The story continues: Sanzang was sitting in the meditation hall of Baolin Monastery, reading a while from the Water Repentance of the Liang Emperor by lamplight, then perusing a while from the True Peacock Sutra, sitting thus until the third watch. Only then did he wrap his scripture books in their bag and was about to rise and go to bed, when suddenly, outside the door, there came a flapping crash, and with a whistling hiss a gust of wild wind swept past.
The elder, fearing the lamp would be blown out, hastily shielded it with the sleeve of his cloth robe; and when he saw the flame flickering bright and dim, his heart began to pound and his gall to quiver. By now drowsiness was creeping over him, and he slumped over the scripture desk and dozed. Though his eyes were closed and his sight was dim, his mind was still clear, and in his ears he could hear, faint and mournful, the eerie wind sighing outside the window.
What a wind! Truly it hissed and whistled, whirled and drifted. Hissing and whistling, it flew the falling leaves; whirling and drifting, it rolled the scudding clouds. The stars filling the sky were all darkened; dust and sand over all the earth came scattering and spraying. One moment it was fierce, one moment it was pure. When pure, it played clear music through pines and bamboo; when fierce, it churned the waves of rivers and lakes. It blew so that mountain birds could find no roost and cried out choking; sea fish, restless, leapt and splashed. East and west, the doors and windows were torn from halls and pavilions; front and rear, the corridors were given over to gods and ghosts.
In the Buddha hall the flower vases were blown to the floor; the glazed lamps toppled and the wisdom-lamps went dim. Incense burners capsized and the ash spewed out; candlesticks tilted and the candle flames streamed sideways. Banners, streamers, and precious canopies were all shaken and torn; the bell tower and drum terrace rocked to their very roots.
As the elder listened in his dream to the wind sweeping by, he suddenly heard, faint and muffled, a call from outside the meditation hall: "Master!" He raised his head and looked through his dream: standing outside the door was a man, dripping wet from head to foot, tears falling from his eyes, calling over and over: "Master! Master!"
Sanzang rose from his seat and said: "Are you some wraith or demon, some spirit or evil devil, come at this deep hour of night to make sport of me? I am no slave to greed, lust, or anger. I am a monk of open and upright light, bearing the command of the great Tang of the Eastern Land, going to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek scriptures. Under my hand are three disciples, every one a hero who tames dragons and subdues tigers, a stalwart who sweeps away demons and expels monsters. If they set eyes on you, they will smash your corpse to powder and grind your bones to dust. This I say to you out of great compassion and a heart of mercy. Make haste, hide yourself and flee far away—do not come near my gate of meditation!"
The man leaned against the meditation hall and said: "Master, I am no demon or monster, no wraith or evil spirit."
"If you are none of these," said Sanzang, "why do you come here at this deep hour of night?"
"Master," said the man, "open your eyes and look at me."
The elder looked closely and fixed his gaze upon him—and oh! He saw a man wearing on his head a crown that rose to heaven, girt at the waist with a jasper belt, dressed in a rust-yellow robe of flying dragons and dancing phoenixes, shod in cloud-topped, embroidered, carefree shoes, and holding in his hand a white jade scepter ranged with the stars of the Dipper and the constellations. His face was like the Long-Life Emperor of the Eastern Peak; his form was like Lord Wenchang, Opener of Culture.
At the sight Sanzang started back, his face changed with alarm, and he hastily bowed and called out in a loud, stern voice: "Your Majesty of what dynasty? Pray be seated!"
He reached out hurriedly to support him—and grasped at empty air. He turned back and sat down. Looking again, there stood the same man. The elder asked: "Your Majesty, of what royal house are you? Emperor of what kingdom? Doubtless your land is in turmoil, slanderous ministers oppress and ravage, and you fled for your life at midnight. If you have something to say, tell it to me."
Then the man, tears dripping down his cheeks, spoke of things past, and grief gathering on his brow, told of the causes gone before: "Master, my home lies due west of here, only some forty li away. There stands a walled city—the place where my kingdom was founded."
"What is its name?" asked Sanzang.
"I will not hide it from you, Master," said the man. "It was I who founded that kingdom and gave it the name: the Black Rooster Kingdom."
"Your Majesty," said Sanzang, "what has thrown you into such terror, that you have come here?"
"Master," said the man, "five years ago in my realm the heavens withheld their rain; no seed would sprout in the ground, and the people starved to death. It was grievous beyond bearing."
Hearing this, Sanzang nodded and sighed: "Your Majesty, the ancients have said: when the ruler is upright, the heart of Heaven is compliant. I suppose you failed in kindness toward your myriad subjects. Now that you have met with famine, why have you fled the city walls? Go back, open your granaries and storehouses, relieve the common people with grain; repent your former wrongs and revive good deeds today; pardon those unjustly condemned under false laws. Then naturally the heart of Heaven will be reconciled, and the rains will fall in season and the winds blow mild."
"My granaries stood empty," said the man, "our money and grain were utterly spent. The civil and military officials of both benches went without their salaries, and even my own table knew no meat. I followed the example of King Yu controlling the floods, sharing sweetness and bitterness alike with all the people; I bathed and fasted, and burned incense and prayed day and night. So it went for three years—and all it brought was dried-up rivers and wells gone dry. Just at the height of that desperate hour, there came from Zhongnan Mountain a Perfected One, a Daoist adept, who could summon the wind and call the rain, turn stone to gold. He first saw my civil and military officials, and afterward was presented to me. I at once invited him to mount the altar and pray—and sure enough, it worked. At the sound of the command tablet, in an instant rain poured down in torrents. I had hoped for three chi of rain to suffice; he said that after so long a drought the earth could not be moistened enough, and sent down two more inches besides. Seeing him so righteous, I swore brotherhood with him with eight prostrations, and we addressed each other as brothers."
"This was a joy of ten thousand parts for Your Majesty," said Sanzang.
"Where would the joy come from?" asked the man.
"Since that Perfected One had such powers," said Sanzang, "whenever you wanted rain you had only to call on him to send rain; whenever you wanted gold, you had only to have him touch stone to gold. What more could you lack, that you should quit your palace towers and come here?"
"I shared bed and board with him for no more than two years," said the man. "Then came a spell of spring weather, red apricots and early peaches bursting into flower, and every household's sons and daughters, young lords on every corner, all went out to wander and enjoy the spring. At such a season the officials retired to their offices and the palace ladies withdrew to their courts. The Perfected One and I walked hand in hand at a leisurely pace into the imperial garden, until suddenly we came to the edge of the eight-cornered glazed well. I know not what object he threw down into it, but from the well shot ten thousand rays of golden light. He coaxed me over to the well to look at some treasure—and there his murderous heart leapt forth, and with a great shove he pushed me, the widowed one, down into the well. He covered the mouth of the well with a stone slab, heaped earth upon it, and transplanted a plantain tree to grow above. Pitiful me! For three years now I have been dead—a wronged ghost who lost his life in a well!"
When the Tang monk heard that it was a ghost, he went limp with terror, his hair stood on end. There was nothing for it but to question him further: "Your Majesty, what you say is wholly against reason. If you have been dead three years, then with your civil and military officials, your empresses of the three palaces, coming to court through three years of morning audiences, how could they not search for you?"
"Master," said the man, "to speak of his powers—truly they are rare in all the world! No sooner had he done me in than he changed himself in the garden with a shake of his body into my very likeness, without the slightest difference. And now he occupies my throne and has secretly usurped my kingdom. My two benches of civil and military officials, my four hundred court officers, the empresses of the three palaces and the consorts of the six courts—all have become his."
"Your Majesty," said Sanzang, "you are too feeble."
"How so, too feeble?" asked the man.
"Your Majesty," said Sanzang, "this monster has some magic powers indeed; he has taken on your very form and usurped your realm. The officials cannot tell the difference, the consorts cannot know—but you alone know clearly how you died. Why not lodge a complaint before King Yama in the courts of the underworld, and plead your grievance?"
"His magic is vast, and he is thick with all the officials," said the man. "The City God often drinks with him, the Dragon Kings of the seas are all his kin, the God of Mount Tai, Emperor of the Eastern Peak, is his good friend, and the Ten Kings of Hell are his sworn brothers. And so I have nowhere to turn with my complaint."
"If you lacked the means to accuse him in the underworld," said Sanzang, "why come to me in the world of the living?"
"Master," said the man, "how would this wronged soul of mine dare come to your gate? Before your monastery gate stand the Guardian Deva of the Dharma, the Six Dings and Six Jias, the Revealers of the Five Quarters, the Four Duty Officers, and the eighteen Guardian Sangharamas of the Teaching, keeping close watch about your saddle and horse. Just now the Night-Wandering Spirit, with one gust of divine wind, sent me in here. He said that my three years of water-doom are now fulfilled, and bade me come pay my respects to you, Master. He said that under your hand is a senior disciple, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, supremely able to slay monsters and subdue demons. Now I come with a devoted heart to beg and beseech you: come to my kingdom, seize the demon, distinguish the false from the true, and I shall knot grass and carry rings in my mouth to repay your kindness!"
[Translator's note: "knot grass and carry rings" is a classical figure for repaying a debt of gratitude until death, from two old tales of grateful spirits.]
"Your Majesty," said Sanzang, "you have come to ask my disciple to rid you of that monster?"
"Exactly! Exactly!" said the man.
"My disciple is no good at other tasks," said Sanzang, "but when it comes to subduing monsters and catching demons, that is precisely his gift. Yet, Your Majesty, though I might send him to seize the monster, I fear it would be hard to justify."
"How would it be hard to justify?" asked the man.
"Since that monster's powers are so vast," said Sanzang, "and he has become your very double, every official at court, one and all, speaks in harmony with him and is at ease in heart; the palace ladies and consorts, one and all, are united with him in mind and feeling. My disciple, even with all his arts, would never dare strike the first blow. And if the officials seized him, they would say we were deceiving the state and destroying the kingdom, charge us with the great crime of high treason, and trap us inside the walls—would that not be a case of painting a tiger and carving a swan?"
[Translator's note: "painting a tiger, carving a swan"—setting out to do a fine thing and ending with something not merely lesser but bad.]
"There are still others at my court," said the man.
"Splendid! Splendid!" said Sanzang. "Doubtless some royal kinsman or elder guardian, dispatched to garrison some region?"
"No," said the man. "In my own palace there is a crown prince, my own son and heir."
"That prince, I suppose, has been deposed by the demon?" said Sanzang.
"Not at all," said the man. "He sits only in the Golden Chimes Hall, in the Five Phoenix Tower, now studying books with the scholars, now ascending the throne beside the Perfected One. But for these three years the monster has forbidden the prince to enter the inner palace, so that he cannot see his mother."
"What is the reason for that?" asked Sanzang.
"It is a scheme the monster has laid," said the man. "He fears only that if mother and son meet, they will talk things over in their idle hours and weigh the long and short of it, and the truth might leak out. That is why the two never set eyes on each other, and he can dwell there forever."
"Your calamity," said Sanzang, "must have been appointed by Heaven—and it is not unlike my own. Long ago my father was done to death by water bandits, and my mother was seized and possessed by them; three months later she bore me. I escaped with my life on the water, and happily my kindly master of Golden Mountain Monastery rescued and raised me to manhood. I remember that in my childhood I was without father or mother—and here this prince has lost both parents. I am overcome with shame and grief!"
Then he asked again: "Even if you have a prince at court, how am I to meet with him?"
"Why should you not meet him?" said the man.
"He is held in the demon's thrall," said Sanzang, "and cannot see even the mother who bore him. How could a mere monk find access to him?"
"Tomorrow morning he comes out from court," said the man.
"Out from court to do what?" asked Sanzang.
"At tomorrow's early audience he will lead three thousand men and horses, with hawks and hounds, out of the city to hunt," said the man. "You, Master, can surely meet him then. If when you meet him you will speak my words to him, he will believe."
"He is but a mortal of fleshly eyes," said Sanzang, "beguiled by the demon there on the throne. Not a day passes but he calls that creature 'Father King' several times. How will he believe my words?"
"If you fear he will not believe," said the man, "I will leave a token with you."
"What object?" asked Sanzang. The man set down the white jade scepter inlaid with gold that he held in his hand: "This will serve as the token."
"What of this object?" asked Sanzang.
"Ever since the Perfected One took on my likeness," said the man, "the one thing he failed to change was this treasure. When he entered the palace, he said the rain-praying Perfected One had made off with this scepter; from that time to this, three years, he has not had it. If my prince sees it, the sight of it will call up his father, and the vengeance will surely be taken."
"Very well," said Sanzang, "let me keep it, and my disciple will manage the matter for you. But where will you be waiting?"
"I dare not wait," said the man. "As for me, I shall go entreat the Night-Wandering Spirit for another gust of divine wind to carry me into the inner palace, and there entrust a dream to my queen of the principal palace, that mother and son may be of one mind, and you master and disciples of one heart." Sanzang nodded and consented: "Go, then."
The wronged soul kowtowed, bade farewell, and set out; Sanzang rose to see him off—when somehow the ghost caught his foot, tripped, and fell head over heels, and the tumble startled Sanzang awake. It had all been a dream of Nanke!
[Translator's note: "a dream of Nanke"—from a Tang tale of a man who dreamed a whole lifetime in an ant kingdom, and woke to find it empty; a common figure for an illusory dream.]
Startled, he faced the guttering lamp and called out quickly: "Disciples! Disciples!"
Bajie woke and grumbled: "What 'local deity, local deity'? Back in the days when I was a bold fellow, I lived wholly on eating men, feasting on flesh and rich food—happy days indeed! Then you had to go and become a monk, and make us protect you and tramp the roads! It was agreed we'd just be monks—now we're taken for slaves: by day we carry the bundles and lead the horse, by night we hold the chamber pot and warm your feet! And at this hour, instead of sleeping, you call 'disciples'—what for?"
"Disciple," said Sanzang, "just now, dozing over the desk, I had a strange dream." The Pilgrim leapt up and said: "Master, dreams come from thoughts. Before you even reached the mountain you were afraid of monsters; then you fretted that Thunderclap Monastery is far and we may never arrive; then you longed for Chang'an, wondering when you would ever return. So many thoughts, so many dreams. Take old Sun: with one single devoted heart set only on seeing the Buddha in the West, not one dream has ever come to me."
"Disciple," said Sanzang, "this dream of mine was no dream of homesickness. I had barely closed my eyes when, after a gust of wild wind, outside the meditation hall there stood an emperor, who said he was the king of the Black Rooster Kingdom, soaked through with water, tears streaming down his face." So it went, and thus it was: he told the Pilgrim every word of the dream.
The Pilgrim laughed: "No need to say more. He came to entrust this dream to you—it is plainly a piece of business sent to look after old Sun. There must be some monster there who has usurped the throne and plotted against the kingdom. Wait till I go and sort out the true from the false with him. That demon—where my cudgel arrives, success will follow at once!"
"Disciple," said Sanzang, "he said the monster's magic powers are vast."
"What do I care how vast!" said the Pilgrim. "Had he known old Sun was coming, he'd have fled with nowhere to go!"
"And I remember he left behind a treasure as a token," said Sanzang.
"Master, don't get tangled up over nothing," said Bajie. "You had a dream—that should be the end of it. Why keep taking it for real?"
"If you won't believe what is straight, beware of the untrue," said the Sha Monk. "Let us light a fire, open the door, and see how things stand."
The Pilgrim opened the door, and they all looked: there in the light of stars and moon, on the step beneath the eaves, lay a white jade scepter inlaid with gold.
Bajie came forward, picked it up, and said: "Brother, what is this thing?"
"This is a treasure held in the hand of a king," said the Pilgrim, "called a jade scepter. Master, since the thing is here, the affair must be true. Tomorrow's monster-catching rests entirely on old Sun—only, you must needs suffer three strokes of bad luck."
"Fine, fine, fine!" said Bajie. "He has a dream, that's all—and you go telling it back to him. What is he not clever at, when it comes to playing tricks on people? Now he's telling you you'll suffer three strokes of bad luck!"
Sanzang went back inside and asked: "Which three?"
"Tomorrow," said the Pilgrim, "you must stand the blame, take the scolding, and eat the plague."
Bajie laughed: "One stroke would be hard enough to bear—how could anyone stand three?"
The Tang monk was a wise elder, and he asked: "Disciple, how do you explain these three things?"
"No need to explain," said the Pilgrim. "First let me give each of you a thing or two."
What a Great Sage! He plucked a hair, blew on it a breath of immortal air, and cried "Change!"—and it became a red-and-gold lacquered casket. Placing the white jade scepter inside, he said: "Master, hold this thing in your hands. When the sky lightens, put on your brocade cassock, go sit in the main hall and recite scripture, while I go take a look at that city of his. If he is truly a monster, I'll beat him to death and win merit here; if he is not, then let us not invite trouble."
"Right! Right!" said Sanzang.
"If the prince doesn't leave the city, well and good," said the Pilgrim. "But if he truly comes out, as the dream foretold, I'll surely lead him here to see you."
"And when he sees me, how shall I answer him?" asked Sanzang.
"When he arrives, I'll announce him first," said the Pilgrim. "Then you pull the casket lid open a little. I shall change myself into a little monk two inches tall, and crawl inside the casket, and you hold me in your hands together with it. When the prince enters the monastery he will certainly worship the Buddha. Let him bow however he pleases—just pay him no heed. When he sees you do not rise, he will surely order you seized. Let them seize you: strike you, let him; bind you, let him; kill you, let him."
"Ah!" cried Sanzang. "His military authority is great. If he really killed me, what then?"
"Nothing to fear—I'm here," said the Pilgrim. "When the pinch comes, I will naturally protect you. If he asks, say you are a monk, an imperial envoy from the Eastern Land going to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha, fetch scriptures, and present treasures. He will ask what treasures you have. Then you tell him all about your brocade cassock, and say: 'This is a third-class treasure—there are still a first-class and a second-class better thing besides.' And whenever he asks, say that in this casket there is a treasure that knows five hundred years above, five hundred years below, and five hundred years between—fifteen hundred years in all of past and future things, all of which it knows perfectly. Then let old Sun out. I'll tell the prince all the words of the dream. If he believes, he will go seize that monster—avenging his father the king on the one hand, and winning us a name for honor on the other. If he does not believe, show him the white jade scepter. My only fear is that he is young, and may not recognize it."
Sanzang heard this with great joy: "Disciple, this plan is utterly brilliant! But tell me—of these treasures, one is called the brocade cassock, one the white jade scepter. What name shall we give the treasure you transform into?"
"Call it the Lidi Huo," said the Pilgrim.
[Translator's note: Lidi Huo, "Establish-the-Emperor Wares," is a made-up peddler's name in the original; some scholars hear in it an echo of the earliest Chinese rendering of "Christ" or "God" brought by the Jesuits—here it is simply a fraudulent-sounding name for a soothsaying trinket.]
Sanzang took his word and kept it in mind.
That night master and disciples got no sleep at all. They longed for daybreak, would gladly have nodded the sun up out of the Mulberry and blown the stars from the sky with a breath.
Before long the east grew white. The Pilgrim instructed Bajie and the Sha Monk: "Do not pester the monks or go wandering about. Wait till I have succeeded, and then we shall all travel on together."
Then he took leave of the Tang monk, gave a whistle, and with one somersault leapt into the air. Opening his fiery eyes and gazing due west, he saw indeed a walled city. You ask how he could see it? The city was said to be only forty li from the monastery, and so from his height he could look down and see it plainly. Drawing near and looking carefully, he saw a dreary haze of monstrous mists, demonic winds and an air of resentment drifting everywhere.
The Pilgrim sighed in the sky: "If a true king sat upon the throne, auspicious light and five-colored clouds would gather of themselves; but because a demon has invaded the dragon seat, black vapors seethe and lock the golden gates."
As the Pilgrim was sighing, he suddenly heard cannon fire crashing, and saw the east gate open, and out streamed a column of men and horses: a hunting expedition, bold indeed. See them: sallying at dawn from the forbidden city's east, spreading their circle through the shallow grass. Colored banners unfurl, bright in the sun; white horses gallop, meeting the wind. Alligator drums boom and thunder; javelins thrust in matched pairs. The hawk-bearers fierce and fiery; the hound-leaders dashing and bold. Cannon shake the sky with their roar; limed poles blaze red in the sun. Every man carries a crossbow bolt; every shoulder bears a carved bow.
Nets spread below the hillsides; cords laid along the narrow paths. One cry like a clap of thunder, and a thousand riders close in, brave as war-beasts. The cunning hare cannot save its body; the clever roe finds all its wits at an end. The fox's fate is run; the elk's doom is come. The mountain pheasant cannot fly free—how can the wild fowl escape its bane? All of them mean to seize the hunting grounds and take fierce beasts, to ravage the woods and shoot down the flying birds.
When the hunting party left the city and scattered over the eastern suburbs, before long, some twenty li out in the high fields, there appeared from the central camp a young general, helmet on his head, armor on his body, a figured breastplate and plates laced in eighteen rows, a keen sword of blue steel in his hand, riding a dun horse, a bow at full string at his waist. Truly he had the shadowed presence of a king, the proud bearing of an emperor. No ordinary man in his deportment; in his every movement, a true dragon showed. The Pilgrim rejoiced in the air: "No need to ask—that is the emperor's son, the crown prince. Let me go play a trick on him."
What a Great Sage! He dropped his cloud, plunged into the army to the front of the prince's horse, shook his body, and changed into a white hare, scampering wildly before the prince's horse. When the prince saw it, it matched his heart's delight exactly: he nocked an arrow, drew the bow full, and with one shot struck the hare. In truth the Great Sage had let himself be hit on purpose; but with quick eye and nimble hand he caught hold of the arrowhead, leaving the feathered shaft to drop behind, and stretching his legs, ran off.
The prince, seeing his arrow strike the jade hare, wheeled his horse and spurred ahead alone in pursuit. But here is the thing: when the horse went fast, the Pilgrim went like the wind; when the horse slowed, the Pilgrim slowed too, keeping always just a little way ahead of him. Thus stage by stage he coaxed the prince along, until he drew him to the gate of Baolin Monastery. There the Pilgrim resumed his own form. The hare was nowhere to be seen; only an arrow stood stuck in the threshold. He dashed straight in, found the Tang monk, and cried: "Master, he's come! He's come!" Then with another change he became a little monk two inches tall and crawled into the red casket.
Now the prince galloped up to the monastery gate, and there was no white hare—only a carved-feather arrow standing in the threshold. The prince started back, his face changing: "Strange! Strange! Plainly my arrow struck the jade hare—where has the hare gone, with only the arrow here? It must be that after so many years it has become a spirit." He pulled out the arrow, raised his head, and saw five great characters over the gate: "Built by Imperial Command, the Baolin Monastery."
"I have it," said the prince. "I remember that years ago my father the king sent an officer from the Golden Chimes Hall with gold and silk for these monks, to repair the Buddha hall and the statues. Who would have thought I'd come here today. Truly: 'Passing by a temple hall, I meet a monk and talk, and gain again half a day's leisure in this floating life.' Let me go in and walk about."
The prince dismounted and was about to enter, when the escorting officers and the three thousand men and horses came up, thronging and crowding, and all entered within the gate. The monks of the monastery, panic-stricken, all came kowtowing to receive them, and escorted them into the main hall, where they bowed in worship before the Buddha statues.
The prince had just raised his eyes to look about, and was on the point of strolling the corridors and enjoying the scenery, when suddenly he saw a monk sitting right in the middle of the hall. The prince flared up: "This monk has no manners! I have come into the mountain with half an imperial cortege—though there was no decree to notify you, and you ought not to receive me from afar, still, now that soldiers and horses stand at your gate, you should at least rise! How can you go on sitting there without moving?" He ordered: "Seize him!"
At the word "seize," the officers on either side fell upon him at once, dragged the Tang monk down, and hurriedly got out ropes to bind him.
The Pilgrim, inside the casket, silently recited a spell and instructed: "Guardian Devas of the Dharma, Six Dings and Six Jias: I am now devising a way to subdue a demon, and this prince, knowing nothing, is about to bind my master with cords. Protect him at once! If he is truly bound, every one of you shall bear the guilt!"
When the Great Sage gave orders in secret, who would dare disobey? They shielded Sanzang fast: some men could not so much as touch his bald head; it was as if a wall stood in the way, and none could come near his body.
The prince said: "Where do you come from, that you use such invisibility magic to flout me!"
Sanzang came forward and saluted: "This poor monk has no invisibility magic. I am a monk of Tang, from the Eastern Land, going to Thunderclap Monastery to worship the Buddha, seek scriptures, and present treasures."
"Your Eastern Land, though it be the Middle Kingdom, is matchlessly poor," said the prince. "What treasures have you? Tell me, and let me hear."
"The cassock on my body is a third-class treasure," said Sanzang. "There are still a first-class and a second-class, far better things besides!"
"Those clothes of yours—half of you covered, half an arm bared—what can they be worth, that you dare call them treasures!" said the prince.
"Though this cassock is not whole," said Sanzang, "there are some lines of verse on it. The poem says:
The Buddha robe, worn from one shoulder, needs no praise; Within it hides true suchness, free of worldly dust. Ten thousand threads, a thousand stitches, complete the fruit; Nine pearls, eight jewels, join the primal spirit. Immortal nymphs and holy maidens reverently wrought it, And left it to a meditation monk to cleanse his soiled body. That you do not rise to greet a king—that might be borne; But your father's wrong unavenged—you live as a man in vain!"
At these words the prince's heart filled with fury: "This scoundrelly monk raves! That half-piece of a garment, and with your glib tongue you puff it up as fine and mighty! In what way is my father's vengeance unavenged? Say on, and let me hear!"
Sanzang stepped forward, put his palms together, and asked: "Your Highness, a man living between Heaven and Earth—how many kindnesses has he?"
"Four kindnesses," said the prince.
"Which four?" asked Sanzang.
"The kindness of Heaven and Earth in sheltering and bearing us," said the prince, "of sun and moon in shining upon us, of the king in giving us soil and water, and of father and mother in raising us."
Sanzang smiled: "Your Highness speaks amiss. Man has only the shelter of Heaven and Earth, the shining of sun and moon, and the king's soil and water. Where would this kindness of parents' nurture come from?"
The prince grew angry: "Monks—a pack of idle vagrants, shorn of hair and rebels against the sovereign! Without a father and mother to raise him, from where would a man's body come?"
"Your Highness," said Sanzang, "this poor monk cannot say. But in this red casket there is a treasure called the Lidi Huo, which knows five hundred years above, five hundred years between, five hundred years below—fifteen hundred years in all of past and future things. It will tell you of the kindness of a father's and mother's nurture. It has kept this poor monk waiting here a long while."
When the prince heard this, he ordered: "Bring it, that I may see." Sanzang pulled open the casket lid, and the Pilgrim leapt out, waddle-teeter, waddle-teeter, running back and forth on either side.
"What sort of things can that starry little mite of a man know?" said the prince.
The Pilgrim, taking offense at his smallness, used a little magic: he stretched his waist, and lo, he was three feet four or five inches tall.
The soldiers gasped: "If he grows this fast, in a few days he'll burst right through the sky!"
When the Pilgrim had grown back to his full height, he grew no more.
Then the prince asked: "Lidi Huo—this old monk says you know the good and ill fortune of past and future. Do you divine with a turtle shell? Do you cast lots with yarrow stalks? Do you read people's fortunes from the lines of books?"
"I use none of those," said the Pilgrim. "I rely wholly on my three-inch tongue, and all things under the sun I know."
"This fellow raves again," said the prince. "From of old, the Book of Changes has been utterly profound and subtle, divining every good and ill fortune under heaven, so that men know what to seek and what to shun—hence the turtle shell for divining and the yarrow stalks for casting lots. By your words, on what principle do you rely, that you dare babble of fortune and disaster and confound men's hearts?"
"Your Highness, don't be hasty," said the Pilgrim. "Let me tell it to you. You are the crown prince of the king of the Black Rooster Kingdom. Five years ago in your land the year was parched with drought, the myriad people suffered, and your emperor together with his ministers prayed with devoted hearts. Just when not a drop of rain had fallen, there came from Zhongnan Mountain a Daoist who could summon wind and rain and turn stone to gold. Your king, too fond of petty gain, swore brotherhood with him. Is there such a matter, or not?"
"There is, there is!" said the prince. "Say on."
"And in the three years since the Perfected One vanished, who is it that styles himself the solitary one?" said the Pilgrim.
"Indeed there was a Perfected One," said the prince. "My father the king swore brotherhood with him; they ate together and slept together. Three years ago, enjoying the scenery in the imperial garden, a gust of divine wind came, and the Perfected One carried off the white jade scepter inlaid with gold from my father's hand, back to Zhongnan Mountain. To this day my father still longs for him; and because he does not see him, he has lost all heart for strolling, and has kept the garden shut fast—it is three years now. If he is not my father the king, who sits upon the throne?"
At these words the Pilgrim snickered without stop. The prince pressed him with questions, but he gave no answer—only snickered.
The prince grew furious: "This fellow, when he should speak, does not speak—what is all this snickering for?"
"There is much more to say!" said the Pilgrim. "But with all these people about, this is no place to say it."
The prince saw there was a reason behind his words, swept back his sleeve, and ordered the soldiers to withdraw. The officers of the escort hurriedly passed on the command, and the three thousand men and horses all moved out and camped beyond the gate. Now there was no one in the hall. The prince sat above, the elder stood before him, and the Pilgrim stood at his left hand.
The monks of the monastery had all withdrawn, and only then did the Pilgrim step forward gravely: "Your Highness, the one who vanished with the wind is your own father who begat you; the one now seated on the throne is that rain-praying Perfected One."
"Nonsense! Nonsense!" cried the prince. "Since the Perfected One went away, winds and rains have come in season, the state has been at peace and the people secure. By what you say, he is not my father the king. It is only because I am young that I suffer your insolence; were my father the king to hear this talk of yours, he would seize you and hack you into ten thousand pieces!" And with a shout he drove the Pilgrim down.
The Pilgrim said to the Tang monk: "What did I say? I told you he wouldn't believe it—and sure enough, sure enough! Come, let us take that treasure and present it to him, exchange our travel permit, and be off to the West."
Sanzang handed the red casket to the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim took it, gave his body one shake, and the casket vanished—it was his hair transformed, and he took it back upon his body. Then, holding the white jade scepter in both hands, he offered it up to the prince.
When the prince saw it, he said: "Fine monk! Fine monk! Five years ago you were that very Perfected One, and came swindling away my family's treasure—and now you dress up as a monk and come presenting it back!" He shouted: "Seize him!"
At that one command, the elder was frightened out of his wits, and pointed at the Pilgrim, crying: "You Probationer Horse-Groom! Always blundering into empty trouble, and dragging me down with you!"
The Pilgrim stepped forward and stopped them all: "No clamor! Don't let the wind of it escape! I am not called Lidi Huo—I have a real name besides."
The prince said angrily: "Come up here! Let me ask your real name, and send you to the courts to be sentenced!"
"I am that elder's senior disciple," said the Pilgrim, "named Sun Wukong, the Pilgrim Sun. Because I am escorting my master to the Western Heaven to fetch scriptures, last night we came here seeking lodging. My master was reading scripture in the night, and at the third watch he had a dream. In the dream he saw your father the king, who said he had been done to death by that Perfected One—pushed into the eight-cornered glazed well in the imperial garden—while the Perfected One changed himself into your father's likeness. Not one official at court could tell; you, being young, could not know either. He forbade you the palace and shut the garden, chiefly for fear the truth should leak out. Your father the king came tonight especially to ask me to subdue the demon. Fearing it might be no demon, I looked from the sky—and sure enough, it is a monster. I was just about to set hands on him when, unhappily, you came out of the city to hunt. The jade hare your arrow struck was none other than old Sun. Old Sun led you here to the monastery to see my master and pour out this tale—and every word of it is true. Since you recognize the white jade scepter, why do you not remember the kindness of him who raised you, and avenge your own father?"
When the prince heard this, his heart was wrung with grief, and he mourned within himself: "If I do not believe these words, there is yet something three parts true in them; but if I believe—then the one on the throne is my own father no more." Truly: pressed on both sides, the heart questions the mouth; thinking thrice, the mouth asks the heart.
The Pilgrim, seeing him wavering, came forward again: "Your Highness need not doubt. Pray let Your Highness ride back to your own capital, and ask one question of your mother, the queen. Ask her how the love between that royal couple today compares with what it was three years ago. That one question, and you will know the true from the false."
The prince turned it over in his mind: "Right! Let me go ask my mother." He leapt up, tucked the jade scepter away, and would have gone at once.
The Pilgrim caught hold of him: "If all these men and horses go back with you, won't the news leak out, and all my work come to nothing? You must enter the city one man on one horse. Do not make a show of your name. Do not enter the Great South Gate; go in by the rear gate. When you reach the palace and see your mother, do not raise your voice—speak softly and low. That monster's magic is vast, and if the least breath of it escapes, your mother's life and yours may both be forfeit."
The prince obeyed his instructions reverently. Going out the monastery gate, he commanded his officers: "Camp here steadily; do not stir. I have a matter to see to; wait till I return, and we shall enter the city together." Watch him:
With word of command he settles the encamped troops; Mounting his horse like the wind, he gallops back to the city.
What passed between him and the queen when he arrived—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.