The poem says:
Obeying the Law, they come from the east; the road is long, As autumn winds sigh down the frost-flowers. The stubborn ape is fast locked—loosen not the rope; The unruly horse must be curbed—but lay on no whip. The Mother of Wood and the Lord of Metal were joined from the first; The Yellow Dame and the red child never swerved. Crack open the iron pellet—that is the true message: By prajna-paramita one reaches the further shore.
This chapter tells us that the Way of Seeking Scriptures never departs from the Way of tending the root within one's own body.
The story goes that the master and his disciples, the four of them, awakened to truth and suddenly broke the dusty locks, leaping clear of the sea of nature and the Flowing Sands, free of every hindrance, and set out straight upon the great road west. They traversed green mountains and clear waters without end, and never tired of wild grasses and idle flowers. Truly time flew—and once again it was deep autumn: maple leaves red across the hills, yellow chrysanthemums braving the evening wind; the old cicada's chant grows lazy, the mournful cricket's thoughts run on and on.
The lotus's green fan-like leaves are broken; the orange groves are fragrant with golden pellets. A pitiful few lines of wild geese, dotted far across the sky.
As they walked, without noticing it, the sky grew late.
"Disciples," said Sanzang, "the day is far gone. Where shall we lodge for the night?"
"There you go again, Master," said the Pilgrim. "We monks feed on the wind and lodge on the water, sleep under the moon and in the frost. Anywhere is home. Why ask where we'll sleep?"
"Brother," said Zhu Bajie, "you only know how light and easy your own walking is—what do you care how the others drag? Since we crossed the Flowing Sands River, all this while it's been climbing mountains and crossing ridges, with a heavy load on my shoulders—it's been mighty hard to bear! We'd better find some household: first, to beg a little tea and food; second, to rest and mend our spirits. That's the sensible course."
"Blockhead," said the Pilgrim, "talk like that smacks of grumbling. If you're still dreaming of the easy days back at Gao Village—lolling about, seeking no blessing—forget it. Once you've embraced the orthodox discipline of the Sangha, you must eat bitterness and endure hardship if you would be a disciple."
"Brother," said Bajie, "just look how heavy this luggage load is."
"Brother," said the Pilgrim, "ever since you and the Sha Monk came along, I haven't carried it—how would I know how heavy?"
"Brother, just count it up," said Bajie. "Four panels of yellow rattan basketry, eight ropes long and short. Then you must guard against rain and damp—three or four layers of felt wrapping. The carrying-pole might slip, so it's nailed at both ends. A staff of copper-trimmed iron with nine rings; a great rain-cape woven of bamboo silk and rattan. With all this luggage, old Pig has to shoulder it day after day—and you get to be Master's disciple while I'm worked like a hired hand!"
The Pilgrim laughed: "Blockhead, who are you talking to?"
"I'm talking to you, brother."
"Then you're talking to the wrong party. Old Sun looks after Master's welfare only—you and the Sha Monk are in charge of the luggage and the horse. Slack off even a little, and your ankle-bone gets a taste of the heavy stick first!"
"Brother, never mind the beating. Beating is bullying with strength. I know your proud and lofty nature; you'll never carry the load. But that horse Master rides—so tall and sleek and fat, carrying nothing but one old monk—couldn't he take a few of these things? That would be brotherly of him."
"You call him a horse!" said the Pilgrim. "He's no mortal horse. He is the son of Ao Run, the Dragon King of the Western Sea, called the Dragon Horse, Third Prince. Because he set a fire that burned the luminous pearl in the palace hall, his own father accused him of rebellion, and his crime violated the law of Heaven. It was the Bodhisattva Guanyin who saved his life. In the perilous gorge of Eagle Sorrow he waited long for Master; and once again the Bodhisattva came in person, removed his scales and antlers, took the pearl from beneath his neck, and only then did he change into this horse, vowing to carry Master to the western heaven to worship the Buddha. These things are each person's own merit and destiny—don't go comparing yourself to him."
When the Sha Monk heard this he asked: "Brother, is he truly a dragon?"
"He is a dragon."
"Brother," said Bajie, "I've heard the ancients say: 'A dragon can spew clouds and breathe out fog, hurl soil and scatter sand; he has the power to whisk away whole mountains and ridges, the magic to overturn rivers and churn the seas.' How is it he walks so slowly today?"
"You want him to go fast? I'll show you him going fast."
A fine Great Sage! He gave his gold-banded cudgel a brandish, and ten thousand paths of colored cloud arose.
When the horse saw the cudgel raised, he feared a beating—his four hooves flew like lightning, and away he shot. The master's hands were too soft to rein him in; the horse gave his unruly nature full head and galloped up the mountain cliffside, before settling at last into a slower pace. Only when his gasping had subsided did the master raise his head and see afar a cluster of pine shade, within it a few rooms and houses, truly imposing. Just look:
A gate drooping with green cypress, a dwelling near the blue mountains. A few pines swaying soft; several stems of bamboo dappled bright. By the fence, wild chrysanthemums hold their frost-touched glory; By the bridge, secluded orchids glow red in the stream's reflection. Whitewashed walls of clay, a courtyard ringed in brick. Lofty halls, most magnificent; great buildings, most serene and still. No cattle or sheep in sight, no chickens or dogs— The autumn harvest done, the farm work must be at rest.
As the master sat his horse gazing slowly about, Wukong and the others caught up.
"Master," said Wujing, "you didn't fall off the horse, I hope?"
The elder scolded: "That rotten monkey Wukong! He startled the horse. If I hadn't kept my seat—!"
The Pilgrim offered a smiling apology: "Don't scold me, Master. It was all Zhu Bajie's fault, saying the horse went too slow—that's why I had him speed up."
The blockhead, having chased the horse and hurried rather too much, was puffing and blowing, grumbling and muttering under his breath: "Done for! Done for! My belly's cramped and my waist's gone slack, the load is heavy, I can barely carry it on—and then he makes me go galloping off after the horse!"
"Disciple," said the elder, "look over there—there's a manor. We can just go ask for lodging."
At this the Pilgrim quickly raised his head to look, and indeed saw over that place a canopy of festive cloud, propitious mists wreathing and shrouding it. He knew at once it must be the transformation of Buddhas or immortals, but he dared not give away the secret of Heaven, and only said: "Good! Good! Good! Let's go ask for lodging."
The elder hurriedly dismounted before a gate-tower with lotus-drooping, elephant-trunk ornaments, painted beams and carved rafters.
The Sha Monk set down the load; Bajie led up the horse: "This household is a rich and solid family, past all doubt."
The Pilgrim was about to walk in, but Sanzang said: "No. We monks must each avoid suspicion—do not enter unbidden. Wait until someone comes out, then ask for lodging with proper courtesy."
Bajie tied the horse and leaned against the base of the wall. Sanzang sat on a drum-shaped stone; the Pilgrim and the Sha Monk sat on the edge of the terrace. But for a long time no one came out.
The Pilgrim, impatient by nature, jumped up and slipped in through the gate to look: there was a great hall of three bays facing south, its curtained windows hung high. On the screen door hung a horizontal scroll painting of "Longevity Mountain and the Sea of Blessing"; on the two gold-lacquered pillars flanking it was pasted a spring couplet on great red paper, which read:
Silken willows drooping by the level bridge at evening; Snow-flakes of fragrant plum in the little courtyard's spring.
In the very center stood a black-lacquered incense table, its luster worn soft with age, and on the table an ancient bronze censer shaped like a beast. Above were six folding chairs, and from the two gable walls hung scrolls of the four seasons.
Just as the Pilgrim was peeping about, he heard footsteps within the rear gate, and out came a woman neither old nor young, who asked in a cooing voice: "Who are you, daring to enter the gate of a widow?"
The Great Sage was flustered and bowed again and again: "This poor monk has come from the Great Tang empire in the East, bearing an imperial decree to worship the Buddha in the West and seek scriptures. Our party numbers four, and passing your treasured region we found the sky growing late. So we hastened to your venerable Bodhisattva's manor to beg the loan of a night."
The woman welcomed them with smiles and pleasant words: "Reverend elder, where are the other three? Please bring them in."
"Master," the Pilgrim called loudly, "please come in!"
Only then did Sanzang enter with Bajie and the Sha Monk, leading the horse and carrying the luggage.
The woman came out to the hall to receive them. Bajie stole a bleary-eyed glance at her. And how do you suppose she was dressed?
A jacket of official-green silk damask threaded with gold, Overlaid with a sleeveless cape of pale red; A sash-skirt of goose-yellow embroidery knotted with colored silk, Set off below by high-soled, flowered shoes. A stylish chignon wound with black gauze, Matched with two-toned hair coiled in dragon curls; A palace-style ivory comb glimmering red and green, Two gold hairpins thrust in aslant. Her cloud-like temples, half gray, spread like phoenix wings; At her ears, twin pendants of ranked pearls and gems. No rouge or powder, yet beautiful still— As gay and charming as a woman young.
When the woman saw the three of them she was even more delighted, and with ceremony invited them into the hall. After greetings all round, each was seated in order and served tea. Behind the screen there suddenly appeared a maid with two horn-knots and hanging silken tresses, bearing a golden tray and white jade cups; the fragrant tea steamed, and rare fruits breathed their subtle perfume. With embroidered sleeves drawn back, her fingers slender as spring bamboo shoots, she lifted the jade cups and offered the tea to each in turn, bowing to them one by one. When the tea was done, she was ordered to prepare a vegetarian meal.
Sanzang raised his hands and asked: "Venerable Bodhisattva, what is your honorable surname, and what is this place called?"
"This is the Western Continent of Cattle-Gift," said the woman. "In my maiden days my family name was Jia; my husband's family name was Mo. In my youth, unhappily, my husband's parents died early, and my husband and I kept up the ancestral estate. We had ten thousand strings of cash in the family and a thousand qing of good farmland. But in our fate we had no son—only three daughters were born to us. Then, two years ago, great misfortune: I lost my husband, and I have been a widow since. This year my mourning is fulfilled. The fields and property he left behind have no one to hold them—no kinsfolk or family of any sort, only us mother and daughters. To marry into another family would mean giving up this estate. Just now you elders have descended upon us—four of you, I take it, master and disciples. We women folk, mother and daughters, four in all, wish to stay here at home and take husbands. Four of you would suit us exactly. I do not know whether your honored intentions consent or not."
When Sanzang heard this, he played deaf and dumb, closed his eyes and composed his mind, and sat silent, making no answer.
The woman continued: "My household has more than three hundred qing of paddy field, more than three hundred qing of dry field, and more than three hundred qing of mountain orchards and groves. Of yellow water buffalo there are over a thousand head; horses and mules in herds, pigs and sheep past counting. East, south, west, and north, our manors and pasture grounds number sixty or seventy in all. In the house there is rice and grain enough to last eight or nine years unused, silks and satins enough for ten years unworn; gold and silver enough for a lifetime, better than spring hidden in a brocade pavilion—never mind two rows of gold hairpins! If you master and disciples would turn your hearts around, take a marriage into my humble home, and live at ease enjoying wealth and glory—would that not be better than all this weary toiling toward the West?"
Sanzang only sat there like a fool or a simpleton, wordless and mute.
"I was born," the woman went on, "in the third month, on the third day, at the hour of You, in a ding-hai year. My late husband was three years older than I; I am now forty-five. My eldest daughter is called Zhenzhen, twenty this year; my second, Aiai, eighteen; my third, the little one, Lianlian, sixteen—none of them yet betrothed. Though I am, alas, plain myself, my daughters have each a fair share of looks, and in needlework and sewing there is nothing they cannot do. Because my late husband had no son, we raised them as sons; in their childhood they were taught to read the Confucian books, and they all know a little of composing poems and matching couplets. Though we live here in a mountain village, we are not the utterly coarse and vulgar sort. I should think they would be worthy matches for you reverend elders. If you would only open your hearts, let your hair grow long again, and become masters of my household—dressed in silk and satin—that would beat your clay bowls and black robes, your snow-shoes and cloud hats!"
Sanzang sat up on high like a child startled by thunder, a toad drenched in rain—simply dazed and rigid, rolling his eyes and swaying backward. When Bajie heard of such wealth, such beauty, the itch in his heart was past all scratching. Sitting in his chair, it was as if needles were stabbing his backside; he twisted left and right, unable to endure it.
He came forward, tugged his master's sleeve, and said: "Master! This good lady is telling you things—how can you sit there pretending not to hear? At least give her some kind of answer."
The master lifted his head sharply and with a "Bah!" shouted Bajie back: "You wicked beast! We are monks. How could we be moved by wealth, or let beauty turn our heads? What sort of sense would that make!"
The woman laughed: "Pitiful! Pitiful! What good is there in being a monk?"
"Good lady," said Sanzang, "you who live at home—what good is there in that?"
"Sit, reverend elder, and let me tell you the good things of the householder's life. How does it go? There is a poem in witness:
In spring, new silk robes cut in lucky patterns; in summer, light gauze to admire the green lotuses. In autumn, new-brewed sweet glutinous wine; in winter, warm chambers and a wine-flushed face. Through the four seasons, enjoyments of every kind; through the eight festivals, delicacies of every sort. The night of flowery candles, on brocade spread and lined with silk— Better than a wandering monk bowing to Amitabha!"
"Good lady," said Sanzang, "you householders enjoy glory and wealth: you have things to wear and things to eat, sons and daughters around you—good indeed, I grant. But you may not know that we who leave the world also have our own portion of good. How does it go? There is a poem in witness:
To leave home and fix one's resolve is no common thing: The hall of former loves is torn down and toppled. No outer things give rise to idle gossip; Within the body itself yin and yang are one's own. When works are done and merit full, one courts the golden palace; Seeing one's nature, the mind made clear, one returns to one's native home. Better far than fattening on flesh at home, And in old age dropping into a stinking sack of skin!"
At this the woman flew into a temper: "This rude monk has no manners! If you were not come so far from the East, I should have you thrown out. I was truly sincere, in heart and mind, wanting to take you and yours into my family by marriage—and you repay me with words that wound. Very well, you have taken the vows, you have made your vow never to return to the lay life. But surely among your followers there is one my family could take. Why must you be so rigid?"
When Sanzang saw her anger, he could only bow and scrape most humbly, calling: "Wukong, you stay here."
"From the time I was small I've known nothing of such matters," said the Pilgrim. "Let Bajie stay."
"Brother," said Bajie, "don't put one over on me. Let's all take our time deliberating."
"If you two refuse, then let Wujing stay here," said Sanzang.
"Listen to Master!" said the Sha Monk. "Your disciple was converted by the Bodhisattva, received the vows and the discipline, and waited for my master. Since Master took me in, I have received his teaching; yet I have followed him not even two months and done no whit of merit—how could I covet this wealth and rank! I would rather die than go on to the western heaven—never would I do such a treacherous thing."
When the woman saw them all refusing, she turned abruptly behind the screen, and with a bang shut the inner gate.
Master and disciples were left outside, with no tea, no food, and no one coming out again.
Bajie fretted and fumed, grumbling at the Tang monk: "Master, you truly don't know how to manage things—you killed the whole business with your words. You might at least have left a little footing, answered vaguely, humored them into a vegetarian meal. Then tonight we'd have one cozy evening, and tomorrow, agree or not, would be up to the rest of us. As it is, the door is shut in our faces—cold hearth, cold stove, how are we to get through the night!"
"Second Brother," said Wujing, "why don't you become a son-in-law in her family?"
"Brother, don't put one over on me—let's all deliberate."
"Deliberate what?" said the Pilgrim. "If you're willing, let Master become the woman's in-law, and you can be the live-in son-in-law who marries into her house. With a family of such wealth and treasure, they'd surely dower you richly and lay on a proper family feast—and the rest of us would get a little enjoyment out of it too. You stay here and return to the lay life, and everyone's happy. Isn't that the best of both worlds?"
"That's all very well to say," replied Bajie, "but then old Pig would be leaving the world and then re-entering it—putting away one wife and taking another."
"Second Brother, so you already have a sister-in-law?" asked the Sha Monk.
"You still don't know him," said the Pilgrim. "He was the son-in-law of Squire Gao of Gao Village in Wuji—the land of the Uighurs. Because old Sun subdued him, he too received the Bodhisattva's vows; there was nothing for it, I hauled him off and made a monk of him. So he left his former wife and followed Master west to worship the Buddha. Now I expect he's been parted from her so long that the old business has come back to him. The moment he heard of this business, that heart of his was surely stirred. Blockhead, go be a son-in-law to this family—just bow to old Sun a few extra times, and I promise not to inform on you."
"Nonsense! Nonsense!" cried the blockhead. "You all have the same notion in your hearts, but old Pig alone must be made the fool. As the saying goes: 'A monk is a hungry ghost among the fair.' Who doesn't feel the pull? But you all put on your prim airs and play hard to get, and the whole good business has been wrecked. Now look: no tea, no water, no one to see to lamp or fire. We can suffer through this one night—but that horse has to carry a man and walk the road again tomorrow. If we starve it another night, we might just as well skin it. You all sit here; old Pig will go out and graze the horse a bit."
The blockhead, in a great flurry, untied the reins and led the horse off.
"Sha Monk," said the Pilgrim, "stay and keep Master company here while old Sun follows him and sees where he grazes that horse."
"Wukong," said Sanzang, "go watch him if you like—but don't keep on taunting him."
"I understand."
The Great Sage walked out of the hall, shook his body, transformed into a red dragonfly, flew out the front gate, and caught up with Bajie.
The blockhead led the horse, and wherever there was grass he would not let it graze, but kept clucking and clicking and driving it round toward the rear gate. There was the woman, out behind the gate with her three daughters, idly admiring the chrysanthemums for sport. When the mother and daughters saw Bajie coming, the three girls slipped inside.
The woman stood waiting at the gate: "Where are you off to, little reverend?"
The blockhead dropped the reins, came forward with a bow, and said: "Mother! I've come to graze the horse."
"Your master is too particular by half," said the woman. "Taking a son-in-law into my house—wouldn't that beat playing the wandering monk, trudging the road west?"
Bajie laughed: "They're under the Tang emperor's decree; they dare not disobey a royal command, and won't do such a thing. Just now, up in the front hall, they all put one over on me. And I'm in a fix, torn this way and that—only I fear, Mother, you'll mind my long snout and great ears."
"Mind them? Not I. It's only that my household lacks a master, and taking one in would settle it. But I fear my daughters may find you a little ugly."
"Mother, tell your dear daughters not to be so picky about a husband. Take my Tang monk—fine-looking as he is, he's really not much use. Ugly I may be, but I have a few rhyming lines about myself."
"Let's hear them," said the woman.
Bajie said:
"Though my looks are homely, I work with a will. Give me a thousand qing of land—no oxen needed to plow it. One pass of my rake, and the sown seed sprouts in season. No rain? I can pray for rain. No wind? I can whistle up wind. If the house seems low, I'll raise it two or three stories. If the floor's unswept, I'll sweep it; if the drains are clogged, I'll clear them. Every household matter, great or small— Kicking over heaven and digging through wells, I can do them all."
The woman said: "Since you can manage the household affairs, go back and discuss it once more with your master. If it comes off without a hitch, we'll take you in."
"No need to discuss. He's not my father and mother, after all. Whether I do it or not is up to me."
"Very well, very well," said the woman. "Let me go speak with my daughters."
She slipped inside and, with a bang, shut the rear gate. Bajie did not graze the horse after all, but led it round to the front.
Little did he know that the Great Sage Sun had heard and seen everything. He wheeled his wings, flew back, resumed his true form, and reported first to the Tang monk: "Master, Wuneng is bringing the horse."
"If the horse weren't led," said the elder, "it might take fright and bolt."
The Pilgrim burst out laughing and told the whole business of the woman and Bajie from beginning to end. Sanzang half believed and half doubted.
Presently the blockhead came leading the horse and tied it up. The elder asked: "Have you grazed the horse?"
"There's no decent grass—nowhere to graze a horse."
"Nowhere to graze a horse," said the Pilgrim, "but somewhere to lead one?"
Hearing this, the blockhead knew the news had leaked, and he hung his head and twisted his neck, pouting his lips and wrinkling his brows, saying nothing for a good while.
Then came the sound of a creak as the inner gate opened. Two pairs of red lanterns appeared, with a matching wine-warming pot; fragrant clouds drifted, and rings and pendants chimed—out walked the woman with her three daughters, calling Zhenzhen, Aiai, and Lianlian to bow in greeting to the scripture-seekers. The girls stood ranged in the hall and bowed toward the seats of honor. And they were beauties indeed. Just look at them:
Each with moth-eyebrows sweeping green, powder faces full of spring. Winsome, with beauty to topple kingdoms; graceful, stirring every heart. Flower ornaments reveal their delicate charms; embroidered sashes float, far above the common dust. Where a half-smile breaks, cherry lips part; as they walk slowly, orchid and musk breathe forth. Pearls and kingfisher gems cover their heads, a-tremble with countless precious pins; Subtle fragrance wraps their bodies, dewy-fresh with flowered gold threads fine. Never mind the beauties of Chu, the delicate face of Xi Shi— Truly these were fairy maidens descended from the ninth heaven, Chang'e come forth from the Palace of Vast Cold!
Sanzang pressed his palms together and dropped his head; the Great Sage Sun feigned utter indifference; the Sha Monk turned his back and faced away.
But look at Zhu Bajie: his eyes would not leave them, his lustful heart ran riot, his desire swelled past all bounds. He minced out a whisper, saying softly: "Much trouble to you, fairy ones, for descending among us. Mother, ask the sisters to withdraw, won't you?"
The three girls returned behind the screen, leaving behind a pair of gauze lanterns.
The woman said: "Four reverend elders—will you not give the matter some thought? Which of you will match my little daughters?"
"We have already settled it among ourselves," said Wujing. "The one surnamed Pig is to marry into your household."
"Brother, don't put me forward," said Bajie. "Let's all deliberate further."
"Deliberate further about what?" said the Pilgrim. "You already settled everything nicely behind the back gate—you called her 'Mother' and all. What more is there to deliberate? Master shall be the male in-law; the old lady shall be the female in-law; old Sun will stand surety for the match, and the Sha Monk shall be the go-between. No need to consult the almanac—today is a heaven-blessed, most auspicious day. Come bow to your master and go inside and be a son-in-law."
"It won't do! It won't do! How could one carry on that sort of business!"
"Blockhead, no shilly-shallying. Who knows how many times you already said 'Mother'? What do you mean, it won't do? Say yes quickly, and treat the rest of us to some wedding wine—it'll do us all good."
With one hand he grabbed Bajie, with the other he caught hold of the woman: "Mother-in-law, take your son-in-law inside."
The blockhead's feet stumbled one way and another—whichever way he was to go.
The woman called to the servants: "Wipe down the tables and chairs, lay out the evening meal, and entertain the three in-laws. I'll take the son-in-law to his room."
At the same time she ordered the kitchen staff to prepare a banquet for the family gathering tomorrow morning. The servants received their orders. The three travelers ate their vegetarian meal, hastily laid out the bedding, and settled to rest in the guest quarters—of them no more need be said.
The story tells how Bajie followed his mother-in-law inside, through layer upon layer of rooms past all counting, bumping and blundering, every threshold catching his feet.
"Mother, walk slower. I don't know my way in here—do lead me along."
"All of these are storehouses, granaries, and milling rooms," said the woman. "We haven't even reached the kitchen yet."
"What a great household!" Bump and blunder, around the corners and along the bends, he walked another half while before they came to the inner halls.
"Son-in-law," said the woman, "your senior fellow said today is a heaven-blessed auspicious day, and so had you brought in at once. But everything was so hurried, there was no time to engage a geomancer for the bowing of the nuptials and the scattering of the bed curtains. Just bow eight bows toward the upper seat."
"Mother, you're right. Do take the seat of honor, and let me bow a few bows as well—that will count for the nuptial bowing, and for the thanks to my in-laws too: two in one. Isn't that thrifty?"
His mother-in-law laughed: "Very well, very well. Truly an economical, housekeeping son-in-law. I'll sit, and you bow."
Ah! Through all the hall silver candles blazed. The blockhead bowed toward the upper seat, and when the bows were done, asked: "Mother, which sister will you match me with?"
"There's just the difficulty," said his mother-in-law. "If I give you my eldest daughter, I fear the second will take offense; if I give you the second, I fear the third will grumble; if I give you the third, I fear the eldest will complain. So I remain unsure."
"Mother, if you fear their quarreling, give me all of them—spare the household its squabbling and confusion."
"Out of the question! Would you alone take all three of my daughters!"
"Listen to Mother talk! Who hasn't three wives and four concubines? Even a few more than that, your son-in-law would accept with a smile. In my younger days I learned the arts of endurance in the battle of love; I promise I'd serve every one of them to her delight."
"Not so! Not so! I have here a handkerchief. Set it on your head to cover your face, and try a heaven-ordained match: I shall have my daughters walk past before you, and you stretch out your hands and grab whichever one you catch—that one shall be yours."
The blockhead did as he was told, took the handkerchief, and set it on his head. There is a poem in witness:
The fool knows not the root and source of things; The sword of desire wounds the body, and quietly he is undone. He always swore by the rites of the Duke of Zhou— Today the bridegroom wears the veil.
The blockhead adjusted his veil and said: "Mother, ask the sisters to come out, won't you?"
His mother-in-law called: "Zhenzhen! Aiai! Lianlian! Come all, and try the heaven-ordained match with your husband!"
There was heard only the ringing of rings and pendants, the fragrance of orchid and musk, as though fairy maidens were passing to and fro, and the blockhead truly stretched out his hands to grab. He flung himself left and right, bumping this way and that, touching no one on either side.
Back and forth, who knew how many girls were moving about—he could not lay hands on a single one. Lunging east, he hugged a pillar; lunging west, he pawed a panel wall. Dizzy from running to both ends, he could not stand steady and kept falling down. Forward he kicked against the door panels; backward he splashed against the brick walls. Bump after blunder, until his snout was swollen and his head was black and blue.
He sat down on the floor, gasping and puffing: "Mother! Your daughters are such slippery minxes—not one of them to be caught. What's a man to do! What's a man to do!"
The woman lifted his veil: "Son-in-law, it's not that my daughters are slippery. They all defer to one another, each unwilling to take you."
"Mother," said Bajie, "if they're unwilling to take me—then you take me!"
"Fine son-in-law, you are! No respect for rank or age—reaching even for your mother-in-law! My three daughters are cleverest at heart: each of them has made a pearl-embroidered brocade undershirt. Whichever one's shirt you can wear, that one shall take you."
"Good! Good! Good! Bring all three and let me try them on. If I can wear them all, let them all take me."
The woman went into the inner room and brought out only one, handing it to Bajie. The blockhead stripped off his black-brocade tunic, took the undershirt, and pulled it on. Before he had even tied the sash, with a thump he toppled to the floor—several cords had seized him and bound him fast. The pain was past enduring, and by then the women had all vanished.
Now the story tells how Sanzang, the Pilgrim, and the Sha Monk woke from sleep to find the east already paling. They suddenly opened their eyes and raised their heads to look. Where now were the great buildings and lofty halls? Where the carved beams and painted rafters? Every one of them had slept in a pine and cypress wood.
In alarm the elder hastily called for Wukong. "Brother," said the Sha Monk, "we're done for! Done for! We've met with ghosts!"
The Great Sage Sun knew perfectly well, and said with a faint smile: "What are you saying?"
"Look where we've been sleeping!"
"Sleeping under these pines is easy enough," said the Pilgrim. "My only worry is where that blockhead is suffering."
"Who's suffering?"
"Yesterday that family, mother and daughters—who knows what Bodhisattvas they were, manifesting themselves to test us. I expect they left at midnight, and only poor Zhu Bajie is left suffering." At this Sanzang pressed his palms together and bowed to the sky. And there, on an ancient cypress tree behind them, a paper note fluttered and swayed.
The Sha Monk hurried to fetch it, and when the master looked, it held eight lines of verse:
"The Old Mother of Mount Li had no mind for the mortal world; The Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea invited her down the mountain. Puxian and Manjusri, too, came all as guests, Transformed into beauties here within the wood. The holy monk has virtue and no common taint; Bajie has no meditation, and more than his share of lust. From now on, quiet your hearts and mend your ways— For if you slacken, the road ahead will be hard!"
As the elder, the Pilgrim, and the Sha Monk were chanting this verse, they heard from deep in the wood a loud voice crying: "Master! It's strangling me to death! Save me! I'll never dare again!"
"Wukong," said Sanzang, "is that Wuneng calling?"
"It is," said the Sha Monk.
"Brother, pay him no mind; let's be off," said the Pilgrim.
"That blockhead may be dull and stubborn by nature," said Sanzang, "but he is thoroughly simple and honest at heart, and he has the strength to carry the luggage. For the sake of the Bodhisattva's kindness in days past, save him and let him come along. I reckon he'll never dare again."
The Sha Monk rolled up the bedding and packed the load; the Great Sage Sun untied the horse and led it as the Tang monk went into the wood to look. Ah! Truly it is:
In cultivation on the right path, one must be careful and watchful; Sweep away love and desire, and of yourself you return to truth.
If you would know how the blockhead fared, for weal or woe, listen to the explanation in the next chapter.