The story tells how Tang Sanzang had Sun the Pilgrim back again, and master and disciples, of one heart and one body, went on together toward the West. Since saving the princess in the Kingdom of Baoxiang, they had been escorted out of the western gate by sovereign and court, and no telling could exhaust the tale of their journey—hunger fed on the road, thirst quenched on the road, resting by night and walking by day. And now they had come upon the season of full spring:
Light breezes comb the willows, green as silk; The lovely scene invites a poem's praise. The hours hasten the birds to song; Warmth coaxes the flowers open; Fragrant bloom covers all the ground. In the crabapple courtyard a pair of swallows arrives— 'Tis just the time to savor spring. On the dusty roads of the red world, in silks and gauze, Strings and pipes sound, and girls play grass-games and pass the cup.
As master and disciples walked along enjoying the view, another mountain rose to bar their way. Tang Sanzang said: "Disciples, be careful. Ahead lies a high mountain—I fear tigers and wolves may block the way."
The Pilgrim said: "Master, those who have left the world should not talk like those still in it. Do you remember the Heart Sutra of the Crow's Nest Monk: 'The mind has no hindrance; because there is no hindrance, it has no fear, and it is far removed from inverted dream and delusion'? All you need do is sweep the filth from your mind and wash the dust from your ears. Unless you suffer bitterness upon bitterness, you cannot rise above other men. Don't worry. With old Sun here, even if the sky itself came crashing down, I'd guarantee no harm. What are a few tigers and wolves to fear!"
The elder drew up his horse and said:
"When by imperial command I left Chang'an, My single thought was to go west and worship the Buddha's face. In the lands of the relics, golden images in splendor; In the pagodas, the jade radiance of his brow. I have sought out every nameless water under heaven, And trodden every mountain where no man has trod. Chasing on and on through wave upon wave of mist— When will this body of mine win its ease?"
At these words the Pilgrim laughed heartily: "You want an easy body, Master? What difficulty is there in that? Once our work is achieved, the ten thousand attachments all cease, and all things are emptiness. Then, quite naturally and of itself, will you not have an easy body?"
Hearing this, the elder could only take joy and forget his sorrow. He loosed the reins to hasten the silver steed, gathered the bridle to urge on the jade dragon. Master and disciples climbed the mountain, and it was perilous in the extreme—a truly towering, splendid mountain:
Lofty ridges, soaring; sharp peaks, knife-cut. By the deep, winding gullies, beside the lonely sheer cliffs. By the deep, winding gullies, one hears only the hula-la of a swimming serpent rolling over; Beside the lonely sheer cliffs, one sees a tiger bursting from the woods, lashing its tail. Look upward: the crests jut jagged through the blue empyrean; Turn and gaze: the ravines plunge dark, verging on the vault of heaven. Climbing high, it is like a ladder, like a stool; Descending low, it is like a trench, like a pit. Truly a mountain of strange and jagged crests, In truth a cliff-face of linked knife-points and sheared walls. On the jagged crests, the herb-gatherer thinks with dread of crossing; Before the sheared walls, the woodcutter cannot move a single step. Wild sheep and wild horses dart and crisscross; Cunning hares and mountain oxen move as if in battle array. The height veils sun and blots out the stars; And always there are savage beasts and gray wolves. The grassy paths blur and baffle the horse— How shall we ever reach the Thunderclap and see the King of Buddha?
The elder reined in his horse to study the mountain. Just where the way grew most difficult, on a green mossy slope, there stood a woodcutter. And how was he dressed?
On his head an old indigo felt hat; On his body a patched black hemp robe. The old indigo felt hat—shutting out smoke and sun, a rare thing truly; The patched black hemp robe—taking joy and forgetting sorrow, seldom seen. In his hand a steel axe, ground swift and bright; With his blade he fells dry wood and binds it tight. On his carrying-pole, the colors of spring—through all four seasons, a mellow warmth; Beyond his body, an idle heart—ever beneath the pale light of the three stars. To old age he lives just as his lot allows— What glory or disgrace ever bars his mountain way?
That woodcutter was just then felling rotten firewood before the slope when he suddenly spied the elder coming from the east.
He stopped his axe-haft and came out of the woods, hastened over, climbed onto the rock cliff, and called out to the elder in a loud voice: "Venerable one bound westward! Pause a moment. I have a word of warning for you: on this mountain there is a band of venomous demons and savage monsters who feed on travelers going east or west."
At these words the elder's soul flew and scattered; trembling, he could not sit steady in his carved saddle. He turned his head quickly and called his disciples: "Did you hear that woodcutter's warning—venomous demons and savage monsters on this mountain? Who will go and question him closely?" The Pilgrim said: "Rest easy, Master. Let old Sun go and ask him the truth of the matter."
What a Pilgrim! He strode off and went straight up the mountain, hailed the woodcutter as "Elder Brother," and made his bow. The woodcutter returned the greeting: "Venerable one, what brings you here?" The Pilgrim said: "I'll not hide it from you, Elder Brother. We have been sent by the emperor of the East Land to fetch scriptures in the Western Heaven. That man on horseback is my master, and he is something of a coward. Just now you were kind enough to warn us of venomous demons and savage monsters, so I have come to ask one thing:
How many years old is that demon, how many years that monster? Is he a practiced hand, or a raw novice? Pray tell me honestly, Elder Brother, and I shall have the mountain god and the local deity escort him out of the province." [Translator's note: "escort him out of the province"—to have him deported, like a vagrant, by the local divinities.]
At these words the woodcutter threw back his head and roared with laughter: "So you're a mad monk."
"I'm not mad," said the Pilgrim. "That was honest talk." The woodcutter said: "If it was honest talk, how dare you speak of having him escorted away?" The Pilgrim said:
"Puffing up his prestige like that, babbling wild nonsense to block the road and scare us—could it be you're kin to him? If not kin, then neighbor; if not neighbor, then friend."
The woodcutter laughed: "You mad, wild monk—utterly without reason! I came out of good will, specially to warn you so you'd be on your guard morning and evening as you travel, and you turn it round against me. Never mind that I don't know where these demons come from—suppose I did: how would you dare deport them? And where would you send them?"
The Pilgrim said: "If he's a demon of Heaven, I hand him to the Jade Emperor; if a demon of Earth, to the Bureau of Earth. Those of the West go to the Buddha; those of the East, to the Sage. Those of the North I hand to the True Warrior; those of the South, to the Virtue of Fire. A flood-dragon spirit goes to the Lord of the Seas; a ghostly pest goes to King Yama—each has his place and his direction. Old Sun knows people everywhere. I'd issue one writ and have him deported at a dead run before the night was out." At that the woodcutter could not hold back cold laughter: "You mad, wild monk! You've been drifting about the countryside, I suppose, and learned a few charm-drawing, water-spelling arts—good enough for driving off evils and binding ghosts. You've never yet run into monsters as vicious as these." The Pilgrim said: "What makes them so vicious?" The woodcutter said: "The road across this mountain runs six hundred li and more, and it is called Flat-Top Mountain. In the mountain there is a cave called Lotus Cave. In the cave are two demon chiefs. They have posted pictures and portraits to capture monks; they have copied the names and inquired after the surname, meaning to eat Tang Sanzang.
"If you'd come from anywhere else, no matter. But with the least connection to the word 'Tang'—don't even dream of getting through, getting through!"
The Pilgrim said: "We've come precisely from the Tang court."
The woodcutter said: "Then they'll want to eat you indeed." The Pilgrim said: "What luck! What luck! Only—how will they eat us?" The woodcutter said: "What do you care how they eat you?" The Pilgrim said: "If they eat the head first, that's fine and fun; if they start with the feet, that's hard lines." "What do you mean, head first? What do you mean, feet first?" The Pilgrim said: "You've never been through it. If they eat the head first—one bite, and I'm dead; then let them fry, braise, stew, or boil me, I'll feel no pain. But if they start with the feet—they gnaw the anklebones, chew the calves, work up to the backbone, and I still can't manage to die—wouldn't that be suffering in bits and scraps? That's what I call hard lines." The woodcutter said: "Monk, where would they find so much time? They'd simply seize you, tie you up, pop you in a steamer, and eat you whole." The Pilgrim laughed: "Even better! Even better! No pain worth minding—I'd only suffer a little stuffy discomfort." The woodcutter said: "Don't you make fun, monk. Those monsters carry five treasures on them, and their powers are vast beyond measure. Even if you were a pillar propping up Heaven or a beam straddling the sea, escorting this Tang monk through would still make your head swim a few times." The Pilgrim said: "Swim how many times?" The woodcutter said: "Three or four times, at least." The Pilgrim said: "No matter, no matter.
"In a year we commonly swim seven or eight hundred times. Three or four swims come easy—swim, swim, and they're over."
What a Great Sage—utterly without fear, his whole heart set only on escorting Tang Sanzang! He left the woodcutter, wheeled round, and strode back down to the slope and the horse's head: "Master, nothing much the matter. There is a demon or two about, but the folk here are timid and take him to heart. With me along, what is there to fear? Let's be walking! Let's be walking!"
Hearing this, the elder could only ease his mind and follow. Just as they were walking on, the woodcutter was gone.
The elder said: "How is it that the woodcutter who warned us has vanished?"
Bajie said: "Our luck's out—we've run into a daytime ghost." The Pilgrim said: "He's probably gone into the woods to gather firewood. Let me go take a look." What a Great Sage! He opened his fiery eyes with golden pupils and scanned mountain after mountain, ridge after ridge—no trace anywhere.
Suddenly he raised his head and looked into the clouds, and there it was: the Duty God of the Day. He sprang into the clouds, caught up with him, cursed him a few times for a shaggy wretch, and demanded: "Why didn't you come out and say your say straight, instead of changing yourself like that to make sport of old Sun?"
The Duty God hastened to bow: "Great Sage, forgive my late warning—no offense, no offense. These monsters truly have vast powers and endless transformations. Only look to your nimbleness and cleverness, put your divine cunning in motion, and guard your master with the greatest care. If you slacken by so much as a little, the road to the Western Heaven may not be traveled at all."
Hearing this, the Pilgrim dismissed the Duty God, took the warning deep to heart, brought down his cloud, and returned to the mountainside.
There were the elder, Bajie, and Sha Monk clustered together on the way. He thought to himself: "If I tell Master plainly what the Duty God said, Master is not up to it—he'd surely start weeping. But if I don't tell him the truth, I'd be leading him along with his head in a bag. As the saying goes, new to the reed-marsh, one knows not the depths. Suppose the demons fished him up—wouldn't that just mean more trouble for old Sun? Better first to take Bajie in hand, and send him out to fight a round with the monster. If he can beat him, that's a merit to his credit; if he hasn't the skill and gets captured, it won't be too late for old Sun to go rescue him—and it will nicely show off my own powers and make my name."
As he was turning it over, questioning his own heart, he thought: "Only, Bajie is lazy—if he won't come forward, and Master is a bit given to sparing him, old Sun must put a checkrein on him." What a Great Sage! Watch him put up a false front: he rubbed his eyes, rubbed out some tears, and walked straight ahead to meet his master, weeping. When Bajie saw it, he cried out at once:
"Sha Monk, set down the load! Bring out the luggage! Let's divide it up, the two of us!"
Sha Monk said: "Divide what, Second Brother?" Bajie said: "Divide it, I say! You go back to the Flowing Sands River and play the monster again; the old hog will go back to Gao Family Village and look up his wife. We'll sell the white horse, buy a coffin, and see Master off in his old age—and everyone scatter! Who's going to the Western Heaven anyhow?" The elder, hearing this from horseback, said: "You lout! We're on the road—how can you talk such nonsense again?" Bajie said: "Your son's the one talking nonsense! Don't you see Sun the Pilgrim over there, coming along crying? He's a hero who bores into the sky and burrows into the earth, whom axe-cuts and fire-burns and boiling oil cannot frighten—and now he's wearing the cap of sorrow, coming along with tears streaming. It must be that the mountain is frightfully steep and the demons terribly fierce. How could soft, weak creatures like us ever get through?" The elder said: "Hold your foolish talk. Let me ask him and see what he has to say." He asked: "Wukong, whatever it is, we should discuss it face to face. Why are you grieving by yourself? A tear-bag face like that—you're trying to frighten me with a tiger!" The Pilgrim said: "Master, that one who brought the warning just now was the Duty God of the Day. He said the demons are fierce and this stretch is hard going. And it's true: the mountain is high and the road precipitous—we cannot get through. Let us go another day." At this the elder grew frightened and dismayed; he clutched the Pilgrim's tiger-skin kilt: "Disciple! Of three stretches of road we have walked a stretch and a half—why speak of turning back?" The Pilgrim said: "It's not that I'd spare any effort—but I fear the demons are many and our strength is thin, and we march alone. Even if we were a block of iron, how many nails could the furnace beat out of it?" The elder said:
"Disciple, what you say is true—alone, a man is hard put to it. The art of war says: the few cannot withstand the many.
But here I have Bajie and Sha Monk, both disciples, yours to dispatch and deploy. Let them be your guard-generals and helpers—joining strength, joining hearts, sweeping the mountain path clean, and leading me across the mountain. Will not all of us then attain the true fruit?"
All this squirming of the Pilgrim's had been to coax out those very words from the elder. He wiped his tears and said: "Master, if we're to cross this mountain, Zhu Bajie must agree to two conditions of mine; then there's three parts in ten of getting through.
"If he won't do as I say, and can't take a hand in my place, then not half a part in ten may we hope for." Bajie said: "If our elder brother won't go, let's scatter and have done—don't go dragging me in." The elder said: "Disciple, just ask your elder brother and see what he has you do." So the idiot actually said to the Pilgrim: "Brother, what would you have me do?" The Pilgrim said: "The first task is to watch Master; the second is to go scout the mountain." Bajie said:
"Watching Master is sitting; scouting the mountain is walking. You can't mean for me to sit a while and then walk, walk a while and then sit—how could I look after both at once?"
The Pilgrim said: "I don't mean for you to do both at once—just take one of the two." Bajie laughed again: "That's easy enough settled. But what's 'watching Master,' and what's 'scouting the mountain'? Explain it to me first, and let me pick the one that suits me." The Pilgrim said: "Watching Master: when Master goes to relieve himself, you attend him; when Master wants to walk, you support him; when Master wants food, you go beg it. If he goes a little hungry, you deserve a beating; if his face goes a little sallow, you deserve a beating; if his body gets a little thin, you deserve a beating." Bajie panicked: "That's hard! Hard! Hard! Attending and supporting—nothing to that; even carrying him on my back without leaving his side would be easy. But if you send me to the farms to beg food—on this western road nobody knows me for a scripture-seeking monk; they'd take me for some half-grown sturdy hog escaped from the hills, rally a whole crowd with forks and rakes and brooms, bear the old hog to the ground, carry me home to slaughter, and salt me down for the New Year. Wouldn't that be catching the plague for nothing?"
The Pilgrim said: "Then go scout the mountain." Bajie said: "And what does scouting the mountain amount to?" The Pilgrim said: "Go into this mountain, find out how many demons there are, what mountain it is, what cave it is—then we can get through." Bajie said: "That's small stuff. The old hog will go scout the mountain." And the idiot tucked up his robe, gripped his nail-rake, and swaggering grandly marched into the deep mountains, chest high, onto the great road.
The Pilgrim, watching from the side, could not help snickering coldly.
The elder scolded: "You wild ape! Not a shred of brotherly love in you—nothing but jealousy in your heart. You put on this fox-cunning, honey words and flattering looks, trick him into scouting the mountain, and then stand there laughing at him!"
The Pilgrim said: "I'm not laughing at him—there's savor in my laugh. You watch: Zhu Bajie, once he's off, will do no scouting and won't dare face any demon. He'll find some spot to hide in for half a day, then cook up a lie to fob us off with." The elder said:
"How can you know him so well?"
The Pilgrim said: "I reckon that's what he's like. If you don't believe me, let me follow along and watch and listen—first, to back him up with a few tricks against the demons; second, to see whether he has any true heart for worshiping the Buddha." The elder said: "Very well, very well—only don't you go tormenting him." The Pilgrim promised, went straight up the slope, shook his body, and changed into a tiny gadfly-midge.
And what a light, neat transformation it was! See it:
Wings thin, riding the wind without effort; Waist sharp and slender as a needle. It threads the rushes, skims the grasses, passes under flower shade— Swifter than a shooting star, and then some. Eyes bright and glittering; Voice faint and murmuring. Of all the insect kind, it is the smallest, Dainty, unhurried, deep in cunning. Many an idle day it rests in the quiet woods— A body wholly hidden, a thousand eyes could not find it. Whirr—one beat of its wings, and away!
It flew off, caught up with Bajie, and perched behind his ear, at the root of his bristles.
The idiot tramped along all unaware that anyone was riding him. After seven or eight li of walking he flung down his rake, turned his head, glared back the way they had come toward Tang Sanzang, and let loose with hands and fingers flying: "You spineless old monk! You tricksy Bimawen! You milk-livered Sha Monk! Them—all of them—taking their ease, and the old hog sent out to wear his legs off! We're all fetching scriptures, all of us hoping for the true fruit—so why is it me who has to scout the mountain! Ha-ha-ha! If I know there are demons, I'll keep well out of their way. Not even halfway there, and he sends me out looking for them—what luck, what luck! I'll find me a place to sleep, sleep my sleep, then go back and answer them vague and hazy—say I've scouted the mountain—and that'll settle the account."
The idiot, mightily pleased with his cleverness, shouldered his rake and trudged on.
In a hollow of the mountain he found a slope of red grass, dove straight in, used the rake to pat himself a bed on the ground, flopped down with a roll, stretched out his waist, and said: "Sweet! Not even Bimawen ever lived as free as this!" [Translator's note: Bimawen, "Stable-Keeper of Heaven," was the lowly post Sun Wukong once held in the celestial stables—a standing sore point with him.]
For the Pilgrim was behind his ear-root, listening to every word. Unable to hold back, he flew up to play one more trick on him. He shook his body again and changed into a woodpecker-insect. See it:
An iron beak, sharp-pointed, glossy red; Kingfisher plumes, brilliant and bright. A pair of steel claws keen as nails— Though its belly be empty, what matter, the woods are still. It loves best a rotten, crumbling snag; It takes against the lone old tree. Round eyes, spread tail, quick and nimble— Its pecking tap-tap-tap is sweet to hear.
This bird-sprite, neither big nor small—on the scales it would weigh no more than two or three ounces, with a red-copper beak and black-iron feet—came whirring down on the wing. Bajie had toppled over and was fast asleep. It pecked him one peck, smack on the lips. The idiot scrambled up in a fright, bawling: "A demon! A demon! Stabbed me with a spear and gone! My mouth hurts like anything!" He put out a hand and felt—blood was oozing out. "Ill luck!" he cried. "I've had no happy news coming—why is my mouth hung with red?"
He stared at his bloody hand, muttering and grumbling, glancing this way and that, but saw nothing stirring. He said:
"No demon about—so what stabbed me with a spear?"
Suddenly he raised his head to look: it was a woodpecker-insect, flying in midair.
The idiot ground his teeth and cursed: "You dead wretch! It's bad enough being bullied by Bimawen, without you bullying me too! I see it all now. He surely doesn't take me for a human being—he takes this snout of mine for a length of black rotten dead wood with grubs inside, and pecked it hunting for grubs. Well then, I'll tuck my snout in my shirt and sleep."
The idiot flopped down and rolled over to sleep again. The Pilgrim flew back and pecked him once more behind the ear. The idiot scrambled up in a panic: "This dead wretch is too much of a pest! This must be his nest here—laying eggs, raising broods, afraid I'll take up the room, so he pesters me like this. Enough! Enough! Enough! No more sleeping!"
He shouldered his rake, marched out of the red-grass slope, and found the road and trudged on.
And wasn't Sun the Pilgrim delighted—didn't it just topple the Handsome Monkey King over with laughter! "This lout," said the Pilgrim, "with both eyes wide open can't even tell his own family!"
What a Great Sage! He shook his body once more, turned again into the little gadfly-midge, perched behind Bajie's ear, and never left his body. The idiot walked deeper into the mountains, another four or five li, until in a hollow he came upon three square bluestones, each the size of a tabletop. The idiot set down his rake and bowed a deep bow to the stones.
The Pilgrim laughed inwardly: "This idiot! A stone isn't a person—it can't talk, can't return a bow. What's he bowing to it for? The muddled fool!"
For the idiot was taking those stones for Tang Sanzang, Sha Monk, and the Pilgrim, and rehearsing before them.
He said: "When I get back and see Master, if he asks whether there are demons, I'll say there are demons. If he asks what mountain, and I were to say one molded of mud, made of earth, beaten of tin, cast of bronze, steamed from dough, pasted of paper, or drawn with a brush—when they hear it, they'd say I'm stupid; say that, and they'd say it doubly. I'll just say it's a stone mountain. If he asks what cave, I'll say a stone cave too.
"If he asks what gate, I'll say an iron-sheet gate studded with nails. If he asks how far it goes inside, I'll say three courtyards deep. And if he presses further and asks how many nails on the gate, I'll say the old hog was too flustered to remember exactly. With the story all patched together here, I'll go fob off that Bimawen!"
The idiot had his fabrication fused and finished. He dragged his rake and started back the way he had come—little knowing that the Pilgrim, behind his ear, had heard every word of it plainly. When the Pilgrim saw him turning back, he beat his two wings, flew back ahead of him, resumed his true form, and presented himself to the master.
The master said: "Wukong, you're back. Why isn't Wuneng back with you?"
The Pilgrim laughed: "He's off back there cooking up his lie—he'll be along presently." The elder said: "With those two ears of his flapped down over his eyes, a dull, clumsy creature—how could he cook up any lie? It's you again, kneading some ghost-talk to pin on him." The Pilgrim said: "Master, you're always shielding him like this. It so happens there's question-and-answer to prove it." And he told it all beforehand: how the idiot had burrowed into the grass to sleep, been pecked awake by a woodpecker-insect, bowed to the stones, and made up his tale of the stone mountain, the stone cave, the iron-sheet gate, and the demons.
Scarcely was the tale told when the idiot came trudging up, head bowed, still mumbling his lines for fear he'd forget the lie.
The Pilgrim shouted at him: "Idiot! What are you reciting?"
Bajie flipped up an ear and looked: "I'm here already!" The idiot came forward and knelt down. The elder raised him up: "Disciple, you've had a hard time." Bajie said: "That I have.
"A walking man, a mountain-climbing man—no one works harder."
The elder said: "Are there demons?" Bajie said: "Demons! Demons! A whole heap of demons!" The elder said: "How did they send you off?" Bajie said: "They called me their Hog Ancestor, their Hog Grandpapa, laid out starch-soup and vegetarian dishes, fed me a full meal, and said they'd beat the drums and fly the banners to see us over the mountain." The Pilgrim said: "I suppose you fell asleep in the grass, and that was sleep-talk?" At this the idiot shrank three inches with terror: "Grandpa! If I slept, how could he know it?" The Pilgrim stepped up, seized him with one grab: "Come here while I ask you a thing or two." The idiot panicked again, trembling all over: "Ask, then—why grab and haul?" The Pilgrim said: "What mountain is it?" Bajie said: "A stone mountain." "What cave?" "A stone cave." "What gate?" "An iron-sheet gate, nailed with nails." "How far inside?" "Three courtyards deep." The Pilgrim said: "You needn't say the rest—I remember it well. Lest Master doubt you, I'll say it for you." Bajie said: "The cheek of it! You never went—what could you know, to say it for me?" The Pilgrim laughed: "'How many nails on the gate? Say the old hog was too flustered to remember.' Isn't that it?" The idiot fell to his knees in a great hurry.
The Pilgrim said: "And you bowed to the stones, took them for us three, questioned and answered them to and fro—wasn't it so? And then: 'When I've got my lie all patched, I'll go fob off that Bimawen!' Wasn't it so?"
The idiot could only kowtow without pause: "Elder brother, I went to scout the mountain—surely you didn't go along with me to listen?" The Pilgrim cursed: "You chaff-guzzling lout! Such a critical spot, and you're sent to scout, and you go off to sleep! If that woodpecker hadn't pecked you awake, you'd be sleeping there yet. And once pecked awake, you cook up a whopper of a lie—how could that not ruin the whole business? Stretch out that ankle of yours—five strokes of the staff, to stay in your memory!" Bajie panicked: "That mourner's staff of yours is heavy—one graze and the skin drops, one brush and the sinew's hurt—five strokes would be the death of me!"
The Pilgrim said: "If you fear the rod, why did you lie?"
Bajie said: "Brother, dear brother—just this once, and never again." The Pilgrim said: "Once, then—three strokes." Bajie said: "Grandpa! Not half a stroke could I stand!" The idiot, at his wits' end, clutched at the master: "Put in a kind word for me." The elder said: "When Wukong said you were lying, I wouldn't believe it. Now that it's so, you truly deserve the beating. But just now, crossing this mountain, I'm short of hands to call on. Wukong, spare him for the moment—beat him after we're across." The Pilgrim said: "The ancients say: to obey a father's and mother's words is called great filiality. Since Master says no beating, I'll spare you—for now. Go scout the mountain again. If you lie once more and ruin the business, I'll not spare you a single stroke!" The idiot could only scramble up and dash onto the great road again.
Watch him now: suspicion breeding ghost-shadows, at every step suspecting it is the Pilgrim transformed and dogging him, so that at the sight of anything at all he takes it for the Pilgrim. Seven or eight li along, he saw a tiger come loping over the mountainside, and he didn't fear it; he raised his nail-rake and said:
"Elder brother, come to hear my lying? This trip I'm not inventing anything." Farther on, a fierce mountain gust came roaring—one whump, and it snapped a withered tree and sent it rolling to his very feet. He stamped his feet and beat his breast: "Brother! What's the meaning of this! One word that I'll not dare invent a lie—and now you change into a tree to beat me!"
Walking on again, he saw a white-necked crow that cawed caw-caw several times right over his head. Again he said: "Brother, shame on you! Shame on you! I said I'd invent nothing and I'll invent nothing—why keep turning into a crow? Coming to listen, are you?"
The truth was, this time the Pilgrim had not followed him at all; it was his own startled fancy, his wild doubts and wild guesses, so that everything under heaven seemed to him the Pilgrim at his heels. But leave the idiot to his terrors.
Now tell: the mountain was called Flat-Top Mountain, and the cave was called Lotus Cave. In the cave were two demons: one called the Golden Horn King, one the Silver Horn King.
The Golden Horn King was sitting in state, and he said to Silver Horn: "Brother, how long is it since we scouted the mountains?"
Silver Horn said: "Half a month and more." Golden Horn said: "Brother, go and scout with me today." Silver Horn said: "What's this sudden scouting today?" Golden Horn said: "You don't know. Word has lately come that the Tang court of the East Land has sent the emperor's sworn brother Tang Sanzang westward to worship the Buddha—a party of four, called Sun the Pilgrim, Zhu Bajie, and the Sha Monk, five souls counting the horse. Find out where he is, and bring him to me." Silver Horn said: "We eat people—where couldn't we scoop up a few? Let this monk pass on his way." Golden Horn said: "You don't understand. When I left the bounds of Heaven, I heard it said:
"Tang Sanzang is the Venerable Golden Cicada descended to the mortal world, a good man who has cultivated his conduct through ten lifetimes, with never a drop of his primal yang spent. Whoever eats his flesh will lengthen his years and live forever." Silver Horn said: "If eating his flesh brings long life, why sit in meditation, why pile up merit, why refine the dragon and the tiger, why match the female and the male?
"We should just go eat him. Wait—I'll go seize him."
Golden Horn said: "Brother, you're too hot-headed—don't rush. If you walk out that door and seize every monk you meet, good or bad, and he turns out not to be Tang Sanzang, wouldn't that be a pity? I remember his likeness: I once had his whole party's portraits drawn. Take them, and whenever you meet a monk, check him against the pictures."
He also told him which man bore which name, one by one. Silver Horn took the portraits, learned the names, went straight out of the cave, mustered thirty little demons, and set out to patrol the mountain.
Now Bajie's luck was out. Just as he was walking along, whom should he run plump into but the demon horde, blocking his way face to face:
"You there! Who are you?"
The idiot looked up, flipped back an ear, saw they were demons, and panicked. He thought to himself: "If I say I'm a scripture-seeking monk, they'll scoop me up. I'll just say I'm a traveler." The little demons reported: "Great King, a traveler." Of those thirty little demons, some knew the pictures and some didn't; and some stood at the side, listening and pointing, and said: "Great King, this monk looks like the Zhu Bajie in the picture." They called to hang up the portrait-scrolls. Bajie saw them and was greatly alarmed: "No wonder I've had no spirit these last days—they've gone and sent my portrait ahead of me!" The little demons held the scrolls up on spear-points, and the Silver Horn King pointed with his finger: "This one on the white horse is Tang Sanzang. This hairy-faced one is Sun the Pilgrim." Bajie heard it and muttered: "City God! If you'll only leave me out of the picture, I'll vow you a hog's head and the three offerings, and the finest purification mass there is." He mumbled on, promising offerings right and left.
The demon went on: "This tall dark one is the Sha Monk. This long-snouted, big-eared one is Zhu Bajie."
The idiot, hearing himself described, panicked and tucked his snout into his shirt to hide it.
The demon shouted: "Monk! Stick out that snout!"
Bajie said: "A defect from the womb—it won't come out." The demon ordered the little demons to hook it out with hooks.
Terrified, Bajie thrust out his snout: "It's only a homely little thing—there, see? If you want to look, look—what's all the hooking for?"
The demon knew him for Bajie, whipped out his precious blade, and stepped up to hack at him.
The idiot raised his nail-rake and held him off: "My son! None of your insolence! Taste my rake!"
The demon laughed: "This monk took the tonsure halfway through life." Bajie said: "Good son! Some discernment! However did you know your papa took the tonsure halfway through life?"
The demon said: "The way you wield that rake—you must have worked a garden patch with it, and stolen it from some household."
Bajie said: "My son, where would you know your papa's rake from? This is no garden-patch rake. This here is:
Dragon-claw teeth, cast in giant fangs; Gold-inlaid, fashioned in tiger form. When it meets a foe, cold winds spray; When locked in combat, flames spring forth. It clears away Tang Sanzang's obstacles, And catches demons on the western road. Swung, its smoke and glow eclipse the sun and moon; Swirled, its murky clouds darken the Dipper's stars. It fells Mount Tai—the old tiger trembles; It overturns the great sea—the old dragon's startled. Devil, though you have your tricks— One rake, nine bloody holes!"
Hearing this, the demon would by no means yield. He took his seven-star sword, spread open his routines, and with Bajie passed back and forth, gambling battle in the mountains, twenty rounds, and neither had the better.
Bajie worked up his fury and met him stroke for stroke, reckless of death. The demon, seeing him flip back his ears, spray sticky slaver, whirl his rake, and come on bawling and roaring, felt something close to dread himself. He turned his head, called the little demons to join in, and they all closed on him at once. One against one would have been well enough. But when he saw the whole swarm of little demons surging at him, Bajie lost his nerve; he could not ward them off, broke, and turned to run.
But the ground was uneven; not looking where he trod, a trailing vine of gourd-creeper caught his foot and pitched him headlong. Scrambling up, just getting under way again, a little demon lying flat on the ground seized his heel—flop!—and down he went a second time, face-first in the dirt like a dog eating filth. The whole pack caught him up and pinned him: they grabbed his bristles, pulled his ears, tugged his feet, hauled his tail, bore him up shoulder-high, and hauled him, carried him, dragged him off into the cave. Ai! It was truly:
When the demon-outbreak rises in a body, it is hard to wipe away; When calamity is bred in ten thousand forms, it is not easily removed.
But as for whether Zhu Bajie lived or died—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.