The story continues. When the three brothers returned to the hall, they said to their master, "The rice is nearly cooked. What did you want with us?"
"Disciples," said Sanzang, "it was not about the rice. This temple has something called ginseng fruit—things that look just like little children. Which of you stole one and ate it?"
"I'm the honest one," said Bajie. "I don't know anything about it. I never saw a thing."
"It's the one who's laughing!" cried Qingfeng. "It's the one who's laughing!"
Pilgrim shouted, "Old Sun was born with this laughing face! Just because you've mislaid some fruit, does that mean I'm not allowed to smile?"
"Disciple, calm your anger," said Sanzang. "We are men who have left the world. We must not tell lies, nor eat food that wrongs our conscience. If you really ate his fruit, apologize to him. What good does such stubborn denial do?"
Seeing that his master spoke reason, Pilgrim told the truth. "Master, it wasn't my doing. Bajie heard those two boy-immortals through the wall talking about eating ginseng fruit, and he wanted a taste of something new, so he had old Sun go knock down three of them, and the three of us brothers each ate one. Now that they're eaten, what do you want to do about it?"
"He stole four of them, and this monk still says he's not a thief!" cried Mingyue.
"Amida Buddha!" said Bajie. "If four were stolen, how come only three were brought out to divide? Somebody held one back on the side from the very start!"
The blockhead just kept up his senseless bawling. But the two boy-immortals, having heard the truth confirmed, only cursed and reviled them all the more.
The Great Sage's rage was now beyond bearing. His steel teeth ground together; his fiery eyes rolled wide; he gripped and re-gripped his gold-hooped staff, holding himself in, holding himself in. "These boys are insufferable! If they'd only cursed us to our faces, I could swallow a little of it. But I'll give them a plan that finishes them off for good—let's see them all enjoy their fruit then!"
What a Pilgrim! He plucked one hair from the back of his head, blew on it a magic breath, cried "Change!"—and it became a false Pilgrim, which stayed close beside the Tang monk, keeping company with Wuneng and Wujing, patiently enduring the boy-immortals' shouting and cursing. His true self slipped out of his body in spirit form, leaped up on a cloud, and went straight to the ginseng garden. There he drew his gold-hooped staff and dealt the tree a single crashing blow—then, exerting the supernatural strength that could topple mountains and move ridges, he gave the tree one mighty shove and pushed it over.
Alas! The leaves fell, the branches splayed apart, the roots came up out of the earth—and the Daoists' Grass-Returned Cinnabar was cut off forever! Having toppled the tree, the Great Sage searched among the branches for fruit, but could he find even half a one? Of course not. This treasure fell at the touch of metal, and the edge of his staff was wrapped in gold; iron, moreover, is one of the five metals besides. That is why, the moment the staff struck, the fruit had all been shaken down. And once down, it met the earth and sank into the soil; and so there was not a single fruit left up above.
"Good! Good! Good!" he said. "Now nobody gets any!"
He put away his staff and came straight back. With one shake of his hair he drew it back onto his body. All those people, with their mortal eyes and fleshly bodies, could see nothing of what had happened.
Now the boy-immortals had cursed them for a long while, until at last Qingfeng said, "Mingyue, these monks can really take abuse. We've been scolding them like a couple of hens for half the day, and there hasn't been so much as a peep out of them. I suppose they really didn't steal and eat any. Perhaps the tree is so tall and the leaves so thick that we counted wrongly. Let's not curse them for nothing. Come, you and I will go count again."
"You're right," said Mingyue.
The two of them went back to the garden, and there they saw it: the tree toppled over, its branches splayed wide, the fruit gone and the leaves fallen. Qingfeng's legs went soft and he fell head over heels; Mingyue's back turned to jelly and he shook all over. Both their souls flew out and scattered in fright. There is a poem to prove it:
Sanzang came west to Longevity Mountain; Wukong destroyed the Grass-Returned Cinnaban. Branches splayed, leaves fell, the immortal roots lay bare— Bright Moon and Clear Wind were chilled with hearts' despair.
The two of them collapsed in the dust, babbling incoherently. "What shall we do? What shall we do? The elixir-source of our Wuzhuang Temple is destroyed! The heirloom of our immortal house is cut off! When Master comes home, how are we ever going to answer him?"
Mingyue said, "Brother, don't wail. Let's straighten our clothes and caps, and whatever we do, let's not alarm these monks. This was nobody else—it must have been that hairy-faced, thunderbeak fellow. He slipped out his spirit and worked some magic to wreck our treasure. If we try to reason with him, the scoundrel will only deny everything, and if we argue, it will come to blows. And think—how could the two of us ever stand against their four? Better to trick them: we'll say the fruit was never missing, that we counted wrong, and go apologize to them. Their rice is already cooked; when they sit down to eat, we'll add a few extra side dishes. One of them on either side of the door—when each of them picks up his bowl, you stand at the left of the door and I'll stand at the right, and bang! we'll slam the doors shut and lock them. We'll lock every gate in this place, one layer after another, and not let them out. When Master comes home, he can deal with them however he pleases. The Tang monk is an old friend of Master's; if he spares them, that's Master's favor to show. If he doesn't spare them, then at least we've got the thieves caught red-handed, and perhaps our own guilt may be excused."
Qingfeng heard him out. "Right! Right!"
The two pulled themselves together, forced a look of cheerfulness, came straight from the back garden to the hall, and bowed low with clasped hands to the Tang monk. "Master, our words just now were coarse and rude, and we gave you great offense. Don't be angry—please, don't be angry."
"What do you mean?" asked Sanzang.
"The fruit wasn't missing after all," said Qingfeng. "The tree is so tall and the leaves so thick that we couldn't see clearly. We've just been back to count again, and they're all there, right to the last one."
At that, Bajie seized the chance to lord it over them: "You two youngsters! Too young to know how to behave—bursting in with your wild curses, damning us with your bare lips, accusing us for nothing! Shameful! Simply shameful!"
Pilgrim understood perfectly, but he said nothing. "Lies! All lies!" he thought. "The fruit is done for, finished—so why are they talking like this? ... Unless they have some way to bring the dead back to life..."
"Well then," said Sanzang, "serve up the rice, and we'll eat and be on our way."
Bajie went to fill the rice bowls, while the Sha Monk set out the tables and chairs. The two boy-immortals hurried to bring side dishes—pickled melon, pickled eggplant, radishes in wine lees, vinegar-soaked beans, salted taro, and quick-pickled mustard greens, seven or eight little plates in all—and set them before master and disciples for their meal. They also brought a pot of good tea and two teacups, and stood in attendance on either side.
The four travelers had scarcely picked up their bowls when the two boys, one at each side, slammed the doors shut and shot home a double-tongued bronze lock.
Bajie laughed. "These boys have got it wrong. The customs in this place are terrible! Why on earth would you shut people indoors to eat?"
"Exactly, exactly," said Mingyue. "You just eat your meal, and we'll open up presently."
Qingfeng cursed: "You thieving, food-thieving bald robbers! You ate my immortal fruit—that alone is the crime of wantonly helping yourself to the produce of another's garden! And then you pushed over my immortal tree and destroyed the immortal root of our Wuzhuang Temple—and you've still got the gall to run your mouths! If you ever want to reach the West and behold the Buddha's face, it'll only be by turning back into babes in cradles and being born all over again!"
At these words Sanzang put down his rice bowl, and his heart sank like a stone.
The boy-immortals locked the front mountain gate and the second mountain gate, every one, then came back to the front of the main hall and let loose with harsh words and foul, calling them thieves before and thieves behind, cursing until the sky darkened toward evening, and only then went off to eat. Supper done, they retired to their rooms.
The Tang monk grumbled at Pilgrim: "You monkey head! You're forever running headlong into trouble! You ate their fruit—then you could have taken a scolding, let them curse you a few rounds, and that would have been that. But why did you have to push over their tree? If this matter were taken to court, even if your father were the magistrate, he couldn't argue you out of it!"
"Master, don't fret," said Pilgrim. "Those boys have gone to bed. Wait till they're sound asleep, and we'll set out tonight and travel all night."
"Brother," said the Sha Monk, "every gate is locked, shut tight as can be. How do we get out?"
"Never mind, never mind," said Pilgrim with a laugh. "Old Sun has his own methods."
"As if I worried you lacked methods!" said Bajie. "One twist and you turn into some gnat or midge and flit right out through the cracks in the lattice. It's only poor wretches like us who can't transform who'll be left here holding the bag and taking the punishment!"
"If he plays that trick and goes off without you and me," said the Tang monk, "then I'll start reciting the Old Words Sutra, and see how he likes that!"
Bajie heard this, and half worrying and half laughing, said: "Master, what kind of talk is that? I've heard of the Shurangama Sutra, the Lotus Sutra, the Peacock Sutra, the Guanyin Sutra, and the Diamond Sutra in the Buddha's teaching—but I've never heard of any 'Old Words Sutra'!"
"Brother, you don't know," said Pilgrim. "This band on my head was given by the Bodhisattva Guanyin to my master. The master coaxed me into putting it on, and now it's rooted there like a growing thing—there's no getting it off. It's called the Tight-Fillet Spell, and it's also called the Tight-Fillet Sutra. That 'Old Words Sutra' of his—this is it! Whenever he recites it, my head aches. That's the device he holds over me. Master, don't recite it! I will never fail you—I promise you we'll all get out together, every one."
While they talked, the sky went dark, and before they knew it the moon had risen in the east.
"Now," said Pilgrim, "all sounds are still, and the icy wheel of the moon shines bright. A perfect time to be on our way."
"Brother," said Bajie, "stop your tricks! Every gate is locked and barred. Walk where?"
"Watch this!" said Pilgrim.
What a Pilgrim! He took his gold-hooped staff in hand, worked the Lock-Breaking Spell, and pointed at the doors. With a sudden clatter, the double tongues of every lock, layer after layer, dropped to the floor, and the door leaves flew open with a bang.
"Some skill!" Bajie said with a laugh. "Even a tinker with all his soldering irons couldn't be this quick about it!"
"These doors are nothing to make a fuss over," said Pilgrim. "If I pointed at the South Gate of Heaven, it would open too."
They invited their master out the gate and onto the horse; Bajie shouldered the load, the Sha Monk led the horse, and they set off straight down the western road.
"You all go on slowly ahead," said Pilgrim. "Let old Sun go back and arrange for those two boys to sleep for a month."
"Disciple," said Sanzang, "you must not harm their lives! Or there'll be another crime of hurting people after gaining their goods."
"I know," said Pilgrim.
He slipped back inside and came to the door of the room where the boy-immortals slept. Now from his belt he took two sleep bugs—he had won them from Virudhaka, the Growth Heavenly King, playing guessing games at the East Gate of Heaven. He popped them in through the lattice of the window, and they crawled straight onto the boys' faces, and the two slept snoring, dead to the world, past all hope of waking.
Only then did he bound off on his cloud, catch up with the Tang monk, and race westward along the high road. That night the horse never paused in its tracks, and they traveled until daybreak.
"This monkey head is the death of me!" cried Sanzang. "All because of your appetite, I've been kept awake a whole night!"
"Don't keep on grumbling," said Pilgrim. "It's light now. Rest here a while in the woods by the roadside and gather your spirit before we go on."
The elder had no choice but to dismount. Leaning against the root of a pine, he made do with it as a meditation couch and sat down. The Sha Monk set down his load and dozed; Bajie pillowed his head on a rock and slept. The Great Sage Sun, for his part, was in high spirits—look at him leaping through the trees and swinging from branches, playing to his heart's content. Of the four of them resting there, we say no more.
Now tell it of the Great Immortal. When the assembly at the Palace of Primordial Origin broke up, he led his junior immortals out of the Tushita Heaven, straight down from the jasper skies, dropped his auspicious cloud, and soon arrived at the gate of Wuzhuang Temple on Longevity Mountain.
Looking around, he saw the temple gates standing wide open and the ground swept clean. The Great Immortal said, "Clear Wind and Bright Moon have really proved useful. Ordinarily by the time the sun is three zhang high they still haven't stretched their backs. Today, with us away, they've actually risen early, opened the gates, and swept the floors."
The junior immortals were all pleased. But when they walked up to the hall, not a stick of incense was burning; there was no trace of a soul—and where were Bright Moon and Clear Wind?
"The two of them must have made off with our things," said the immortals, "because we were away."
"Impossible!" said the Great Immortal. "Men who cultivate immortality would never have such wicked hearts! I expect they forgot to shut the gates last night before going to bed, and this morning they still haven't woken."
The immortals went to the door of their room and looked: sure enough, the door was shut, and inside came the sound of deep snoring. But pound on the door and shout as they might, could they wake them? The immortals pried the door open and dragged them off the bed by main force, and still they would not wake.
The Great Immortal laughed. "Fine immortal boys! Those who have become immortal are full of spirit and never want for sleep. How can they be sunk in slumber like this? Surely someone has played a trick on them. Quick, bring water!"
A boy hastily fetched half a bowl of water and handed it to the Great Immortal. He recited a spell, took a mouthful, and sprayed it on their faces, whereupon the demon of sleep was straightaway dispelled.
The two came to themselves. Their eyes flew open; they rubbed their faces, looked up, and recognized their immortal master, the Lord Who Is the World's Contemporary, and the assembled immortal brothers. In their panic, Qingfeng bowed his head and Mingyue knocked it on the floor: "Master! Your old friend—that monk from the East—he and his lot are a band of brigands, fierce beyond all measure!"
"Don't be frightened," said the Great Immortal with a smile. "Tell me slowly."
"Master," said Qingfeng, "soon after you left that day, there indeed came a Tang monk from the East—four monks in the party, five souls counting the horse. Your disciples dared not disobey your orders: we asked him his business, and we brought him two ginseng fruit as you instructed. But the elder, with his worldly eyes and foolish heart, did not recognize our immortal treasure. He said they were infants not yet three days old, and again and again refused to eat—so your disciples ate one each. But then, that under his command are three disciples, and one of them is surnamed Sun, called Pilgrim Wukong, who first stole four fruit and ate them. When your disciples reasoned with him, speaking a few honest words of rebuke, he would not have it. In secret he worked some trick of slipping out of his body—oh, misery!"
At this point neither boy could hold back the tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Did the monk beat you?" asked the immortals.
"He didn't beat us," said Mingyue. "He only pushed over our ginseng tree."
At these words the Great Immortal showed not a trace of anger. "Don't cry, don't cry. You don't know that this Sun is himself a Scatter Immortal of the Grand Unity; he once wreaked havoc in Heaven, and his magic powers are vast. So he has toppled the treasure tree. Tell me—do you know those monks by sight?"
"We know them all," said Qingfeng.
"Then come with me, both of you. Disciples, get the instruments of punishment ready, and wait till I come back to beat them."
The immortals took his orders. The Great Immortal rose on auspicious light with Bright Moon and Clear Wind to overtake Sanzang; in a moment they had covered a thousand li. From amid the clouds the Great Immortal looked west: no Tang monk to be seen. Turning his head to look east, he found he had overshot them by more than nine hundred li. For the elder had traveled without pause all night and covered only a hundred and twenty li, while the Great Immortal in one leap of his cloud had gone more than nine hundred li past them.
"Master," said the boy-immortals, "the one sitting under the trees by the roadside is the Tang monk."
"I've seen him already," said the Great Immortal. "You two go back and get ropes ready, and leave him to me to take." Qingfeng went back first; of him no more.
The Great Immortal pressed down his cloud, shook his body, and changed himself into a wandering Daoist of the Complete Truth. And how did he look?
A hundred-patched robe he wore on his frame, A Lü Gong sash at his waist he tied; A chowry tail in hand he swayed, On his fish-drum gently rapped and sighed. Three-earred straw sandals on his feet, A Nine-Yang cap was wound round his head; His sleeves were filled with drifting wind, And he sang "The Moon Hangs High" as he sped.
He walked straight up under the trees and called out loudly to the Tang monk, "Venerable sir, your humble Daoist salutes you!"
The elder hurriedly returned the greeting. "Forgive me for failing to see you coming! Forgive me!"
"Venerable sir," asked the Great Immortal, "where do you come from? Why do you sit in meditation by the roadside?"
"This poor monk," said Sanzang, "has been sent by the Great Tang in the eastern land to fetch scriptures from the Western Heaven. Passing through here, I stopped merely to rest a while."
The Great Immortal feigned surprise. "Since the elder came from the east, did you by chance pass my humble mountain?"
"I know not which precious mountain the immortal palace might be," said the elder.
"Longevity Mountain, Wuzhuang Temple—that is where your humble Daoist makes his home."
When Pilgrim heard this—being a man with something on his mind—he answered quickly: "We didn't! We didn't! We came along the high road the whole way."
The Great Immortal pointed at him and laughed. "You brazen ape! Who do you think you're fooling? You stayed in my temple, pushed over my ginseng tree, and fled here in the night—and you still won't confess! What are you trying to cover up? Don't run! Hand my tree back, right now!"
At these words Pilgrim's anger blazed up. He drew his iron staff, and without another word brought it crashing down on the Great Immortal's head. The Great Immortal swayed aside and dodged it, then stepped up on an auspicious cloud straight into the air. Pilgrim too mounted the clouds and chased him up in fury. In midair the Great Immortal showed his true form. Look how he was arrayed:
A purple-gold crown upon his head, The carefree crane cloak on him thrown; Cloud-soled shoes upon his feet, A silk band round his waist was wound. His body bore a boy's fair form, His face was like a beauty's own; Three strands of beard beneath his chin, Crow-feather locks above it shone. No weapon did he bear to meet the Pilgrim's charge— Only a jade chowry in his hand was thrown.
The Pilgrim struck wildly, high and low, raining blows with his staff. The Great Immortal parried left and right with the jade chowry, endured two or three rounds, then employed the device of the Sleeve of the Cosmos: in the clouds he spread his robe sleeve wide to catch the wind, and with a sweep it came flashing over, and in one sleeve he scooped up all four monks and the horse besides.
"We're done for!" cried Bajie. "We've been stuffed in a fish creel!"
"Blockhead, it's not a creel," said Pilgrim. "He's bagged us in his sleeve."
"That's nothing," said Bajie. "Wait till I give it a few strokes of my rake and gouge a hole in it, and we'll drop right out. Then we can just say he wasn't careful, didn't hold us fast, and we fell out."
The blockhead hacked wildly at the sleeve with his rake—but could he so much as scratch it? Pinched in the fingers it was soft enough, but strike it and it was harder than iron.
The Great Immortal wheeled his auspicious cloud and landed at Wuzhuang Temple, where he sat down and called for ropes. The junior immortals waited on him one by one. And look: from his sleeve, one after another, as if plucking puppets, he drew out the Tang monk and bound him to a pillar under the eaves of the main hall; then he drew out the other three and tied each to a pillar. The horse too he brought out and tethered in the courtyard with a fodder basket before it; the luggage he flung down under the corridor.
Then he said: "Disciples, these monks are men who have left the world. We must not use blades or spears on them, nor apply ax or halberd. Bring out the leather whip and give them a flogging, to vent my spleen over the ginseng fruit!"
The immortals hurriedly brought out a whip. It was no whip of oxhide, sheepskin, deer-hide, or calfskin—it was a Seven-Star Whip made of dragon hide, kept soaking in water.
A strong young immortal gripped the whip firmly and asked, "Master, whom shall we flog first?"
"The Tang Sanzang is the eldest and dishonors his station. Flog him first."
When Pilgrim heard this he thought to himself: "My old master can't stand a beating. If one round of the whip finishes him, wouldn't that be a sin on my head?"
Unable to bear it, he spoke up. "Sir, you've got it wrong. I stole the fruit, I ate the fruit, and I pushed over the tree. Why not flog me first? What's the use of beating him?"
The Great Immortal laughed. "This brazen ape has quite a sharp tongue! Very well then—flog him first."
"How many strokes?" asked the young immortal.
"Thirty strokes, one for each fruit," said the Great Immortal.
The young immortal swung the whip and laid on.
Now Pilgrim, fearing the immortals' law was potent, kept his fiery eyes fixed wide open, watching where the blows would fall. They fell on the legs. So Pilgrim gave his waist one twist, cried "Change!"—and turned them into two legs of wrought iron. Let him lash away as he pleased! The young immortal laid on stroke after stroke, thirty in all, and by then the sky was nearing noon.
The Great Immortal gave further orders: "The Tang Sanzang must still be flogged for lax discipline in letting his unruly disciples run wild."
Again the young immortal swung the whip, but Pilgrim said, "Sir, you're wrong again. When the fruit was stolen, my master knew nothing of it—he was in your hall talking with your two boys. The whole business was done by us brothers. And even if he bears the guilt of lax discipline, I, his disciple, ought to take the strokes for him. Flog me some more instead."
The Great Immortal laughed. "This brazen ape is a cunning, wily rascal—yet he has a certain filial decency. Very well, flog him again."
And the young immortal gave him thirty more.
Pilgrim looked down at his legs: they shone like polished mirrors, worn bright by the beating, and he felt neither ache nor tickle.
By now the sky was darkening toward evening. "Soak the whip in the water," said the Great Immortal, "and we'll torture them again tomorrow."
The young immortal put the whip away to soak, and they all retired to their rooms. When the evening meal was done, all went to sleep; of this we say no more.
The elder's tears fell in streams as he grumbled at his three disciples: "You go looking for trouble, and I have to suffer for it here. How did this ever come about?"
"Stop your grumbling," said Pilgrim. "When they flogged, they flogged me first, and you never took a single stroke. What are you sighing about?"
"Though I wasn't beaten," said the Tang monk, "being bound this tight hurts me all over."
"Master," said the Sha Monk, "here are two more bound alongside you to keep you company."
"All of you, quiet," said Pilgrim. "In a little while we'll be on our way."
"There goes Brother with his tricks again!" said Bajie. "These hemp ropes have been sprayed with water and cinched down tight! They're a far cry from the hall doors you burst open with that Lock-Breaking Spell of yours!"
"I don't boast," said Pilgrim, "but let them spray three-strand hemp rope with water—even palm cables as thick as bowls are no more to me than an autumn breeze!"
While they talked, all sounds had died away; the streets of heaven were still. What a Pilgrim! He made himself small, slipped right out of the ropes, and said, "Master, let's go!"
The Sha Monk panicked. "Brother, save us too!"
"Softly! Softly!" He then unbound Sanzang and let down Bajie and the Sha Monk; they tightened their tunics, saddled the horse, gathered the luggage from under the corridor, and all went out the temple gate together.
Then he told Bajie: "Go cut down four willow trees from the cliff's edge."
"What do you want them for?" asked Bajie.
"They have their use! Fetch them quick!"
The blockhead had a good store of brute strength. Off he went, and with one thrust of his snout per tree, he rooted up four of them and carried them back in a bundle. Pilgrim snapped off the top branches, then he and his brother went back inside and bound the original ropes to the pillars as before.
The Great Sage recited a spell, bit the tip of his tongue, and sprayed the blood onto the trees, crying "Change!" One trunk became the elder, one became Pilgrim himself, and the other two became the Sha Monk and Bajie—all so alike in face and form that if you questioned them they would answer, and if you called their names they would respond. Only then did the two of them stride away and catch up with their master. That night, as before, the horse never paused, and they fled far from Wuzhuang Temple.
They traveled until daybreak. The elder, nodding and swaying on the horse, dozed in the saddle. When Pilgrim saw this he called out, "Master, this won't do! How can a man who has left the world suffer so? Old Sun can go a thousand nights without sleep and never feel weary. Come down off the horse—don't let travelers on the road see you and laugh at you. Let's rest a while in this sheltered hollow below the slope where the wind gathers, and then go on."
Of master and disciples resting there for a time, we say no more.
Now tell it of the Great Immortal. At daybreak he rose, took his morning meal, came out to the hall, and called for the whip. "Today it's the Tang Sanzang's turn to be flogged."
The young immortal took up the whip and addressed the Tang monk: "Now it's you." The willow tree answered him: "Lay it on." Cracking blows—thirty of them.
He swung the whip around to Bajie. "Now it's you." The willow tree also answered: "Lay it on." And when he came to the Sha Monk, that one too answered, "Lay it on." But when he came to flog Pilgrim—the true Pilgrim out on the road suddenly gave a shudder. "Not good!"
"What's the matter?" asked Sanzang.
"I changed four willow trees into the four of us, master and disciples. I supposed that after beating me twice yesterday he wouldn't flog today. But he's beating my double, and so my true body shudders. I'll undo the spell." And in haste Pilgrim recited the spell and withdrew the magic.
Look at those boy-immortals, scared out of their wits: they dropped the leather whip and ran to report. "Master! The first one we beat was the Tang monk—but those we've been beating just now are nothing but willow roots!"
The Great Immortal heard this and laughed coldly, unable to contain his admiration. "Pilgrim Sun—truly a fine Monkey King! I'd heard how he wreaked havoc in the Palace of Heaven, and the nets of earth and snares of heaven could not hold him. So it's true! If he had run off, well and good—but to tie up willow trees here to answer for them under borrowed names—he shall by no means be spared! After him!"
At the word, the Great Immortal leaped up on his cloud and gazed west—and there were the monks, the luggage on the pole, the horse urged along, plodding down the road.
The Great Immortal sank down his cloud and shouted, "Pilgrim Sun! Where do you think you're going? Give me back my ginseng tree!"
Bajie heard him and cried, "Done for! Here comes our old enemy again!"
"Master," said Pilgrim, "wrap up the word 'mercy' for now and let us play the villain in earnest—finish him off once and for all, and then make our getaway." The Tang monk heard this and trembled, offering no reply. The Sha Monk grasped his precious staff, Bajie raised his rake, and the Great Sage swung his iron staff; all together they charged, surrounded the Great Immortal in midair, and struck and hacked at him wildly. Of this fierce battle there is a poem to prove it:
Wukong did not know the immortal Zhenyuan's power; The Lord Who Is the World's Contemporary, subtler still. Three magic weapons rained their furious blows, One chowry tail waved light as gossamer. It parried left and right through every thrust, Behind it blocked, in front it met each wheel. Night goes, morning comes, and still no escape— How long delayed, when will they reach the Western Heaven?
The three brothers each raised his magic weapon and attacked together, while the Great Immortal merely warded and parried with his fly-whisk. Before half a watch had passed, he spread his robe sleeve, and once again swept all four monks, the horse, and the luggage into it with one scoop. He wheeled his cloud and returned to the temple, where the immortals received him and the immortal master took his seat in the hall. One by one he hauled them out of his sleeve. The Tang monk he bound to the low locust tree below the steps; Bajie and the Sha Monk he tied to trees on either side; and Pilgrim he trussed up and threw down.
"I suppose this is the interrogation," said Pilgrim.
In a moment they were all bound fast. Then he called for ten bolts of long cloth to be brought.
Pilgrim laughed. "Bajie! This gentleman has kind intentions—he's brought cloth to make us monk's robes with wide sleeves! We'll trim it down a bit and make them one-piece instead."
The young immortals carried out bolts of homespun cloth.
"Wrap the Tang Sanzang, Zhu Bajie, and the Sha Monk in cloth!" ordered the Great Immortal.
The immortals swarmed forward and wrapped them.
"Fine! Fine! Fine!" laughed Pilgrim. "Buried alive in broad daylight!"
In a moment the wrapping was done. Then he called for lacquer to be brought. The immortals hurriedly fetched some raw and cooked lacquer of their own gathering and own drying, and lacquered the three of them all over their cloth wrappings, leaving only their heads and faces out.
"Sir," said Bajie, "the top part doesn't matter—but do leave some holes down below, so we can relieve ourselves."
Then the Great Immortal ordered the great cauldron brought out.
"Bajie, what luck!" laughed Pilgrim. "They're bringing out a cauldron—I expect they mean to cook rice for us."
"Well enough," said Bajie. "Let us eat a little rice and die full-bellied ghosts—it'll look better that way."
The immortals indeed hauled out a great cauldron and set it up below the steps.
The Great Immortal called for dry firewood to be stacked and a fierce blaze kindled, and ordered: "Fill the cauldron to the brim with clear oil and boil it scalding hot. Plunge Pilgrim Sun into the oil and fry him well, to avenge my ginseng tree!"
When Pilgrim heard this he was secretly delighted. "Just what old Sun was wishing for! I haven't had a bath in all this while, and my skin's been getting dry and itchy. A good scalding soak—I'm deeply grateful for the hospitality!"
In a moment the oil was about to boil. But the Great Sage kept his wits about him, fearing that the immortals' law would be hard to fathom and that in the oil cauldron he could hardly play his tricks. He glanced quickly around, and saw that east of the terrace below stood a sundial platform, and to the west a stone lion.
Pilgrim bounded over to the west, bit the tip of his tongue, spat a mouthful of blood on the stone lion, and cried "Change!" It turned into his very own likeness, bound and trussed just as he had been. Meanwhile his primal spirit slipped out and rose into the clouds, looking down on the Daoist from above.
Just then a young immortal reported: "Master, the oil is at a full boil."
"Take Pilgrim Sun and drop him in!" ordered the Great Immortal.
Four immortal boys tried to lift him and could not; eight came and still could not; four more were added, and they could not either.
"This monkey clings to the earth like homesick clay," said the immortals. "Small he may be, but solid!"
So twenty young immortals heaved him up together, carried him to the cauldron, and flung him in. There was a great crack and a splash of boiling oil that spattered the faces of the little Daoists with great scalding blisters!
Then the fire-tending boys were heard shrieking: "The cauldron's leaking! The cauldron's leaking!"
Hard were the words out of their mouths when the last of the oil drained away and the bottom of the cauldron broke through—for what should be inside but a stone lion!
The Great Immortal flew into a towering rage. "This brazen ape—insolence itself! He played his trick right before my eyes! If he had run off, well and good—but then he must go and smash my stove too! The wretched ape—I'd catch him in vain anyway. Even caught, he'd be like kneading sand or handling quicksilver, like clutching at shadows and chasing the wind. Enough! Enough! Enough! Let him go. Untie the Tang Sanzang, set up a fresh cauldron, and fry him instead, to avenge my ginseng tree."
The young immortals set to work at once, stripping off the cloth and lacquer.
Pilgrim, in midair, heard every word clearly, and he thought: "Master will never hold out. If he goes into the oil cauldron, one boil will kill him, two boils will crisp him, and by three or five boils they'll have boiled him into a pulpy mess of a monk! I must go save him."
What a Great Sage! He pressed down his cloud, stepped forward with hands clasped, and said: "Don't tear up that cloth and lacquer—I've come to take my turn in the oil."
The Great Immortal exclaimed in wrath: "You ape! How did you play your trick and smash my stove?"
Pilgrim laughed. "You ran into me—so your stove was bound to be smashed. What's that to do with me? Just now I was quite ready to accept a little of your hospitality in oil broth and oil gravy. But my bowels and bladder were on the point of bursting, and if I'd opened the floodgates in the cauldron, I'd have fouled your cooking oil and made it no good for dressing vegetables. Now that I'm emptied clean inside and out, I'm fit for the pot. Don't fry my master—fry me."
At these words the Great Immortal laughed coldly, walked out of the hall, and seized him by the arm.
What words were spoken, and how at last they escaped—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.