The Great Sage walked forward and picked up the rod with no effort at all. Assuming the style of the Python Rearing its Body, he pointed at the bandits and said, “Your luck’s running out, for you have met old Monkey!” One of the bandit chiefs approached him and gave him another fifty or sixty blows. “Your hands must be getting tired!” chuckled Pilgrim. “Let old Monkey give you one stroke of the rod. I won’t do it for real either!” Look at him! One wave of the rod and it grew to about seventy feet, its circumference almost as big as a well. He banged it on the bandit, and he at once fell to the ground: his lips hugging the earth, he could not make another sound.
The other bandit chiefs shouted, “This baldy is so audacious! He has no travel money, but he has killed one of us instead!” “Don’t fret! Don’t fret!” said Pilgrim, laughing. “I’ll hit every one of you, just to make sure that all of you will be wiped out!” With another bang he beat to death the other bandit chief. Those small thieves were so terrified that they abandoned their weapons and fled for their lives in all directions.
We tell you now about that Tang Monk, who rode toward the east and was caught by Eight Rules and Sha Monk. “Master,” they said, “where are you going? You are heading in the wrong direction.” The elder pulled in his reins, saying, “Oh, disciples, go quickly and tell your elder brother to be merciful with his rod. Tell him not to kill all those bandits.” “Master, stay here,” said Eight Rules, “and let me go.” Idiot ran all the way back to the spot, shouting, “Elder Brother, Master tells you not to hit people.” “Brother,” said Pilgrim, “since when have I hit any people?”
“Where did those bandits go?” asked Eight Rules. Pilgrim replied: “All of them have scattered, but there are two of them sleeping here.” “Plague on you two!” said Eight Rules with a laugh. “You must have been up all night, if you can take hardship like this! Why not go elsewhere? Of all places, you have to sleep here!” Idiot walked up to them and took a closer look. “They are just like me,” he said, “sleeping soundly with their mouths open, they are drooling just a little.” “One stroke of old Monkey’s rod,” said Pilgrim, “has brought out their bean curd!” “How could there be bean curd in people’s heads?” asked Eight Rules. Pilgrim replied, “I beat their brains out!”
On hearing this, Eight Rules ran back hurriedly to say to the Tang Monk, “They have disbanded!” “My goodness! My goodness!” said Tripitaka. “Which road did they take?” Eight Rules said, “They have been beaten until their legs are stiff and straight. You think they can walk somewhere?” “Why, then, did you say that they have disbanded?” asked Tripitaka.
“They have been beaten to death!” said Eight Rules. “Isn’t that disbanding?” “How do they look now?” asked Tripitaka again, and Eight Rules said, “Two gaping holes in their heads.” “Untie the wrap,” said Tripitaka, “and take out a few pennies. Go somewhere quickly and see if you can buy two tapes with ointment to tape them up.” “You aren’t serious,” said Eight Rules, laughing. “Ointment can be taped on living people for their sores or boils. How could you cure the gaping holes of dead men?” “Are they really beaten to death?” asked Tripitaka, and he became terribly upset, so much so that he began to berate Pilgrim under his breath, calling him wretched ape and miserable simian as he turned around the horse. Soon, he and his two disciples arrived at the spot where they found two bloody corpses lying beneath the mountain slope.
Unable to bear the sight, the elder at once commanded Eight Rules: “Use your muckrake quickly and dig a hole to bury them. I’ll recite for them a scroll of scripture for the dead.” “You’ve asked the wrong man, Master,” said Eight Rules. “It was Pilgrim who killed these people, and he should be asked to bury them. Why do you make old Hog the grave-digger?” Pilgrim, however, was irritated by his master’s castigations, and therefore he shouted at Eight Rules, “You lazy coolie! Bury them quickly! A little tardiness and you, too, will get the rod!” Horrified, Idiot began digging at once beneath the slope. After the hole had reached a depth of about three feet, rocks and boulders in the ground resisted the rake. Abandoning his tool, our Idiot resorted to his snout to remove the rocks. When he hit the soft element again, one shove of his snout took away about two and a half feet of dirt and two shoves created a hole of about five feet. Thus the two bandits were buried and a mound was raised. “Wukong,” Tripitaka called out, “bring me some incense and candles, so that I may say a prayer and recite the scriptures.” “What silliness!” said Pilgrim, pouting. “Halfway up this mountain, when there is no village in front and no store behind us, where can I ask for incense and candles? There’s no place for us to buy some even if we have the money.” “Move aside, ape head!” said Tripitaka spitefully. “Let me pinch s ome dirt to use as incense and then I’ll pray.” And so,
Tripitaka left the saddle to mourn at a rustic grave;
The sage monk in kindness prayed to a lonely mound.
This was his supplication:
I bow to you noble ones,
Listen to all my reasons:
Have regard for this student,
From the East a Tang person.
The emperor Taizong by his own decree
To fetch scripture texts from the West sent me.
I came to this very place
And met you all face to face—
Natives of some prefecture or some district
Who have formed a gang on this hilly place.
With good words and kind
I begged you earnestly,
But you wouldn’t change your mind
And instead grew so angry.
When you met up with Pilgrim,
Two of you fell by his rod.
I pity greatly your corpses exposed,
And I cover you with moundfuls of sod.
I break bamboo for candles—
Though lightless,
They mean well.
I take stones for offerings;
Though tasteless,
Truth they tell.
If you should protest at the Hall of Darkness
And dig up the past,
Remember that his name is Sun
And my name is Chen.
A wrong has its wrongdoer,
And a debt its creditor.
Please don’t accuse this scripture seeker!
“Master,” said Eight Rules, chuckling, “you have neatly passed the buck! But when he hit these people, we weren’t around either.”
Tripitaka indeed scattered another pinch of dirt and prayed: “Noble ones, when you file suit, file it against Pilgrim only. Eight Rules and Sha Monk have nothing to do with this.” When the Great Sage heard these words, he could no longer refrain from snickering. “Master,” he said, “there’s not much kindness in you, is there? Because of your enterprise of seeking scriptures, I don’t know how much energy or exertion I’ve spent. Now I’ve slaughtered these two crummy thieves, and you tell them instead to go file suit against old Monkey. Though it was I who raised my hands to kill them, I did it only for you. If you hadn’t resolved to go to acquire scriptures in the Western Heaven, and if I hadn’t become your disciple, how could I end up killing people at this place? Now that you have said all those things, I might as well give them a little benediction!” He lifted up his iron rod and pounded it three times on the grave mound, saying, “You plague-ridden bandits! Listen to me! You gave me seven whacks here and eight whacks there with your rods, beating me until I was sorely annoyed because your blows caused me neither itch nor pain. So, I made the mistake of beating you to death. You may go anywhere you like to file suit against me, but old Monkey is not afraid.
The Jade Emperor knows me;
The devarājas follow me;
The Twenty-Eight Constellations fear me;
The Nine Luminaries are afraid of me;
The prefectural, district, and municipal deities kneel before me;
Equal to Heaven, the guardian of Mount Tai dreads me;
The Ten Kings of Hell once served as my attendants;
The Five Grand Deities5 have been my houseboys;
Whether they be Five Bureaus of the Three Realms,6
Or the Sundry Gods of the Ten Quarters,7
They regard me as an intimate friend.
You may go anywhere you like to lodge your complaint!”
When Tripitaka heard him using such strong language, he was quite shocked. “Oh, disciple,” he said, “my prayer was meant to make you appreciate the reverence for life and become a virtuous person. Why are you taking it so hard?” “Master,” replied Pilgrim, “what you’ve said is no joke! Anyway, let’s go find shelter for the night.” Still nursing his anger, the elder forced himself to mount the horse.
Thus the Great Sage Sun harbored feelings of hostility, while Eight Rules and Sha Monk, too, were swayed by enmity. In fact, master and disciples, as they followed the main road westward, only appeared to be cordial. Presently a village north of the road came into sight, and, pointing with his whip, Tripitaka said, “Let’s go over there to ask for shelter.” “Very good,” replied Eight Rules.
They went up to the village where the Tang Monk dismounted. As they looked about, they found that it was a rather nice place after all. You see
On the path wild blooms parade;
Motley trees the door blockade.
Mountain streams from distant banks flow;
On level fields mallow and wheat grow.
Sedge and reed dew-moistened, a small gull rests.
Willows in gentle breeze, a tired bird nests.
Fresh cedars, pine-studded, rival in green.
Red smartweeds’ bright hues with rushes are seen.
Village dogs bark;
Vesper cocks crow;
Cattle well-fed, cowboys now homeward go.
Yellow millet’s cooked for smoke’s in sight
From mountain homes at time of fading light.
As the elder walked forward, he saw an old man emerging from one of the village huts. The elder immediately greeted him, and the old man asked, “Where does the priest come from?” “This humble cleric,” replied Tripitaka, “is someone sent by imperial commission to seek scriptures in the Western Heaven. It is getting late as I pass through your honored region, and that is why I have come to ask for a night’s lodging.” With a chuckle, the old man said, “It is an enormous journey from your place to mine. How is it that you have scaled the mountains and forded the waters all by yourself?” “This humble cleric,” said Tripitaka, “also has three disciples in my company.”
“Where are your honored disciples?” asked the old man, and Tripitaka pointed with his hand to reply, “Those three standing near the main road.” Lifting his head, the old man discovered how hideous they looked and he immediately turned to try to flee inside. He was caught by Tripitaka, however, who said, “Old patron, I beg you to be merciful. Please grant us shelter for one night.” Trembling all over, the old man could hardly speak. He waved his head and his hand, saying, “No! No! No! These can’t be human beings! They must be monster-spirits!”
Attempting to placate him with a smile, Tripitaka said, “Please don’t be afraid, patron. My disciples are born like that. They are not monster-spirits.” “Oh, my father!” cried the old man. “One is a yakṣa, one is a horse-face, and one is a thunder squire.” On hearing this, Pilgrim shouted back, “The thunder squire is my grandson, the yakṣa is my great-grandson, and the horse-face is my greatgreat grandson.” When the old man heard this, his spirit left him and his soul fled; his face drained of all color, he only wanted to go inside. Tripitaka took hold of him and entered the thatched hall. Smiling again, he said, “Old Patron, don’t be afraid of them. All of them are quite rude, and they don’t know how to speak properly.”
As he was thus trying to pacify the old man, an old woman leading a child about five or six years old walked out from the rear. “Papa,” she said, “why are you fretting like that?” Only then did the old man say, “Mama, bring us some tea.” The old woman indeed left the child behind to go inside and brought out two cups of tea. After he drank it, Tripitaka turned to bow to the old woman, saying, “This humble cleric is someone sent by the Great Tang of the Land of the East to go acquire scriptures in the Western Heaven. I just arrived in your region and wanted to beg from you a night’s lodging. Because my three disciples are rather ugly in their appearances, the elder of your family has been struck with false alarm.” “If you are so intimidated by ugly appearances,” said the old woman, “what would happen if you faced tigers or wolves?” “Oh, Mama,” replied the old man, “it’s all right if they look ugly, but they are more scary once they open their mouths. I made the remark that they looked like a yakṣa, a horseface, and a thunder squire, and one of them shouted back, saying that the thunder squire was his grandson, the yakṣa his great-grandson, and the horse-face his great-great grandson. I was quite terrified by what I heard.”
“No! No!” said the Tang Monk. “The one who looks like a thunder squire happens to be my eldest disciple, Sun Wukong; the one with the horse-face is my second disciple, Zhu Wuneng, and the one who looks like a yakṣa is my third disciple, Sha Wujing. Though they may be ugly, they have embraced the faith of utter poverty and made submission to the virtuous fruit. They are no vicious demons or ferocious fiends. Why fear them?”
Greatly relieved by what they heard, the old couple said, “Please come in, please come in.” The elder walked out of the door to instruct his disciples, saying, “Just now the old man found you three most repulsive. When you go in now to meet him and his family, don’t offend them. All of you should behave more courteously.” “I’m both handsome and civilized,” said Eight Rules, “and I’m not sassy like elder brother.” “Indeed!” chuckled Pilgrim. “You’re a fine man, if it weren’t for that long snout, those big ears, and that hideous face!” “Stop wrangling,” said Sha Monk. “This isn’t the place for you to be smartalecks. Let’s go in! Let’s go in!”
Thereupon they brought the luggage and the horse inside, and after they reached the thatched hall, they made a bow before taking their seats. As she was both good and kind, the old woman took the little boy inside and then asked for rice to be cooked and a vegetarian meal to be prepared for master and disciples. After they ate, it grew dark and lamps were brought into the thatched hall so that the pilgrims could sit and chat. “Patron,” asked the elder, “what is your noble surname?” The elder replied, “My surname is Yang.” When asked about his age, the old man replied that he was seventy-four. “How many sons do you have?” asked Tripitaka again. The old man said, “Only one. Just now, the one following Mama is our little grandson.”
“I would like to greet your son,” said the elder, “if he’s willing to meet us.” “That fellow,” replied the elder, “is not worthy of your bow. Life is rather cruel to this old moron, because I can’t seem to be able to rear him. He’s no longer staying with us.” “Where is he then,” said Tripitaka, “and what sort of profession does he have?” “Pity! Pity!” sighed the old man, shaking his head. “If he had a profession somewhere, that would be lucky for me. Unfortunately he is wicked in thought and has no regard for his origin. All he cares for is to plunder and rob, to kill and burn. His friends are all rascals and ruffians. He went out about five days ago, and he hasn’t been back since.”
When Tripitaka heard this, he dared not reply, thinking to himself, “Perhaps he’s one of those beaten to death by Wukong . . .” As he grew more anxious, the elder rose from his seat and exclaimed, “My goodness! My goodness! How could such fine parents give birth to such a rebellious son!” Approaching them, Pilgrim said, “Venerable Sir, such a vile and pernicious offspring can only implicate his parents in dire troubles. Why keep him? Let me go find him and slay him for you!” “I would like to send him away, too,” said the old man, “but I have no other heir. Though he lacks talents, I must still leave him behind to dig my grave.” Smiling, both Eight Rules and Sha Monk said, “Elder Brother, you should mind your own business. You and I are not officials. If his family is unwilling, this affair should no longer concern us. Let us ask the patron for a bundle of hay instead so that we may make our bedding somewhere. By morning, we should be on our way.” The old man got up and took Sha Monk to the rear to pick up two bundles of hay. Then they were told to rest in a barn in the rear garden. After Pilgrim led the horse and Eight Rules poled the luggage to the barn, they retired, and we shall leave them for the moment.
We tell you now about the son of the old man Yang, who was indeed one of those bandits. After Pilgrim had beaten to death the two chiefs on the mountain slope, the thieves scattered and fled for their lives. By about the time of the fourth watch, however, they had regrouped and came to knock on the door of the Yang house. When he heard the noise, the old man put on his clothes at once and said, “Mama, he’s back.” “If he’s here,” said the old woman, “go open the door and let him in.” No sooner had he opened the door when those thieves swarmed inside, all crying, “We’re hungry! We’re hungry!” The son of old Yang hurried inside to wake up his wife, so that she could cook some rice. As there was no more firewood in the kitchen, he had to bring back some from the rear garden. Then he asked his wife in the kitchen, “Whose white horse is that in the rear garden?” “It belongs to some monks from the Land of the East,” said the wife, “who are on their way to seek scriptures. They came to ask for lodging last night, and Papa and Mama fed them dinner before they were sent to sleep in the barn back there.”
When the fellow heard this, he ran out to the thatched hall in front, laughing and clapping his hands. “Brothers,” he said, “we’re very lucky! Our foes are in the house!” “Which foes?” asked the thieves. The fellow replied, “The monks who killed our chiefs came to our house to ask for shelter. They are sleeping in the haystacks in our barn.” “How marvelous!” said the bandits. “Let’s catch these bald asses, and we’ll chop each of them into minced meat. For one thing, we’ll get the luggage and the horse; for another, we’ll avenge our leaders.” “Don’t be hasty,” said the fellow. “All of you should sharpen your knives right now. Wait until the rice is cooked; after we have a full meal, we can attack them together.” The thieves indeed went to sharpen their knives and spears.
When the old man heard them talking like that, however, he went quietly to the rear garden and woke up the Tang Monk and his three disciples. “That fellow has led a band of his friends here,” he said, “and when they discovered that you were here, they planned to harm you. Mindful of the fact that you have traveled a great distance to reach our place, this old moron can’t bear the thought of your getting hurt. Pack your bags quickly, and I’ll let you out the back door.” When Tripitaka heard this, he shook all over as he kowtowed to thank the old man. Then he called Eight Rules to lead the horse, Sha Monk to pole the luggage, and Pilgrim to pick up the nine-ringed priestly staff. After the old man let them out of the back door, he returned to the front and quietly went to bed once more.
We tell you now about the fellow and his companions. When they had sharpened their knives and spears and eaten their fill, it was already about the time of the fifth watch. They rushed together into the rear garden, but no one was to be seen. Quickly lighting torches and lamps, they searched all around for a long time, but not a trace could be detected. Then they found that the back door was open, and they all said, “They’ve escaped from the back door!” With a shout, they gave chase immediately.
Every bandit was darting forward like an arrow, and by sunrise, they caught sight of the Tang Monk. When the elder heard shouts behind him, he turned to look and discovered a band of some thirty men rushing toward him, all armed with knives and spears. “Oh, disciples,” he cried, “the brigand troops are catching up with us. What shall we do?” “Relax, relax!” said Pilgrim. “Old Monkey will go finish them off!” “Wukong,” said Tripitaka as he stopped his horse, “you must not hurt these people. Just frighten them away.” Unwilling, of course, to listen to his master, Pilgrim turned quickly to face his pursuers, saying, “Where are you going, sirs?” “You nasty baldie!” cried the thieves. “Give us back the lives of our great kings!”
As they encircled Pilgrim, the bandits lifted their spears and knives to stab and hack away madly. The Great Sage gave one wave of his rod and it had the thickness of a bowl; with it, he fought until those bandits dropped like stars and dispersed like clouds. Those he bumped into died at once, those he caught hold of perished immediately, those he tapped had their bones broken, and those he brushed against had their skins torn. The few smart ones managed to escape, but the rest of the dumb ones all went to see King Yama!
When Tripitaka saw that many men had fallen, he was so aghast that he turned and galloped toward the West, with Zhu Eight Rules and Sha Monk hard on the horse’s heels. Pilgrim pulled over one of the wounded bandits and asked, “Which is the son of old Yang?” “Father,” groaned the thief, “the one in yellow.” Pilgrim went forward to pick up a knife and beheaded the one in yellow. Holding the bloody head in his hand, he retrieved his iron rod and, in great strides, caught up with the Tang Monk. As he arrived before the horse, he raised the head and said, “Master, this is the rebellious son of old Yang, and he’s been beheaded by old Monkey.” Paling with fright, Tripitaka fell down from the horse, crying, “Wretched ape! You’ve scared me to death! Take it away! Take it away!” Eight Rules went forward and kicked the head to the side of the road, where he used the muckrake to bury it.
Sha Monk, meanwhile, put down the luggage and took hold of the Tang Monk, saying, “Master, please get up.” After he regained composure, the Tang Monk stood on the ground and began to recite the Tight-Fillet Spell. The head of Pilgrim was clamped so painfully tight that his entire face turned scarlet, his eyes bulged, and dizziness overtook him. Rolling on the ground, all he could mutter was; “Stop that recital! Stop that recital!” The elder, however, went on for more than ten times, and still he would not stop. Pilgrim was doing somersaults and handstands, for the pain was truly unbearable. “Master, please forgive my sins!” he cried. “If you have something to say, say it. Just stop that recital!” Only then did Tripitaka halt his recitation and say, “I have nothing to say to you. I don’t want you as my follower. Go back.” Kowtowing despite his pain, Pilgrim said, “Master, how is it that you are chasing me away?” “Brazen ape,” said Tripitaka, “you’re just too vicious! You are no scripture pilgrim. When you slaughtered those two bandit chiefs below the mountain slope yesterday, I took offense already at your lack of human kindness. When we reached that old man’s house last night, he was good enough to give us lodging and food, and moreover, it was
he who opened his back door to let us escape with our lives. Though his son is
no good, he has not done anything to us to deserve this kind of execution. As if that’s not enough, you have taken so many lives that you have practically destroyed the sentiment of peace in this world. I have tried to admonish you so many times, but there’s not a single thought of kindness in you. Why should I keep you? Be gone, quickly! Or I will start reciting the magic words once more!” “Stop it! Stop it!” cried a horrified Pilgrim. “I’m going!” He said he would go, and immediately he vanished without a trace by his cloud somersault. Alas, thus it is that
Elixir will not ripen with a violent mind;
When spirit’s unstable, the Way’s hard to find.
We don’t know to which direction the Great Sage rushed off; let’s listen to the explanation in the next chapter.