The story tells how the three of them went into the wood and found the blockhead bound fast to the tree, crying out at every breath, his pain past bearing.
The Pilgrim came forward, laughing: "A fine son-in-law! Not up yet at this hour to thank your in-laws, not off to Master's to report the happy news—still here playing the acrobat for fun! Bah! Where's your mother? Where's your wife? What a trussed-up, strung-up son-in-law!"
When the blockhead saw them come to taunt and shame him, he clenched his teeth, bore the pain, and dared not cry out. The Sha Monk could not bear the sight; he set down the luggage, went up, untied the cords, and got him down. The blockhead could only kowtow and bow to them again and again, his shame indeed past enduring. There is a "West River Moon" in witness:
Desire is the sword that wounds the body; Covet it, and ruin is sure to follow. A lovely girl of sixteen, in her fine array, Is fiercer and more dreadful than any yaksha. There is but one original root, And not the smallest profit to stuff in the sack. Store your capital away with care; Guard it fast, and let no wantonness loose.
Then Bajie scooped up earth, burned incense, and worshipped toward the sky.
"Do you know those Bodhisattvas?" asked the Pilgrim.
"I was struck senseless, dizzy and dim of eye," said Bajie. "How could I tell who they were?"
The Pilgrim handed him the note. When Bajie saw it was verse, his shame grew greater still.
"Second Brother has rare virtues indeed," said the Sha Monk, laughing, "to move four Bodhisattvas to come make a match for you!"
"Brother, speak of it no more—it was wicked beyond all bounds! From this day on I'll never dare misbehave again. Even if my bones crack under the load, I'll only shoulder the burden and follow Master to the western regions."
"That's more like it," said Sanzang.
The Pilgrim then led his master back onto the high road. Dining on the wind and lodging on the water as they went, they traveled a long while, until suddenly a high mountain stood barring the way. Sanzang reined in his horse and stayed his whip: "Disciples, there is a mountain ahead. We must go carefully—fear lest some demon makes trouble and harms our company."
"With the three of us before your horse, what demon is there to fear?" said the Pilgrim. So the elder went forward with an easy mind. And truly it was a fine mountain:
High and steep beyond measure, its whole form vast and strange. Its root joins the vein of Kunlun; its summit rubs the vault of heaven. White cranes come often to roost on its junipers and cypresses; Black gibbons now and again hang from its vines and creepers. Sunlight on the sunlit woods: a thousand folds of red mist wreathing; Wind rising in the shaded ravines: ten thousand ribbons of colored cloud flying. Secluded birds cry wildly among the green bamboo; Golden pheasants battle together amid the wild flowers. See the Thousand-Year Peak, Five-Blessing Peak, Lotus Peak, towering and terrible, shooting forth rays of light; The Ten-Thousand-Year Rock, Tiger-Tooth Rock, Three-Pointed Rock, jutting and gleaming, breathing propitious airs. Before the cliffs the grasses flourish; on the ridges the plum blossoms breathe perfume. Thorns and brambles dense and dark; irises and orchids faint and cool. In the deep woods, eagle and phoenix gather a thousand birds; in the ancient caves, the qilin rules ten thousand beasts. The ravine waters have feeling, winding and twisting, lingering as they go; The peaks and summits never end, fold upon fold, circling round again. And see the green locust trees, the mottled bamboo, the blue pines, a thousand years contending in lush glory; The white plum, the red peach, the emerald willow, bright through three springs rivaling in beauty. Dragons moan, tigers roar; cranes dance, gibbons cry. Elk deer come out from the flowers; blue luan birds sing to the sun. Truly an immortal mountain, a blessed land indeed— Penglai and the Parks of Heaven are no more than this. And see the flowers blooming and fading on the mountain's head, the clouds going and coming on the ridges' peaks.
From horseback Sanzang said with delight: "Disciples, ever since I set out for the West, I have passed through many mountains and rivers, but all were craggy, perilous, steep places—none like the fine scenery of this mountain. Truly its secluded charm is beyond the common. If the Thunderclap Monastery were not far off, we might go to see the World-Honored One in all seemly order."
"Early days yet! Early days yet!" said the Pilgrim, laughing. "We're nowhere near!"
"Brother," said the Sha Monk, "how far is it to the Thunderclap Monastery?"
"A hundred and eight thousand li. Of ten parts of the road, we haven't yet walked one."
"Brother," said Bajie, "how many years will it take to get there?"
"That road—for you two worthy brothers, ten days or so might do it. For old Sun's walking, I could make fifty round trips in a day and still see daylight. But for Master—never hope! Never hope!"
"Wukong," said the Tang monk, "by your reckoning, when could I ever arrive?"
"You'd walk from childhood to old age, grow old and young again, and a thousand cycles of old and young would hardly suffice. Only see your true nature, keep your resolve sincere—and at every turn of your thoughts, wherever your heart turns back and looks, there is Vulture Peak."
"Brother," said the Sha Monk, "though this is not the Thunderclap Monastery, to judge by the scenery, some worthy person must dwell here."
"Well said. There is surely nothing wicked here—this must be the home of sage monks or immortals. Let's amble along and enjoy ourselves."
Of that no more need be said.
Now this mountain was called Longevity Mountain, and on it stood a temple called Wuzhuang Temple. In the temple dwelt an immortal whose Daoist title was Zhenyuanzi, and whose byname was "Fellow Peer of the World." The temple produced a certain unique treasure: when Chaos was first divided, when the primal haze was first parted, in the time before Heaven and Earth were opened, this numinous root was produced.
In all the four great continents of the world, only Wuzhuang Temple in the Western Continent of Cattle-Gift produced it. It was called "Grass-Returned Cinnabar," and also "the ginseng fruit." It blossomed once in three thousand years, bore fruit once in three thousand years, and took another three thousand years to ripen—ten thousand years at the very least before it could be eaten. In those ten thousand years, only thirty fruits formed. The fruit's appearance was like a child not yet three days old, complete in its four limbs, all its five features present.
If a man with destiny smells the fruit but once, he will live three hundred sixty years; eat one, and he will live forty-seven thousand years.
That day the Great Immortal Zhenyuan had received a note from the Primeval Lord of Heaven, inviting him to the Miro Palace in the Shangqing heaven above, to hear a discourse on the "Dao Fruit of Primal Chaos." The scattered immortals who had gone out from the Great Immortal's gate were past counting, and at that time he still had forty-eight disciples, all perfected Daoists who had attained the Way.
That day he took forty-six of them up to the upper world for the lecture, leaving behind two of the very youngest to keep house: one called Qingfeng, "Pure Breeze," the other Mingyue, "Bright Moon." Qingfeng was only one thousand three hundred twenty years old; Mingyue had just turned one thousand two hundred.
Zhenyuanzi instructed the two boys: "I must not disobey the Great Venerable Lord's summons—I am going to the Miro Palace to hear the lecture. You two keep careful watch at home. Before many days an old friend will pass this way—do not neglect him. Pick two of my ginseng fruits and give them to him to eat, as a token of our old friendship."
"Who is Master's old friend?" asked the boys. "Please tell your disciples, that we may receive him properly."
"He is a holy monk under the Tang emperor of the Eastern lands," said the Great Immortal, "whose religious title is Sanzang—a monk now traveling to the western heaven to worship the Buddha and seek scriptures."
The boys laughed: "Confucius said, 'Those whose Ways differ cannot make plans together.' We are of the Grand Unity's school of the Dao—how could we ever have made the acquaintance of that monk?"
"What do you know?" said the Great Immortal. "That monk is the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada, the second disciple of the venerable Buddha of the West, the Tathagata. Five hundred years ago I met him at the Ullambana assembly. With his own hands he passed me the tea—a son of the Buddha honoring me—and so he is my old friend."
The two immortal boys, hearing this, respectfully obeyed their master's command.
As the Great Immortal was departing, he cautioned them once more: "My fruits are numbered. Give him only two—no more."
"When the garden was opened," said Qingfeng, "the whole company shared two of them. There are still twenty-eight on the tree—we dare not waste more."
"Though the Tang monk Sanzang is an old friend," said the Great Immortal, "you must guard against his underlings making trouble. Do not let them know."
The two boys received their orders, and the Great Immortal rose into the air with his disciples and went straight to the heavenly realm.
Now the story tells how the Tang monk and his party were enjoying the mountain when they suddenly raised their heads and saw a cluster of pines and bamboo, with storied towers and pavilions rising above.
"Wukong," said the Tang monk, "what place is that over there?"
Looking, the Pilgrim said: "That spot is either a temple or a monastery. Let's hurry over, and when we get there we'll know for sure."
In a little while they came to the gate and looked about. See the cool seclusion of the pine slopes, the quiet charm of the bamboo paths. White cranes came and went, escorting the drifting clouds; monkeys above and below from time to time offered fruit. Before the gate, the pond was broad and the tree shadows long; the rocks were cracked and the moss-flowers broken through. The palaces rose dense and dark to the purple pole of heaven; towers and terraces floated dim, as red mists came dropping down. Truly a blessed land and numinous region, a cloudy grotto of Penglai.
Little to do with mortal men; in silence, the Dao heart is born. Blue birds ever carry the Queen Mother's messages; the purple luan often brings the scriptures of Lord Lao Zi. The towering style of the Way could never be seen to the end— Truly the dim and distant dwelling of immortals.
Sanzang dismounted, and by the left side of the mountain gate saw a stone tablet bearing ten great characters: "The Blessed Land of Longevity Mountain; the Cave Heaven of Wuzhuang Temple."
"Disciples," said the elder, "it is indeed a temple."
"Master," said the Sha Monk, "to judge by the brightness of the scene, worthy folk must surely dwell within. Let's go in and have a look—if our journey succeeds and we return east, this will be one of the sights along the way."
"Well said," said the Pilgrim.
So in they all went together, and saw on the second gate a pair of spring couplets:
The mansion of immortals who live forever, unaging; The home of Daoists whose years last as long as Heaven's own.
The Pilgrim laughed: "This Daoist talks big to scare folk. Five hundred years ago, when old Sun was wreaking havoc in Heaven, I stood at Lord Lao Zi's very gate—and never saw words like these."
"Never mind him—in we go," said Bajie. "Perhaps this Daoist has a bit of virtue after all; you never can tell."
Inside the second gate, they saw two little boys come hurrying out. See how they were dressed:
Their bones pure, their spirits bright, their faces lovely; Hair knotted in horn-tufts, short locks tousled. Their Daoist robes trail mists naturally about the collar; Their feathered garments flutter wind in the sleeves. A ringed sash tightly bound in a dragon-head knot; Straw sandals lightly wound with silkworm-mouth floss. A bearing extraordinary, beyond the common sort— These were indeed Qingfeng and Mingyue, the two immortal boys.
The boys bent their backs and bowed, coming out to greet them: "Venerable master, forgive us for failing to welcome you. Please be seated."
The elder was pleased, and went up with the two boys to view the main hall. It was a great hall of five bays facing south, all carved lattice-work, bright above and shaded below. The immortal boys pushed open the lattice doors and invited the Tang monk into the hall. There on the center wall hung the two great characters "Heaven" and "Earth" in five-colored mounting, and a vermilion lacquer incense table was set out, on which stood a pair of golden censer and vase, with convenient whole incense sticks by the censer.
The Tang monk came forward, took incense with his left hand, placed it in the censer, and bowed in worship three times round.
When the bows were done, he turned and said: "Immortal youths, this Wuzhuang Temple of yours is truly a western immortal realm. Why do you not offer incense to the Three Pure Ones, the Four Emperors, and the ministers of the heavens, but serve only the two characters 'Heaven' and 'Earth'?"
The boys laughed: "We'll not hide it from you, venerable sir. Of these two characters—the upper one, by rights of ritual, may still deserve it; but the lower one cannot yet receive our incense. They were flattered out by our master."
"What do you mean, flattered out?"
"The Three Pure Ones are our master's friends; the Four Emperors are our master's old acquaintances; the Nine Luminaries are our master's juniors; the Year-Star officials are our master's humble guests."
At this the Pilgrim laughed until he staggered. "Brother, what are you laughing at?" asked Bajie.
"They always say old Sun knows how to pull ghosts—turns out this Daoist boy knows how to rope the wind!"
"Where is your master?" asked Sanzang.
"Our master has been invited by a summons from the Primeval Lord of Heaven to the Miro Palace in the Shangqing heaven to hear a discourse on the 'Dao Fruit of Primal Chaos.' He is not at home."
The Pilgrim could not hold back a shout: "You saucy Daoist brat! You don't even know who we are—who do you think you're playing ghosts before? What empty airs are you putting on! Who in the Miro Palace is such a Grand Unity heavenly immortal as to invite you—a sloppy ox-hoof like you—to lecture on anything!"
Seeing his anger, Sanzang feared the boys would answer back and stir up trouble.
"Easy, Wukong, no quarreling," he said. "Now that we're in, to turn straight out again would show a want of feeling. As the saying goes: 'The egret does not eat egret flesh.' Since their master is away, why badger them? You go to the front gate and graze the horse; Sha Monk, watch the luggage; Bajie, untie the bundle. Take out some rice, borrow their stove, and cook a meal. When we leave, we'll give them a few coppers for firewood, and that will be that. Each to his task—and let me rest here a while. When the meal is done, we'll go."
The three of them went off, each to his task.
Mingyue and Qingfeng praised them endlessly in private: "What monks! Truly holy ones of the West descended into the world, their true essence unclouded. Master ordered us to receive the Tang monk and give him ginseng fruit, to show our old friendship—and also warned us to guard against his underlings making trouble. And sure enough, those three have fierce, stubborn faces and coarse, rough natures. Happily, we've managed to send them off elsewhere. If they were at his side, the ginseng fruit would never so much as meet his eyes."
"Brother," said Qingfeng, "we still don't know whether that monk really is Master's old friend. Let's ask him, and make no mistake."
So the two boys came forward again: "May we ask, venerable sir—are you the Tang Sanzang of the Great Tang, traveling to the western heaven to fetch scriptures?"
The elder returned their bow: "This poor monk is he. How did you know my humble name, immortal youths?"
"When our master left," said the boys, "he instructed us disciples to receive you from afar. But your carriage came faster than expected, and we failed to meet you. Venerable sir, pray be seated while your disciples prepare tea."
"We would not presume."
Mingyue hurried to his room, brought a cup of fragrant tea, and offered it to the elder.
When the tea was done, Qingfeng said: "Brother, we must not disobey our master's command. Let's you and I go fetch the fruit."
The two boys took leave of Sanzang, went together to their room; one took the golden striker, one took a cinnabar-red tray lined with a silk handkerchief laid in the bottom, and they went straight to the ginseng garden. Qingfeng climbed the tree and knocked the fruit down with the golden striker; Mingyue stood below, catching them in the tray.
In a moment two fruits were knocked down, caught in the tray, and brought straight to the front hall and offered: "Father Tang, our Wuzhuang Temple is a rude and barren place on wild soil, with nothing worthy to offer. Here are two humble fruits of our soil, to slake your thirst."
When the elder saw them, he started back trembling, putting three feet between himself and them: "Bless us! Bless us! This year the harvest is plenteous and the season ripe—how can this temple be so famished as to eat people? These are children not yet three days old! How could they slake my thirst?"
Qingfeng thought privately: "This monk, muddling through the arena of tongues and the sea of right and wrong, has grown all fleshly eyes and mortal substance—he does not know our immortal family's unique treasure."
Mingyue came forward: "Venerable sir, this thing is called the ginseng fruit. There's no harm in eating one."
"Nonsense! Nonsense! When his mother and father conceived him, who knows how much suffering they bore before he was born—and born not three days ago at that. How could you take him and serve him up as a fruit?"
"It truly grows on a tree," said Qingfeng.
"Rubbish! Rubbish! Can trees bear human beings? Take it away—wicked, utterly wicked!"
The two boys, seeing him refuse a thousand times over, could only take the tray back to their own room.
Now the fruit was a strange thing: it could not be kept long. Kept too long, it stiffened and was no good to eat. So the two of them, back in their room, took one each, sat on the edge of the bed, and simply ate them up.
Ah! But here was the thing! Their room shared a wall with the kitchen, and whatever was whispered on this side could be heard plainly on that. Bajie was in the kitchen cooking the rice, and he had already pricked up his ears at the talk of fetching the golden striker and the cinnabar tray. Then he heard them say that the Tang monk did not know the ginseng fruit, and that they had taken them to their room to eat themselves—and the water ran from his mouth beyond all holding: "How can I get just one, to taste something new?"
But his own body was clumsy and heavy; he could not manage it himself. He could only wait for the Pilgrim to come and plot with him. There at the stove he had no heart to feed the fire, but kept craning his neck out to look.
Before long he saw the Pilgrim come leading the horse, tie it to a locust tree, and walk straight toward the rear.
The blockhead waved wildly with his hand: "Over here! Over here!"
The Pilgrim turned about and came to the kitchen door: "What are you bawling about, blockhead? Think there isn't enough rice? Let the old monk eat his fill—we'll beg more at some big household up ahead."
"Come in—it's not about the rice. There's a treasure in this temple. Do you know of it?"
"What treasure?"
"If I tell you, you won't have seen it; if I show you, you won't know it."
"This blockhead is laughing at old Sun. Five hundred years ago, when old Sun was seeking the immortal Way, I too wandered the corners of the sea and the ends of the earth. What have I not seen?"
"Brother, have you ever seen a ginseng fruit?"
The Pilgrim started: "That, truly, I have never seen. But I've often heard it said that the ginseng fruit is the Grass-Returned Cinnabar—that whoever eats it gains great length of years. Where would there be any now?"
"There's some here. The boys brought two for Master, but the old monk didn't know what they were—took them for children not yet three days old—and didn't dare eat. And those boys are slackers past compare! If Master wouldn't eat, they should have given them to us—but they hid it from us, and just now, in that room next door, they've been gobbling them up, one apiece, and it's made the water flood in old Pig's mouth. How can I get one, just to taste? I figure you're nimble enough—sneak into their garden and steal a few for a taste. What do you say?"
"Easy. Old Sun goes—hand to hand, they'll be caught."
He spun around at once and started for the front.
Bajie caught hold of him: "Brother, I heard them in that room saying they were going to use some golden striker to knock them down. Make a clean job of it, and don't let the news leak."
"I know, I know."
The Great Sage used the body-hiding spell, slipped into the Daoist boys' room, and looked: the two boys, having eaten their fruits, had gone up to the hall to talk with the Tang monk and were not in the room. The Pilgrim searched all around for the golden striker, and saw hanging on the window lattice a bar of red gold, some two feet long and a finger thick, with a garlic-bulb swelling at the end and an eyelet at the top, threaded with a green silk cord.
"This must be the thing called the golden striker," he said.
He took it down, left the room, and went straight to the rear. Pushing open a pair of doors, he raised his head and looked—ah! It was a flower garden! Just look:
Vermilion railings, precious balustrades, winding steps and artificial peaks. Rare flowers vying in beauty with the fair sun; emerald bamboo contending in green with the blue sky. Beyond the floating-cup pavilion, a bend of green willows trails like drifting smoke; Before the moon-viewing terrace, clusters of tall pines like splashed indigo. Red and glowing, the brocade-nest pomegranate; green and clinging, the embroidered-cushion grass. Soft and downy, the blue sand orchid; rippling and bright, the stream-side water. Red cassia mirrored in the golden well's wutong tree; brocade locust beside the vermilion rail and jade-laid steps. There are thousand-petaled peaches, red or white; there are ninth-autumn chrysanthemums, fragrant or gold. Trellises of rubus shade the peony pavilion; hibiscus terraces join the herbaceous-peony beds. Never seen to the end: the gentleman bamboo that defies the frost, the grandee pine that bullies the snow. And there are crane courts and deer houses, square ponds and round pools; Fountains flowing like shattered jade, earth-blossoms heaped like gold. The north wind bursts the plum blossom white; spring comes and punctuates the crabapple red.
Truly the first immortal scenery of the human world, the very chief of the flower groves of the West.
The Pilgrim looked his fill, then saw yet another gate. Pushing it open, he found a kitchen garden:
Planted through the four seasons with vegetables: spinach, celery, chard, ginger shoots, Bamboo shoots, yams, melons, gourds, water oats, Scallions, garlic, coriander, chives, and shallots, Napa and crown daisies and sow thistle—gourds and eggplants must all be set out, Turnips and radishes banked in earth, red amaranth, green cabbage, purple mustard.
The Pilgrim laughed: "So he's a Daoist who grows and eats his own."
Past the kitchen garden he came to yet another gate. Pushing it open—ah! There in the very center stood a great tree, truly lush with green branches, shadowy with dense green leaves. The leaves were shaped like plantain leaves, and it rose over a thousand feet straight up, its girth at the root seven or eight zhang around. The Pilgrim leaned against the tree and looked up: there, on the branch facing south, a ginseng fruit showed, truly like a little child.
At its tail-end was a little stem-knob, and there it hung fixed upon the branch, its arms and legs waving, nodding and swaying its head, and when the wind passed it seemed to sound. The Pilgrim's delight was past all bounds, and he praised it privately: "What a thing! Rare indeed! Rare indeed!"
Leaning on the tree, with a swish he went scrambling up.
That monkey was, after all, the very master of climbing trees and stealing fruit. He knocked once with the golden striker, and the fruit fell down with a plop. He jumped down after it to look—nothing! Silent, invisible. He searched all about in the grass, and there was no trace of it.
"Strange! Strange! If it had feet and could walk, still it couldn't jump over the wall. I know—it must be the garden's local deity, unwilling to let old Sun steal his fruit. He's taken it in!"
So he made a spell with his fingers, recited the word "Om," and summoned the local deity of the garden before him. The deity bowed to the Pilgrim: "Great Sage, you called for this little god—what are your commands?"
"Don't you know old Sun is the most famous thief in all the world? In the old days I stole the peaches of immortality, made off with the imperial wine, and pilfered the elixir—and never a soul dared claim a share from me. How is it that today, when I steal one single fruit, you skim off my share and carry it away? This fruit grows on a tree—even a bird flying past ought to have a share. What great harm in old Sun's eating one? Why should you scoop it away the moment it drops?"
"Great Sage, you wrong this little god. That treasure belongs to the earth immortals; this little god is but a ghost immortal—how would I dare take it? Even to smell it is a fortune beyond me."
"If you didn't take it, how did it vanish the moment it dropped?"
"Great Sage, you know only that this treasure lengthens life—you don't know its origin."
"What origin has it?"
"This treasure blossoms once in three thousand years, bears fruit once in three thousand years, and ripens only after another three thousand. Ten thousand years at the very least, and only thirty fruits form. One with destiny who smells it lives three hundred sixty years; one who eats it lives forty-seven thousand years. But it fears the five elements."
"How does it fear the five elements?"
"This fruit falls when it meets metal; withers when it meets wood; dissolves when it meets water; scorches when it meets fire; enters the earth when it meets soil. To knock it down you must use a golden instrument. When it's knocked down, you must catch it on a tray lined with a silk handkerchief; if it touches anything of wood, it withers, and even eaten it grants no length of years. To eat it you must use a porcelain vessel and dissolve it in pure water—meeting fire it scorches and is ruined. As for entering the earth: when you, Great Sage, knocked it to the ground just now, it burrowed straight down into the soil. This soil is forty-seven thousand years old; a steel drill could not bore into it the slightest bit—it's three or four parts harder than pig iron. That is why whoever eats of it lives forever. If you doubt me, Great Sage, just strike the ground here and see."
The Pilgrim drew his gold-banded cudgel and smote the ground once—with a clang the cudgel bounced back, and the earth bore not a mark.
"Indeed! Indeed! This cudgel of mine smashes stone to powder and leaves its mark even on pig iron—how could this one blow do no harm at all? In that case I wronged you. You may go."
The local deity returned at once to his own shrine.
The Great Sage had his plan all laid. He climbed the tree, worked the striker with one hand, and with the other held out the front flap of his brocade tunic as a pouch to catch them. Threading through the branches, parting the leaves, he knocked down three fruits, caught them in his lap, jumped down from the tree, and came straight to the kitchen.
Bajie laughed: "Brother, did you get any?"
"What's this in my hand? Old Sun's hand-to-hand catch. But we mustn't leave out the Sha Monk—give him a call."
Bajie waved and called: "Wujing! Come here!"
The Sha Monk abandoned the luggage and ran into the kitchen: "Brother, what do you want?"
The Pilgrim opened his tunic-pouch: "Brother, what do you make of this?"
The Sha Monk looked: "Ginseng fruit!"
"Good! So you know it. Where did you eat one before?"
"Though your little brother never ate one," said the Sha Monk, "in the old days, as Curtain-Raising General, escorting the imperial carriage to the Peach Banquet, I once saw the overseas immortals present this fruit to the Queen Mother on her birthday. Seen I have, but eaten—never. Brother, might I have a little taste?"
"No need to ask—brothers, one apiece."
So the three of them each took a fruit and enjoyed it.
Now Bajie's food-gullet was wide and his mouth was wide too; and besides, hearing the boys eating had set the gluttony-worm stirring in him, so the moment he saw the fruit he grabbed it, opened his mouth, and with one gulp swallowed it whole. Then he rolled his eyes and played the fool: "What were you two eating?"
"Ginseng fruit," said the Sha Monk.
"What did it taste like?"
"Don't mind him, Wujing!" said the Pilgrim. "You ate yours first—what are you asking us for?"
"Brother, I ate in too much of a hurry—not like you two chewing slow and fine, tasting the flavor. I didn't even know whether it had a pit, and down it went. Brother, be a friend all the way! You've set my gluttony-worm stirring—go get one more, and old Pig will eat it slow and proper."
"Brother, you know no moderation! This thing is not rice food or wheat food, to be eaten to bursting when you meet it. Ten thousand years produce only thirty of them—that we ate even one apiece shows rare destiny, no small affair. Enough! Enough! Enough!"
He rose, and with the golden striker in hand, slipped it secretly through the window lattice into the Daoist boys' room, and thought no more of it.
The blockhead kept up his nagging and muttering—and it so happened that the two Daoist boys came back into their room to fetch tea for offering, and heard Bajie still bawling something about "ginseng fruit not eaten with relish—one more to eat would be just the thing."
Qingfeng heard it, and his heart misgave him: "Mingyue, do you hear that long-snouted monk going on about 'wanting another ginseng fruit to eat'? When Master left he cautioned us against his underlings making trouble—could it be they've stolen our treasure?"
Mingyue turned his head: "Brother! Bad! Bad! How did the golden striker come to be lying on the floor! Let's go look in the garden!"
The two of them hurried off in a rush, and there was the flower garden standing open.
"I shut this gate," said Qingfeng. "How has it come open?"
They hurried through the flower garden, and found the kitchen-garden gate open too. Rushing into the ginseng garden, they leaned against the tree and counted above, going back and forth, to and fro—and there were only twenty-two.
"Can you do sums?" said Mingyue.
"I can. Say on."
"There were thirty fruits to begin with. When Master opened the garden, the company shared two—twenty-eight remained. Just now we knocked down two for the Tang monk—twenty-six remained. Now only twenty-two are left—are we not short four? No need to say more: that pack of scoundrels has stolen them. Let's go scold the Tang monk."
Out the garden gate the two came, straight to the hall, and pointing at the Tang monk they cursed him bald pate before and bald pate behind, filthy words and foul speech without pause—a thieves' scurry of abuse, stinking short and reeking long, bawling in high ill temper.
The Tang monk could not bear it: "Immortal youths, what is all this noise? Compose yourselves. If you have something to say, say it slowly—don't talk such wild, scattered nonsense."
"Are you deaf?" said Qingfeng. "I'm speaking the blunt truth—don't you understand? You stole and ate our ginseng fruit. Why shouldn't I say so?"
"What does the ginseng fruit look like?"
"The ones just brought for you to eat—the ones you said looked like little children!"
"Amida Buddha! The sight of those things alone set my heart pounding and my courage trembling—would I dare steal them to eat? Even mad with gluttony, I would not do a thief's deed. Don't wrong an innocent man."
"Though you didn't eat, you have underlings who would steal to eat!"
"That may well be. But don't bawl—let me ask them. If they truly stole, I'll have them pay you back."
"Pay! As if money could buy them anywhere!"
"Even if money couldn't buy them—as the saying goes, 'Righteousness is worth a thousand gold.' Let them make you a bow of apology, and let it end there. Besides, we don't yet know whether it was them or not."
"How could it not be them? They're over there this very minute, bawling over how to divide them unevenly!"
The Tang monk called: "Disciples—all of you come here!"
The Sha Monk heard it: "Bad! The game's up! The old master's calling us, and the little Daoist boys are cursing us with such relish—if the old business hasn't leaked out, what has?"
"Shame that kills!" said the Pilgrim. "It's nothing but a matter of eating and drinking. But if it comes out, then we're the ones who stole a treat. Only—say nothing."
"Right, right," said Bajie. "Deny it all."
The three of them had no choice but to come out of the kitchen and go up to the hall.
Ah! If you would know how they wrangled out of it, listen to the explanation in the next chapter.