The story tells how Sun the Pilgrim brought his cloud down to earth and reported to his master everything about the Bodhisattva lending the boy and Lord Lao Zi taking back the treasures. Tang Sanzang thanked him again and again, and now with heart set fast he made his devotions and staked his life on going west. He climbed into the saddle; Zhu Bajie shouldered the luggage; the Sha Monk led the horse by the head; and Sun the Pilgrim, gripping his iron cudgel, cut open the path and led the way straight down the high mountain and onward. Of their nights on the water and meals in the wind, their toil through frost and dew, there is no need to tell at length. After master and disciples had traveled a long while, another mountain rose to block the road.
Sanzang called out loudly from horseback: "Disciples! Look how towering and steep that mountain is. We must be careful and on our guard, lest some demonic obstruction invade us again."
"Master," said the Pilgrim, "don't let your thoughts run wild. Just steady your nature and guard your spirit, and all will be well of itself."
"Disciple," said Sanzang, "why must the road to the Western Heaven be so hard? I remember how, after leaving the city of Chang'an, spring turned to summer on the road and autumn waned into winter, year upon year—four or five years now—and still we cannot reach it."
At this the Pilgrim laughed heartily: "We're early yet! Early yet! We haven't even gotten out of the front gate!"
"Don't tell lies, Brother," said Bajie. "Where in the human world is there such a gate?"
"Brothers," said the Pilgrim, "we're still pacing around in the front hall!"
The Sha Monk laughed: "Elder Brother, don't try to frighten me with big talk. Where could there be such a huge hall? And nowhere could you buy a ridgepole that size!"
"Brothers," said the Pilgrim, "the way old Sun sees it, take this blue sky for the roof tiles, the sun and moon for the window lattice, the four mountains and five peaks for the beams and pillars—then Heaven and Earth are just one big open hall!"
When Bajie heard this he said: "Enough! Enough! Let's just wander around a while and then head back."
"No need for wild talk," said the Pilgrim. "Just follow old Sun and keep walking."
What a Great Sage! He slung his iron cudgel across his shoulder, took firm charge of the Tang monk, cut open the mountain path, and pressed straight ahead.
From horseback the master gazed afar at a fine mountain scene, and truly it was: the summit, jagged and piled, rubbed the handle of the Dipper; the treetops seemed to touch the very clouds. From heaps of blue mist one heard from time to time gibbons crying at the valley mouth; amid the tangle of green shade one often heard cranes calling among the pines. Whistling wind, and mountain sprites standing in the streams to make sport of woodcutters; accomplished foxes sitting on the cliff edges to startle and confound the hunters. What a mountain! Look at its precipices towering on eight sides, its perilous steepness on every quarter.
Strange and ancient pines coiled their green canopies; blighted and broken old trees hung with vines and creepers. Spring water flying down in falls—the cold air pierced one to the skin and chilled the hair; the peaks standing sheer and high—the clear wind shot at the eyes and startled the dreaming soul. From time to time one heard great tigers roaring; often the mountain birds cried out. Herds of muntjac and deer threaded the brambles, leaping to and fro; roe deer and hares in bands sought their wild food, running before and behind. Standing on the grassy slope, one gazed out and saw no traveler at all; walking into the deep hollows, one found wolves and jackals on every side.
This was surely no place where a Buddha ever cultivated his practice— It was altogether a playground for winged birds and running beasts.
The master, trembling with fear, entered this deep mountain, his heart heavy with grief. He reined in his horse and called out: "Wukong! Ever since Yizhi climbed the mountain to vow, Wangbuliuxing saw me out of the city. On the road I met Sanlengzi, and on the way Mazouling hurried my horse. Over the slopes and around the ravines I sought Jingjie; across the ridges and up the mountains I bowed to Fuling. Fangji—this body of mine is like Zhuli; when shall Huixiang bow before the court?"
[Translator's note: this is a poem strung entirely from the names of Chinese medicinal herbs—yizhi (smartweed, "strengthen the mind"), wangbuliuxing ("the king cannot stay"), sanlengzi, madouling, jingjie, fuling, fangji, zhuli, and huixiang ("return in fragrance")—each punning on its literal meaning as well. The master is lamenting how long he has wandered without returning to Chang'an.]
When the Great Sage Sun heard this he laughed coldly: "Master, there's no need for worry, no call for anxiety. Just set your mind at ease and press on, and I promise you: when the work is done, success will come of itself."
Master and disciples lingered over the mountain scenery, walking at their ease, and before they knew it the red wheel of the sun sank westward. Truly:
Ten-li pavilions, and no traveler on the road; In the ninth heaven above, the stars appear. The boats of eight rivers all make harbor; Seven thousand prefectures and counties shut their gates. The six palaces and five offices see officials home; On the four seas and three rivers the fishing lines are drawn. From two towers the sound of bell and drum; One round bright moon fills the whole universe.
The elder, gazing from horseback, saw in the hollow of the mountain stories of towers piled one on another and halls and pavilions ranged story upon story.
"Disciples," said Sanzang, "it is late in the day, and luckily over there, not far off, there are towers and pavilions. It must be some nunnery, Daoist temple, or monastery. Let us go there and beg a night's lodging, and travel on tomorrow."
"Master is right," said the Pilgrim. "No hurry—let me first go and see what sort of place it is." The Great Sage leapt into the air and looked carefully: sure enough, there was a monastery gate. But see: brick walls plastered pink in the character of "eight," golden nails studding the two doors. Storied towers and terraces hidden along the mountain flank; tier upon tier of palace halls secluded within the hills. The Ten Thousand Buddhas Pavilion faced the Tathagata Hall; the Morning Sun Tower answered the Mahavira Gate. A seven-story pagoda harbored clouds and lodging mists; three honored Buddhas manifested their glory.
The Manjusri Terrace faced the Sangharama quarters; the Maitreya Hall leaned against the Hall of Great Compassion. Beyond the Mountain-Viewing Tower, blue light danced; above the Step-on-Void Pavilion, purple clouds arose. Pine gateways and bamboo courts, tender and green; the abbot's rooms and the meditation hall, pure in every part. Refined and secluded, a place of quiet delights; winding paths and streams that welcome and return the guest. Where meditation is practiced, meditating monks expound the Law; in the music chamber many instruments sound. On the Wonder-High Terrace udumbara blossoms fall; before the preaching altar, pattra leaves grow.
Truly it was a Three Jewels land hidden in the woods, a palace of the Brahma King embraced by mountains. Lamplight and incense smoke flickered along the half-wall; a line of fragrant mist hung hazy and dim.
The Great Sage Sun pressed down his cloud and reported to Sanzang: "Master, it is indeed a monastery, and a fine place to beg lodging. Let us go."
The elder let his horse go free and came straight on until he reached the outside of the monastery gate.
"Master," said the Pilgrim, "what monastery is this?"
"My horse's hooves have only just stopped," said Sanzang, "my toes have not yet left the stirrups, and already you ask me what monastery it is! What poor sense you show!"
"Old sir," said the Pilgrim, "you were a monk from childhood, and you must have lectured on the Confucian books before you went on to expound the sutras; your mastery of letters is complete—and then you received the Tang emperor's pardon and favor. With great characters like that on the gate, how can you not read them?"
The elder scolded: "Impudent macaque! What ignorance you speak! I had just been spurring my horse westward, and the setting sun was glaring in my eyes. Though the gate bears characters, they were veiled in dust and grime—that's why I failed to see them."
At this the Pilgrim bent at the waist and stretched himself some two zhang taller, reached up a hand and wiped away the dust, saying: "Master, pray look." There were five great characters: "Built by Imperial Command, the Baolin Monastery."
The Pilgrim shrank back to his own size and said: "Master, who's going in to ask for lodging?"
"I will go in," said Sanzang. "Your faces are ugly, your speech coarse, your tempers hard and your spirits proud. If you offend the monks of this place and they refuse us lodging, it will go badly for us."
"Since that's how it is," said the Pilgrim, "pray go in, Master. No need for more words."
The elder set down his ringed staff, removed his cloak, straightened his robes, put his palms together, and went in through the monastery gate. Inside, on either side behind red-lacquered railings, sat a pair of Vajrapanis, molded and painted with awe-inspiring, ferocious countenances: one with iron face and steel whiskers, seemingly alive; the other with bristling brows and round eyes, as alert as carved ivory. The fists of the one on the left were knotted like raw iron; the palms of the one on the right were ridged like red bronze. Their linked golden armor gleamed and shone; their bright helmets and embroidered sashes fluttered in the wind.
In the West they truly honor the Buddha; in the stone censer between them, the incense fire glows red.
When Sanzang saw this he nodded and sighed long: "If in my Eastern Land someone would mold clay into great Bodhisattvas like these and burn incense and make offerings to them, your disciple would not need to journey to the Western Heaven."
As he was sighing, he passed into the second gate and saw the figures of the Four Heavenly Kings—Dhritarastra the Keeper of Lands, Vaishravana the All-Hearing, Virudhaka the Growth-King, and Virupaksha the Wide-Eyed—set there to signify wind and rain in due season, north, east, south, and west. Passing inside the second gate, he saw four tall pines, each with a lush green canopy spreading like an umbrella. Suddenly he lifted his head: it was the Mahavira Hall, the Precious Hall of the Great Hero. The elder put his palms together in devotion, bowed low, and worshipped.
When he had finished bowing and risen, he passed around the Buddha's altar and came to the rear door, where he saw, seated facing back, a figure of Guanyin Crossing the Southern Sea, delivering all beings. On the walls around, skilled craftsmen had molded shrimps, fish, crabs, and turtles, heads out and tails showing, disporting themselves in the waves and tides of the sea. Again the elder nodded three or five times, sighing a thousand sighs:
"Pitiful! Even scaly and shelled creatures bow to the Buddha—why will men not cultivate the Way?"
In the midst of his admiration, a Daoist novice came walking out of the third gate.
The novice suddenly caught sight of Sanzang, whose appearance was rare and striking, his bearing far from common, and hurried forward to salute him: "Where has this master come from?" Sanzang said: "This disciple has been sent by the great Tang empire of the Eastern Land to worship the Buddha in the Western Heaven and seek scriptures. Now that I have reached your honored region and the day is nearly gone, I beg the loan of a night's lodging."
"Master, don't take offense," said the novice, "but this is not mine to decide. I am only the novice here who sweeps the floors and rings the bell and does the menial work. Inside there is an old master who manages the monastery. Let me go in and announce you. If he will keep you, I will come out at once to invite you in; if he will not, I dare not delay you."
"I have put you to trouble," said Sanzang.
The novice hurried to the abbot's quarters and reported: "Honored sir, there is someone outside."
The monastic official rose at once, changed his clothes, pressed down his Vairocana cap, draped his cassock over his shoulders, and hurried to open the door to receive him. He asked the novice: "What sort of person has come?" The novice pointed: "Behind the main hall—is that not someone there?" There stood Sanzang, bareheaded, wearing a twenty-five-panel Dharma robe, his feet in a pair of mud-spattered Dharma shoes, leaning against the rear doorway.
When the monastic official saw him he flew into a rage: "You novices deserve a beating! Don't you know that I am the monastic official? Only when gentlemen come from the city to burn incense do I come out to receive them. A monk like this—and you report him to me with a lot of empty flummery and make me come out to greet him! Look at that face of his—no honest man, that. Some wandering cloud-water monk, I daresay, who wants lodging now that the day is late. How can our abbot's quarters suffer such a disturbance! Tell him to go squat under the front corridor—what are you reporting him to me for!"
With that he turned and went back.
When the elder heard this, tears rolled down his cheeks: "Pitiful! Pitiful! Truly it is, a man away from home is cheapened! Your disciple left home as a child and became a monk; I never chanted imprecations or ate meat or harbored evil intent, never read scripture in anger and ruined my meditation heart; never flung tiles or bricks to damage the Buddha hall, never stripped the true gold from an arhat's face. Ah, pitiful! I know not in what lifetime I offended Heaven and Earth, that in this life I should always meet with ill-natured people! If you would not keep us, monk, that would be the end of it—but why speak such lazy, spiteful words, and tell us to go squat under the front corridor? It is well I have not said this to the Pilgrim. If I had, that monkey would come in here, and with one blow of his iron cudgel he would break both your ankles!"
Then the elder said: "Well, well. As the common saying goes, with men, courtesy and music come first. Let me go in and ask him once more, and see what he says."
The master followed in the monastic official's very footprints into the abbot's quarters, where he saw the official, stripped of his outer robes, sitting there in a huff—whether reciting scripture or writing out rituals for some household, who could say? On the desk were piles of paper and cards.
The Tang monk dared not go deep in, but stood in the courtyard and called out with a bow: "Old Prior, your disciple salutes you!"
The monk, already half out of patience at his coming in, returned the salute half-heartedly: "Where do you come from?" Sanzang said: "Your disciple has been sent by the great Tang empire of the Eastern Land to worship the living Buddha in the Western Heaven and seek scriptures. Passing through your honored region, I find the day is late and beg the loan of a night's lodging; tomorrow, before the sky is light, we shall be gone. I earnestly hope the Old Prior will show some convenience."
Only then did the monastic official half rise from his seat: "Are you that Tang Sanzang?" Sanzang said: "I dare not claim it, but your disciple is indeed he." The official said: "Since you are going to the Western Heaven to fetch scriptures, how is it you cannot even find the road?"
"Your disciple," said Sanzang, "has never traveled your honored region's roads before."
"Go due west," said he, "only four or five li from here, and you will come to the Thirty-Li Inn. There are households at the inn that sell rice; it is convenient and good for lodging. It is inconvenient here—I cannot keep you wandering monks from afar."
Sanzang put his palms together: "Prior, the men of old have said: nunneries, temples, and monasteries are the posting stations of us wayfaring people; at the sight of a monastery gate, three sheng of rice are our due. Why will you not keep me? What manner of feeling is this?"
The monastic official shouted in anger: "You wandering monk, with your oily mouth and oily tongue!"
"What is meant by an oily mouth and oily tongue?" asked Sanzang.
The official said: "As the ancients put it:
When a tiger enters the city, every family shuts its gate. Though it bites no one today, its name was ruined before."
"How was its name ruined before?" asked Sanzang.
"Years ago," said he, "several wandering monks came and sat down at our monastery gate. Seeing them so poor and shabby, clothes torn, shoes gone, bald heads and bare feet, I pitied their rags and at once invited them into the abbot's quarters and seated them in the place of honor. I entertained them with a vegetarian meal, lent each of them a garment of old clothes, and let them stay several days. Who knew that they, coveting ease and free food and clothing, would give no thought to leaving—and so they stayed seven or eight years! Staying might have been borne, but then they went and did many an unjust thing besides."
"What unjust things?" asked Sanzang.
"Listen to me," said the official:
"In idle hours they tossed tiles along the walls; when bored, they pried nails from the beams. In cold weather they broke window lattice for kindling; in summer they dragged the doors across the paths. They tore banner-cloth to make their leg-wrappings; they stole the aloeswood and swapped it for turnips. They were forever pouring the lamp oil out of glazed vessels, snatching bowls and pots to gamble for winnings."
Hearing this, Sanzang thought to himself: "Pitiful! But is your disciple that spineless a monk?"
He wanted to weep, yet feared the old monks of the monastery would laugh at him; so he quietly dabbed his tears with his sleeve, swallowed his anger, hurried out, and rejoined his three disciples.
The Pilgrim, seeing anger held in his master's face, stepped forward and asked: "Master, did the monks of the monastery beat you?"
"They did not beat me," said the Tang monk.
"They must have beaten you," said Bajie. "If not, why is there still that tearful catch in your voice?"
"Did they curse you?" asked the Pilgrim. "They did not curse me either," said the Tang monk. "If they neither beat you nor cursed you, what is all this misery for? Surely you are homesick?" The Tang monk said: "Disciples, they will not put us up here; it is inconvenient."
"This must be a Daoist establishment," said the Pilgrim with a laugh.
The Tang monk flared up: "Only temples have Daoist priests; monasteries have nothing but Buddhist monks!"
"You're no good at this," said the Pilgrim. "Monks are all the same as us. As the common saying goes, all who sit beneath the Buddha's assembly are people bound by affinity. Sit here, and let me go in and have a look."
What a Pilgrim! He pressed down the golden fillet on his head, tightened the skirt at his waist, gripped his iron cudgel, and marched straight into the Mahavira Hall, where he pointed at the three Buddha statues and said: "You are only clay figures gilded with gold, false images—is there no spirit within you? I, old Sun, am escorting the holy monk of the Great Tang to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek the true scriptures. Tonight we come here especially to beg lodging. Make haste and give me your names! If you will not keep us, I'll smash your golden bodies with one stroke of this cudgel and make you show your true form—mud!"
While the Great Sage was raging up front, kicking up a row and babbling threats, a novice came out to light the evening incense, carrying a few sticks to plant in the censer before the Buddha. At the Pilgrim's shout he fell over in terror, scrambled up, caught sight of his face, and fell over again; then, scared out of his wits, he went rolling and tumbling into the abbot's quarters and reported: "Honored sir! There's a monk come from outside!"
"You pack of novices deserve a beating!" cried the monastic official. "I just told you to have him squat under the front corridor—what are you reporting now? Another word and it's twenty strokes!"
"Honored sir," said the novice, "this monk is not like the other one. He looks fierce and savage—spineless-looking."
"What is his appearance?" asked the monastic official.
"Round eyes, ragged ears, a face full of hair, and a mouth like the Thunder God's. He's holding a cudgel, grinding his teeth in fury, looking for someone to thrash."
"Let me go out and look," said the official.
He opened the door—and the Pilgrim came charging in, ugly as could be: a bumpy, lumpy face with jutting cheekbones, two yellow eyes, a jutting forehead; his fangs growing outward, as though he belonged to the crab family, flesh inside and bone outside. The old monk panicked and slammed the abbot's door shut.
The Pilgrim caught up and smashed the door panel open with a crash: "Hurry up and sweep out a thousand clean rooms—old Sun is going to sleep!"
The monastic official hid inside the room and said to the novice: "So it's not just that he's ugly—he's been boasting big, and his boasts have recoiled on him to make that face. Here, counting the abbot's quarters, the Buddha halls, the bell and drum towers, and the two corridors, we haven't three hundred rooms in all—and he wants a thousand rooms to sleep in! Where would they come from?"
"Honored sir," said the novice, "I'm one whose gall is already broken; answer him however you like."
The monastic official, shaking from head to foot, called out loudly: "Venerable pilgrim seeking lodging! This little barren mountain of ours is inconvenient. We dare not presume to keep you—go lodge somewhere else, pray!"
The Pilgrim made his cudgel grow as thick as a basin and stood it bolt upright in the courtyard, saying: "Monk! If it's inconvenient, then you move out!"
"We have lived in this monastery since childhood," said the monastic official. "My master's master handed it down to my master, my master handed it down to us, and we hope to hand it on to our sons and grandsons in turn. Who knows what business this is, barging in and telling us to move?"
"Honored sir," said the novice, "things are very awkward indeed—perhaps we'd better move out. The pole has come smashing through the door."
"Don't talk nonsense!" said the monastic official. "We are four or five hundred monks, old and young, great and small—where would we move to? Move out, and there'd be nowhere to live."
The Pilgrim heard and said: "Monk, if you've nowhere to move, then send one of you out to take a sampling stroke of my cudgel!"
The old monk called: "Novice, you go out and take a sampling stroke of the cudgel for me."
The novice panicked: "Grandfather! A great pole like that—and you tell me to take a sampling stroke!"
"An army is nourished a thousand days for one morning's use," said the old monk. "How can you refuse to go out?"
"That pole—never mind striking with it," said the novice. "If it toppled over, it would squash a man to meat paste!"
"Never mind squash," said the old monk. "Just consider: it stands bolt upright in the courtyard. Walking at night, if a man forgets it's there, he'd crash into it and put a big hole in his head!"
"Honored sir," said the novice, "if you know how heavy it is, what sort of sampling stroke are you sending me out to take?"
While they carried on quarreling among themselves inside, the Pilgrim heard and said: "They can't stand it after all. But if I smashed one of them dead with a blow, my master would blame me for violence again. Wait—let me find something else to smash, and show you."
Suddenly he looked up: outside the abbot's quarters stood a stone lion. He raised his cudgel and with a ping-pang smashed it to rubble and powder.
The monk, peeping through the window lattice, saw it and went limp with terror, bones soft and sinews numb; he scrambled in a hurry beneath the bed, while the novice burrowed into the stove-mouth, both crying without pause: "Grandfather! Heavy cudgel! Heavy cudgel! We can't stand it! Mercy! Mercy!"
"Monks," said the Pilgrim, "I'm not going to hit you. I ask you: how many monks are there in this monastery?"
The monastic official, trembling, said: "Altogether, front and back, there are two hundred and eighty-five house-holds of monks, five hundred monks in all who hold ordination certificates."
"Then hurry and line up those five hundred monks, neat and orderly, in their full-length robes, go out, and escort my master of the Tang dynasty in here—then I won't beat you."
"Grandfather," said the monastic official, "if you won't beat us, we'd carry him in on our shoulders."
"Get going, and quick!" said the Pilgrim.
The monastic official called: "Novice! Never mind your broken gall—say your heart's broken too, you're still going to call all these people to come and receive the venerable Tang grandfather!"
The novice had no choice; staking his life, and not daring to go out the door, he wormed through the dog-hole in the rear wall, ran straight to the main hall, beat the drum on the east and rang the bell on the west. As bell and drum sounded together, they startled the monks, great and small, of the two corridors, who came up to the hall and asked: "It's still early—evening hasn't come yet. What are you ringing the bell and beating the drum for?"
"Quick, change into your robes," said the novice. "Follow the old Prior and form your ranks; go outside the monastery gate to receive the honored lord from Tang."
And so the monks, truly neat and orderly, arrayed themselves in ranks and went out the gate to receive him. Some draped their cassocks, some put on their cloth robes; those who had none wore a straight gown like a great bell; the poorest, who had no long garments at all, tied their waist-skirts together and hung them over their shoulders.
When the Pilgrim saw them he said: "Monks, what clothes are you wearing?"
The monks, seeing how fierce and ugly he was, said: "Grandfather, don't beat us—let us explain. This is cloth we begged for in the city. There are no tailors here, so we made it ourselves—it's called a 'wrap-around-poor.'"
At this the Pilgrim laughed inwardly and herded the monks outside the gate, where they knelt down.
The monastic official kowtowed and called out loudly: "Venerable Lord Tang, pray be seated in the abbot's quarters!"
When Bajie saw this he said: "Master, you're no good at all. When you went in, you came back with tears streaming and a bottle of oil hanging on your lips. How did Elder Brother come by such cleverness, making them kowtow and come out to receive us?" Sanzang said: "You idiot, what a poor sense of propriety! As the common saying goes, even ghosts fear wicked men." Seeing them kowtow and worship, the Tang monk was exceedingly embarrassed, and he came forward, saying: "Gentlemen, pray rise." The monks kowtowed: "Venerable lord, if you would just speak a word of convenience to your disciple, and he'd stop swinging that pole, we would kneel here a month!"
"Wukong," called the Tang monk, "don't beat them."
"I haven't beaten them," said the Pilgrim. "If I had, they'd be past the root by now."
Only then did the monks rise: some led the horse, some shouldered the luggage; they carried the Tang monk, supported Bajie, took the Sha Monk by the arm, and all together entered the monastery gate and came to the abbot's quarters at the rear, where they sat down in due order.
The monks bowed again, and Sanzang said: "Prior, pray rise; there is no need for further ceremony, no need to humble yourself before this poor monk. You and I are both disciples of the Buddha's gate."
The monastic official said: "My lord is an imperial envoy from a superior kingdom, and this little monk failed to receive you. Now that you have come to our barren mountain, forgive us that our worldly eyes did not recognize your honored presence, and that we met so unexpectedly. May I ask, my lord: on the road, do you eat vegetarian food or meat? We must go prepare your meal." Sanzang said: "Vegetarian food." The monastic official said: "Disciples—this venerable lord likes his meat."
"We eat vegetarian too," said the Pilgrim. "We've been vegetarians from the womb."
"Grandfather!" cried the monks. "Such fierce fellows, and vegetarians too!"
One monk of bolder spirit came near and asked again: "Venerable lord, since you eat no meat, how much rice should we cook to suffice?"
"Petty monks!" said Bajie. "What a question! Cook a picul of rice in each household."
At this all the monks panicked, and they went to scrub pots and stoves, arranged tea and rice in every room, raised bright lamps, set out tables and chairs, and waited upon the Tang monk.
When master and disciples had finished the evening meal and the monks had cleared away the dishes, Sanzang gave thanks: "Old Prior, we have troubled your precious mountain."
"We dare not, we dare not," said the monastic official. "Forgive our slowness, forgive our slowness."
"Where," asked Sanzang, "are my disciples and I to lodge for the night?"
"Venerable lord, no hurry," said the monastic official. "We little monks have our own arrangements." He called the novices: "Are there men over there to run errands?" "Yes, honored sir," they said. The monastic official gave his orders: "Let two of you go see to the fodder and feed the Tang lord's horse; let some of you go ahead to the three-room meditation hall in front, sweep it clean, spread the beds and nets, and quickly invite the venerable lord to rest." The novices obeyed, got everything in order, and then came to invite the venerable lord Tang to bed.
Master and disciples led the horse and carried the luggage out of the abbot's quarters and went straight to the door of the meditation hall. Inside, lamplight shone bright; in the two end rooms were spread four rattan-slat beds. When the Pilgrim saw this he called the novice in charge of fodder, had the fodder carried in and set in the meditation hall, picketed the white horse there, and ordered the novices all to leave. Sanzang sat in the middle, with five hundred monks standing in two rows beneath the lamps, all waiting upon him, not daring to lean aside.
Sanzang rose half from his seat: "Gentlemen, pray withdraw, that this poor monk may rest at ease."
The monks absolutely dared not retreat.
The monastic official came forward and instructed the assembly: "Wait until the venerable lord has retired, then return."
"This is retirement enough," said Sanzang. "Please, all of you, go back." Only then did the crowd dare disperse.
The Tang monk stepped out the door to relieve himself and saw the bright moon in mid-heaven. He called: "Disciples!" The Pilgrim, Bajie, and the Sha Monk all came out and stood in attendance. Moved by the pure brightness of the moonlight and the deep stillness of the jade firmament—truly one wheel shining high and all the earth made clear—he faced the moon and longed for home, and chanted offhand a long poem in the old style.
The poem says:
"The bright soul hangs in the sky, a precious mirror raised; Mountains and rivers sway in its reflection, complete in every part. Jasper towers and jade halls brim with pure light; Ice mirror and silver plate, a crisp air wheeling round. Ten thousand li, this hour, share one clarity; Of all the year, tonight is most bright and fresh. Just like a frost-cake lifted from the vast sea, Or an ice wheel hung in the azure sky. In a strange hostel's cold window, the lonely traveler grieves; In mountain village and wayside inn the old man sleeps. Its sudden coming to the Han gardens startles autumn temples; Its first arrival at the Qin tower hastens the evening mirror. Yu Liang left verses that pass down Jin history; Yuan Hong, sleepless, floated on a river boat. Light floats on the winecup—cold, without strength; Clear radiance in the courtyard—strong, with immortals in it. At every window and lattice they chant the 'White Snow'; In every courtyard and hall they finger icy strings. Tonight in quiet enjoyment I have come to a mountain temple— What day shall we together return to our old garden?"
When the Pilgrim heard this he came forward and answered: "Master, you know only the moon's radiance and splendor, and your heart yearns for home. You do not understand the meaning within the moon—it is the compass and rule of the image of the Primal Heaven. When the moon reaches the thirtieth day, the metal of the yang soul is utterly scattered and the water of the yin wraith fills the wheel; hence it is pure black without light, and this is called hui, the dark of the moon. At this time it crosses with the sun; in the two days between the dark and the new moon it is quickened by the sun's light and conceives. On the third day the one yang appears; on the eighth day the second yang is born; the soul is half amid the wraith, level as a plumb line—hence it is called the upper crescent, 'upper string.' Now on the fifteenth day the three yangs are complete, and so it is round; this is called wang, the full moon. On the sixteenth day the one yin is born; on the twenty-second, the second yin; then the wraith is half amid the soul, level as a plumb line—hence it is called the lower crescent, 'lower string.' By the thirtieth day the three yins are complete, and it is dark again. This is the meaning of gathering and refining in the Primal Heaven. If we can warm and nourish the two eights and bring the nine-times-nine to completion, then, in that hour, seeing the Buddha will be easy, and returning to the old fields will be easy too. There is a verse:
After the former string and before the latter, The medicine's flavor is mild, its vital breath complete. Gather it, bring it home, refine it in the furnace— With a devoted heart, the fruit of success is the Western Heaven."
When the elder heard this he was suddenly enlightened, understanding the true words clearly, and with a heart full of joy he thanked Wukong.
The Sha Monk, standing by, laughed and said: "Elder Brother, what you say is right, but you have spoken only of before the string belonging to yang and after the string belonging to yin—yang half within yin, the metal that obtains the water. You have not said that water and fire intermix, each with its own affinity, and that all depends on the Mother Earth to match them thus. When the three families meet together without strife, the water is in the Long River and the moon is in the sky."
When the elder heard this, the thatch plugs fell from his understanding. Truly: when one aperture of principle is made clear, a thousand apertures are open; speak out and shatter the unborn, and you are an immortal.
Bajie came forward, grabbed the elder, and said: "Master, don't listen to all this wild talk—you'll lose your sleep.
This moon: Not long lacking, it rounds again— Just like me, born less than perfect whole. At meals they grumble that my belly's big; I take a bowl, they say I slobber too. They're all so clever—blessings earned before; I, poor fool, have only piled up karma. I say: when you have fetched the scriptures and paid the debts Of all three paths of woe, you'll wave your tail and shake your head And go straight up to Heaven!"
"Very well," said Sanzang. "Disciples, you are weary from the road. Go to sleep first, and let me recite a scroll of scripture."
"Master, you're mistaken," said the Pilgrim. "You left home as a child and became a monk; which of the scriptures of your youth do you not know by heart? Besides, you have taken the Tang emperor's command to go to the Western Heaven, see the Buddha, and seek the true texts of the Great Vehicle. Now the work is unfinished, the Buddha unseen, the scriptures unfetched—which scroll is it you mean to recite?"
"Ever since I left Chang'an," said Sanzang, "I have trudged morning after morning and hurried day after day, and I fear the scriptures of my youth have grown rusty. Tonight, having a moment's leisure, let me review them."
"If that's how it is, we'll go to sleep first," said the Pilgrim. The three of them each went to a rattan bed and lay down.
The elder closed the meditation hall door, trimmed the silver lamp high, spread open his scripture book, and read silently to himself. Truly:
The first watch sounds from the tower, and all men's hearths are still; On the wild shores, the fishermen's fires have gone out.
But as for how the elder left that monastery—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.