The story continues: the Great Sage Sun and his two brothers brought their clouds down and went straight into the court, where sovereign and ministers, heir and empresses, came bowing in ranks to give thanks. The Pilgrim recounted for them all how the Bodhisattva had subdued the demon and taken the monster away, and one and all they worshipped without end.
Just as they were in the midst of their rejoicing, the yellow-gate officer came again to report: "My lord, four more monks have come from outside."
Bajie panicked: "Brother, could it be the demon playing some trick—counterfeiting the Bodhisattva Manjusri to fool us, and now changing into monks to match wits with us?"
"Nonsense!" said the Pilgrim, and ordered them summoned in to be seen.
The civil and military officials passed the command for them to enter. And when the Pilgrim looked, there were the monks of Baolin Monastery, come in bearing the crown that rose to heaven, the jasper belt, the rust-yellow robe, and the carefree shoes.
"Well come! Well come!" said the Pilgrim in high delight.
He bade the Daoist novice step forward: off with the cloth wrapping, on with the crown that rose to heaven; off with the cloth gown, on with the rust-yellow robe; untied the sash, bound on the jasper belt; drew off the monk's shoes, stepped into the carefree shoes. He had the crown prince bring out the white jade scepter and set it in his hand, and soon invited him up to the hall to style himself the solitary one. As the ancient saying goes: "A court cannot be a single day without a sovereign."
But the king would by no means sit. Weeping, he knelt in the middle of the steps: "I have been dead three years. Now, by the masters' grace, I am restored to life—how could I again dare presume to style myself sovereign? Let one of the masters be king. It is enough for me to take my wife and children and live as common folk beyond the walls."
And Sanzang by no means would accept; his one heart was set only on worshiping the Buddha and seeking scriptures. They begged the Pilgrim next. The Pilgrim laughed: "I'll not deceive you gentlemen: if old Sun had wanted to be an emperor, he'd long since have been emperor of every one of the ten thousand kingdoms and nine continents of the world. But we've grown used to being monks and lazy and free. If we were emperors, we'd have to let our hair grow and dress it; we'd not sleep at dusk nor rest at the fifth watch; at every border alarm our hearts would be uneasy; at every famine or flood we'd worry ourselves helpless. How could we ever stand such a life? Go on being your emperor, and old Sun will go on being his monk, cultivating merit on the road." The king pressed him sorely, but in vain; at last he could only mount the precious hall, sit facing south as the sovereign, proclaim a great amnesty through the realm, and bestow titles and gifts on the monks of Baolin Monastery before sending them home. Then the East Pavilion was opened and a banquet spread for the Tang monk, and at the same time a decree went out summoning the painters, who made portraits of the Tang master and his three disciples and set them up for worship in the Golden Chimes Hall.
Master and disciples, having set the kingdom in order, would not linger, but wished to take leave of the king and press west. The king, with the empresses of the three palaces, the prince, and all the ministers, brought forth the treasures of the realm—gold, silver, silks, and satins—and offered them to the master in payment of their debt of gratitude. Sanzang would not take so much as a hair of it; he only exchanged the travel permit and urged Wukong and the others to saddle up and set out early.
The king, quite overcome, arrayed the full imperial cortege and begged the Tang monk to sit in the chief carriage, with the two benches of civil and military officials going before as guides; and he himself, with the empresses of the three palaces and the prince, one family together, pushed the wheel and supported the shaft, escorting them beyond the city walls before he would descend from the imperial carriage and take his leave.
"Master," said the king, "on the day the scriptures return from the Western Heaven, you must surely come once more within this widowed one's borders."
"Your disciple takes the command," said Sanzang. The emperor, tears brimming, returned to the city with his ministers.
The Tang monk's party of four monks took the ram's-gut highway, their hearts set solely on worshiping at Vulture Peak. It was just the season when autumn wanes and winter begins. See: frost withers the red leaves, thinning wood after wood; rain ripens the yellow millet, filling field after field. The sun warms the ridge, and plum blossoms open in the dawn light; wind sways the mountain bamboo, stirring a chill refrain.
Master and disciples left the Black Rooster Kingdom, lodged by night and traveled by day, for rather more than half a month—when suddenly they saw another high mountain, truly one that scraped the sky and blocked the sun. Sanzang's heart quaked on his horse; he hauled in the reins and called quickly for the Pilgrim.
"What does Master command?" asked the Pilgrim.
"Look ahead—more great mountains and steep ridges. We must be doubly on our guard, lest some evil thing come upon us again."
"Just keep riding, don't fret so," said the Pilgrim with a laugh. "Old Sun will do the guarding." The elder could only take heart, whip up his horse, and gallop to the crags—and perilous it truly was. See it:
High? Not high—and yet its summit touches the blue empyrean. Deep? Not deep—and yet its ravine is like the underworld. Before the mountain, ever and again, great white clouds boiling up, black mist churning. Red plum and emerald bamboo, green cypress and blue pine. Behind the mountain, a thousand-thousand-zhang Soul-Snatching Terrace; behind the terrace, a Demon-Hiding Cave, ancient and strange; in the cave, a dripping spring plink-plonking; below the spring, a winding, twisting ravine with running water. And see: apes that leap to heaven and stab the earth, offering fruit; antlered deer with branching horns; roe deer staring, spellbound, at the passers-by. At dusk, tigers of the hills seek out their dens; at dawn, dragons churn the waves and come out of the water. The climbing of the cave-mouth resounds with a whoosh; startled birds burst up with a whirr; watch the beasts of the woods go padding softly on their way. At such a crew of birds and beasts, a man's heart pounds with dread. Hall upon cave, cave upon hall, caves and halls tumbling down; the caves would tumble, halls would fall—and yet immortal shapes abide. Blue rock stained like a thousand blocks of jade; green gauze veiling ten thousand heaps of smoke.
Just as master and disciples stood in awe and dread, they saw in the hollow of the mountain a bloom of red cloud soar straight up into the ninth heaven, gathering into a ball of fire.
The Pilgrim, greatly startled, ran forward, seized the Tang monk by the feet, and pushed him down from the horse, calling: "Brothers, don't move—the monster's come!"
In a flurry Bajie whipped out his rake, the Sha Monk spun up his precious staff, and they ringed the Tang monk about in the middle.
Now the story divides. In that red light there truly was a monster.
Years before, he had heard men say: "The Tang monk of the Eastern Land, journeying to the Western Heaven for scriptures, is the reincarnation of the Elder Golden Cicada, a good man ten lifetimes in cultivation. Whoever eats a piece of his flesh will lengthen his years and live as long as Heaven and Earth."
Morning after morning he had waited among these mountains—and now, unforeseen, the moment had come. There in mid-air he was peering down, and he saw the three disciples ringing the Tang monk about on his horse, each ready for anything.
The spirit could not praise them enough: "Fine monks! Just now I saw a white-faced, plump monk riding a horse—surely the holy Tang monk—but how he is guarded by three ugly monks! Every one of them has his fists out and his sleeves rolled, each gripping his weapon, as if ready to fight a man this instant. Hah! One of them, I know not which, has sharp eyes—likely he recognized me. Looking at this, there'll be no hope of tasting the Tang monk's flesh."
He pondered a long while, questioning his own heart and taking counsel with himself: "If I try to seize him by force, I'll never get near; but perhaps I can bewitch him with gentleness—that might come to hand. If I can only coax his mind into a fog, then from within the gentleness I can hatch my plot, and he is as good as taken. Let me go down and play a game with them."
What a monster! He scattered the red light, dropped his cloud, and went down into the hillside, where with a shake of his body he changed into a naughty child of seven, stark naked, without a stitch upon him, his hands and feet bound with hemp cord, strung high on the tip-top of a pine tree, crying over and over, "Help! Help!"
Now the Great Sage Sun happened to look up again, and saw the red cloud quite scattered, the ball of fire wholly gone. He called: "Master, pray mount and let's be off."
"You said the monster had come," said the Tang monk, "so how dare we travel?"
"Just now," said the Pilgrim, "I saw a red cloud rise from the ground and gather into a ball of fire in the sky—no doubt of it, a monster. But now the red cloud has dispersed. I take him for some passing monster, who dares harm no one. Let's be going!"
"Elder Brother's talk gets cleverer and cleverer," said Bajie with a laugh. "What do you mean, a passing monster?"
"What do you know!" said the Pilgrim. "When the demon king of some mountain or cave throws a banquet and invites the spirits of all the mountains and caves to a feast, then spirits come flocking from the four roads, east, south, west, and north. Their hearts are all set on the banquet, with no thought of harming anyone. That is what's called a passing monster."
Hearing this, Sanzang half believed and half doubted, but could only climb into the saddle and press on along the road up the mountain.
As they went, they heard a voice crying "Help!" The elder started with alarm: "Disciples—here in the middle of these mountains, what person is that crying?"
The Pilgrim came forward: "Master, just keep riding. Never mind about people-sedans and mule-litters, open sedans and sleeping sedans. In a place like this, even if there were a sedan, there'd be no one to carry you in it."
"It's not the sedan I mean, but the cry," said the Tang monk. "Someone is calling out."
"I know, I know," said the Pilgrim with a laugh. "Mind your own business and ride."
Sanzang obeyed, spurred on, and had not gone a full li when again came the cry: "Help!"
"Disciples," said the elder, "that cry is no ghost or demon or evil thing. If it were a ghost or demon, there would be the voice, but never an echo. Listen—he calls once, then calls again. Surely it is some person in distress. We ought to go and save him."
"Master, for today, gather up a little of that compassion of yours and put it away," said the Pilgrim. "Once we're past this mountain, then be compassionate to your heart's content. This place bodes more ill than good. You know the saying about spirits that lean on grass and cling to trees—any thing at all can turn a spirit. Most of them are bearable enough; but there is one kind, the python serpent: when it has cultivated long enough, deep into years, and become a spirit, it has a gift for knowing men's childhood names. If it calls a man once from the grass or from a mountain hollow, and he does not answer, well and good; but if he answers once, it will snatch away his primal spirit, follow him that very night, and take his life without fail. Let's ride! Let's ride! As the ancients said: escape with your life and thank the gods—by no means listen to it."
The elder could only obey him, and whipped his horse onward. The Pilgrim thought to himself: "This impudent monster—wherever he is, calling and calling like this. Let old Sun treat him to a trick of the morning star and the evening star, and see that the two of us never meet."
[Translator's note: the "morning star and evening star" trick—so called because the stars of the mao (dawn) and you (dusk) hours never appear in the sky together—means arranging matters so that two parties pass without ever meeting.]
What a Great Sage! He called the Sha Monk to him: "Hold the horse and walk along slowly—old Sun needs to relieve himself." Watch him let the Tang monk go a few steps ahead, then recite a spell, use the art of shifting mountains and shrinking earth, point his gold-banded cudgel backward, and send his master and brothers over the crest of the peak and on down the far side, leaving the monster clean behind them; then he stretched his strides, caught up with the Tang monk, and they raced on into the mountains.
Presently Sanzang heard the cry of "Help!" again, now from behind the mountain. "Disciples," said the elder, "that poor soul in distress has no luck at all—he never managed to meet with us. We have already passed him by—listen, he's crying behind the mountain."
"He may still be in front of the mountain," said Bajie, "only now the wind has shifted."
"Never mind whether the wind shifts or not—let's ride," said the Pilgrim. So all of them fell silent, longing to stride over this mountain in a single step—and of their talk no more.
Now that monster in the hillside had called three or four times without a soul coming near, and he pondered: "I waited for the Tang monk here, and saw him not three li away—how is it he still has not come after all this while? He must have taken a shortcut around." He gave his body a shake, slipped the ropes, rose again on red light, and mounted into the sky to look once more.
And, without meaning to, the Great Sage Sun glanced back up, knew him for a monster, and again caught the Tang monk by the feet and pushed him down from the horse, crying: "Brothers, careful! Careful! The monster's come again!"
In a panic Bajie and the Sha Monk each gripped his weapon and ringed the Tang monk about once more in the middle.
The spirit saw it, and in mid-air admired without end: "Fine monks! Just now I saw the white-faced monk sitting on his horse—how is it those three have hidden him away again? This time, only face to face will I know. First I must lay low the sharp-eyed one—only then can I seize the Tang monk. Otherwise, all my scheming is labor lost and my pains come to nothing."
Again he dropped his cloud, changed just as before, and hung strung up on a treetop on the mountainside to wait—this time less than half a li away.
Now the Great Sage Sun looked up again, and saw the red cloud once more scattered; again he invited his master to mount and go on.
"You said the monster had come again," said Sanzang. "How is it you now invite me to travel?"
"He's another passing monster," said the Pilgrim, "who dares not meddle with us."
Again the elder's anger rose: "This impudent monkey is making a fool of me past all bounds! Just when there truly are monsters about, he says there's nothing; and in a place as calm and open as this, he frightens me, bawling every little while about monsters! More talk than truth, no sense of weight or measure—grabbing me by the feet and pitching me off my horse—and now he spins me some tale of a passing monster! Suppose he'd hurt me in the fall—would that weigh nothing on his conscience? This is too much! Too much!"
"Master, don't be angry," said the Pilgrim. "If I had hurt your hands or feet, why, they could be healed; but if the monster had fished you away, where would I go to look for you?"
Sanzang flared up in a fury, grunting and gasping, ready to recite the Band-tightening Spell—only the Sha Monk's earnest pleading stayed him, and he could but mount and ride on again.
He had scarcely settled in the saddle when again came the cry: "Master, save me!" The elder raised his head and looked: there, truly, was a little child, stark naked, hanging from a tree. He reined in his horse and cursed the Pilgrim: "What a lazy, wicked wretch this monkey is, without one scrap of kindness in him, his whole heart set on violence and mischief! I told him the voice I heard was a human voice, and he bawled a thousand words about monsters! Look—isn't that a person hanging in that tree?"
When the Great Sage saw his master turning on him, and moreover saw the thing face to face, there was nothing he could do: in the first place, he could not lay hands on it before his master's eyes; and in the second, he dreaded the Band-tightening Spell. He dropped his head and dared not answer, letting the Tang monk ride beneath the tree.
The elder pointed at the child with the tip of his whip and questioned him: "Whose child are you? For what matter are you hung up here? Tell me, that I may save you."
Alas! Plainly he was a spirit transformed into this shape—but the master was a mortal of fleshly eyes and could not know him.
When the demon saw him questioning, he spun his web all the wider, tears brimming in his eyes, and cried: "Master! West of this mountain there is a Withered Pine Ravine, and past the ravine a village—that is my home. My great-grandfather's surname was Hong, 'Red'; and because he heaped up gold and silver until his fortune ran to millions, he went by the nickname Red Million. He grew old and died long ago, and the family estate passed to my father. Of late, with men's ways grown lavish, the fortune dwindled by degrees, and he changed his name to Red Hundred-Thousand. He made it his one business to befriend bold men of all four quarters, lending out gold and silver in hope of the interest. Who knew that men without register or reckoning would swindle it all away—principal and interest, none came back. My father then swore a great oath to lend out not one copper. And the borrowers, poor and desperate, banded into a murderous gang; with torches blazing and staves in hand they stormed our gate in broad daylight, seized our whole wealth and carried it off, killed my father, and—seeing my mother had some looks—dragged her off to be their chieftain's wife. At that hour my mother could not bear to part with me; she clasped me in her arms, weeping piteously, trembling with fear, and followed the robbers—till, coming into these mountains, they would have killed me too. Only my mother's piteous pleading saved me from dying under the blade; instead they strung me up in this tree with ropes, to die of cold and hunger. And those robbers have carried my mother off, I know not where. I have hung here three days and three nights, and not one soul has passed by. I know not what merit I stored up in what former life, that today I have met with you, venerable master. If you will grant a great compassion and save my life and take me home, then though I pawn myself and sell my life, I will repay your kindness—even with yellow sand covering my face, I shall never forget."
Hearing this, Sanzang took it all for truth, and told Bajie to loose the ropes and bring the child down.
The blockhead, no better at reading people than his master, stepped forward ready to begin—but the Pilgrim, standing by, could hold back no longer and thundered: "You impudent thing! Here's one who knows you! No more of your vaporing and ghost-talk, lying to deceive folk! If your wealth was plundered, your father slain by thieves, your mother carried off—once we save you, to whom shall we hand you? And what will you give us in thanks? Your lie has come apart at the joints!"
Hearing this, the monster's heart went cold with fear, for now he knew the Great Sage was a man of parts; and silently he marked him. Yet he trembled and wept as he spoke: "Master, though my parents are lost and dead and the family wealth all gone, there are still fields and farms untouched, and my kinsfolk all alive."
"What kinsfolk have you?" asked the Pilgrim.
"My grandfather's family lives south of the mountain," said the monster, "and my aunt dwells north of the ridge. At the head of the ravine, Li the Fourth is my uncle by marriage; in the woods, Hong the Third is my clan uncle. I have cousins and hall-brothers besides, all living around the village. Venerable master, if you will save me, when we reach the village and I have seen all my kin, I shall tell them, one by one, of the grace of your deliverance; we will sell some of the land and fields and thank you heavily, heavily."
When Bajie heard this, he rounded on the Pilgrim: "Brother, a little child like that—what are you badgering and cross-examining him for? What he says makes sense. The robbers could only plunder his floating wealth—could they carry off houses and farmland too? If we tell his kinsfolk, why, even with our mighty appetites we couldn't eat our way through the price of ten acres. Bring him down, do!"
The blockhead had only thoughts of food in his head, and cared nothing for true or false: he used his monk's knife to cut the ropes, and let the monster down.
The monster knelt beneath the Tang monk's horse, tears streaming, kowtowing without stop.
The elder's heart was moved, and he called: "Child, come up on the horse, and I will take you with me."
"Master," said the monster, "my hands and feet are numb from the hanging, my hips and waist ache; and besides, I am a country child and not used to riding."
The Tang monk told Bajie to carry him. The monster stole one look at him: "Master, my skin is frozen through—I dare not have this venerable master carry me. His snout is long and his ears are great, and the bristles on the back of his head are stiff—they'd stab me so."
"Then let the Sha Monk carry you," said the Tang monk. The monster stole another look: "Master, when those robbers came to plunder our house, every one of them had painted faces and false beards, waving knives and brandishing staves. They frightened me so! At the sight of this master with his unlucky face, my soul would leave me altogether—I dare not have him carry me either."
Then the Tang monk bade Sun the Pilgrim carry him, and the Pilgrim laughed heartily: "I'll carry him! I'll carry him!" And the monster rejoiced in secret, all sweet compliance, waiting for the Pilgrim to take him on his back.
The Pilgrim pulled him over to the roadside and weighed him with a heave—why, no more than a bit over three and a half pounds.
The Pilgrim laughed: "You impudent little monster—today your death is due! How dare you play your ghost-tricks before old Sun! I know you for one of that sort!"
"Master," said the monster, "I am a son of good honest folk, unfortunate to meet this great calamity. How am I one of any 'sort'?"
"If you're a son of good folk," said the Pilgrim, "how is it your bones are so light?"
"My frame is small," said the monster.
"How old are you this year?" asked the Pilgrim.
"Seven years old," said the monster.
The Pilgrim laughed: "A pound a year—that would make seven pounds. How is it you don't weigh four pounds full?"
"I lost my mother's milk when I was little," said the monster.
"Well and good," said the Pilgrim. "I'll carry you. But if you need to make water or worse, you must tell me."
Then Sanzang with Bajie and the Sha Monk went ahead, and the Pilgrim, the child on his back, followed; and the party pressed steadily west. There is a poem in witness:
The higher the Way's estate, the higher the demon's bar; The mind of Chan is stillness—yet stillness breeds the fiend. When the heart-lord walks upright along the middle path, The Wood-Mother, dull and stubborn, strays with skipping feet. The Mind-Horse, speaking no word, harbors love and desire; The Yellow Dame, saying nothing, frets herself in silence. The stray guest-spirit triumphs—but all in empty joy: In the end it melts away before the place of right.
The Great Sage Sun bore the demon along, his heart grumbling against the Tang monk, who knew nothing of hardship: "To cross a range as savage as this—hard enough with an empty body—and he has old Sun carrying a man on his back! Never mind this fellow being a monster—even were he a good man, his father and mother gone, who would old Sun hand him to? Better by half to smash him on the ground and be done."
But the monster had already read his thoughts. He used a magic: drew in four breaths from the four quarters and blew them upon the Pilgrim's back—and at once the burden seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
The Pilgrim laughed: "Little son, playing your weighty-body trick to crush your old daddy!"
Hearing this, the monster feared the Great Sage would hurt him; so he quit the corpse, slipped out his primal spirit, and leapt up to stand in the sky of the ninth heaven—and on the Pilgrim's back the corpse grew heavier still. The Monkey King, enraged, snatched it off, and with a swish-flattening smash flung it down on a boulder at the roadside, pounding the corpse flat as a meat patty. Still fearing further insolence from the thing, he tore off its arms and legs, flung them to either side of the road, and left them in pieces.
The creature, watching from mid-air, could not hold down the fire in his heart: "This monkey-monk is an utter wretch! Grant I am a demon monster, out to harm your master—still, I had not yet so much as shown my hand. How could you mangle me so! Lucky for me I had my wits about me and fled in spirit—otherwise you'd have taken a life for nothing. If I don't seize the Tang monk at this moment, and give way once more, I only teach them to linger and grow cunning."
What a monster! In mid-air he whipped up a whirlwind—with one great whoosh, stones flying and sand streaming, fierce beyond words. What a wind!
Surging, raging, it rolls up water-clouds reeking; Black vapors seething shut away the light of day. Ridge trees are torn out root and all together; Wild plum trees, trunks and all, are leveled flat. Yellow sand blinds the eyes—no man can walk; Strange rocks are smashed and shattered—how can the road run level? Rolling and swirling, the level ground turns dark; Over all the mountain, birds and beasts shriek in panic.
It blew so that Sanzang could not stay on his horse; Bajie dared not look up; the Sha Monk bowed his head and hid his face. The Great Sage Sun knew well it was the monster's wind, and leapt hastily in pursuit—but the monster had already ridden the wind's crest and carried the Tang monk off: not a trace, not a shadow, no telling which way, nowhere to follow.
After a while the wind's voice died down, and the sunlight shone bright again. The Pilgrim came forward and looked: the white dragon horse stood trembling, whinnying in panic; the luggage-load lay dumped by the road; Bajie lay groaning beneath the cliff; the Sha Monk crouched on the slope, calling out. The Pilgrim shouted: "Bajie!" The blockhead knew the Pilgrim's voice, looked up, saw the gale had died, scrambled to his feet, and clutched the Pilgrim: "Brother, what a wind!"
The Sha Monk too came forward: "Brother, it was a whirlwind." Then he asked: "Where is the master?"
"The wind came on so hard," said Bajie, "we all hid our heads and shielded our eyes, each dodging the wind as best he could—the master was crouched low on his horse too."
"And where has he gone now?" asked the Pilgrim.
"He must be made of lampwick," said the Sha Monk, "to be blown off by one gust of wind."
"Brothers," said the Pilgrim, "this is where you and I ought to part company and be done!"
"Right!" said Bajie. "Let's split up early, each find his own road—that would be something. That Western Heaven road goes on without end—when would we ever get there?"
At these words the Sha Monk started as if struck, numb from head to foot: "Elder Brother, what words are these you're speaking? Because of sins in our former lives, we were shown mercy by the Bodhisattva Guanyin, who persuaded us, rubbed our heads and administered the precepts, changed our religious names, and brought us to refuge in the fruit of Buddha; and we vowed of our own will to protect the Tang monk to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures, winning merit to offset our guilt. Today we have come all this way—and now, all at once, to throw it over, and talk of each finding his own road! Would that not betray the Bodhisattva's good work, ruin our own virtue, and invite the world's laughter—men would say we began well and could not carry through!"
"Brother, what you say is true," said the Pilgrim. "The trouble is, the master will not listen. Old Sun, with his fiery eyes and golden pupils, can tell good from bad at a glance. That wind just now was the doing of the child we took down from the tree. I knew him for a monster; you did not know him, and the master did not either—he took him for a good family's son and made me carry him on my back. Old Sun was plotting how to deal with him when he played his weighty-body trick to crush me. I smashed him to bits, and he must have used the art of quitting the corpse, whipped up that whirlwind, and carried my master off. That is why I grumble at the master—he never once heeds what I say. So my heart went slack and cold, and I spoke of splitting up. But since you, good brother, are set on this, old Sun is caught between going on and turning back. Bajie—what would you truly do?"
"I let my mouth run loose and raved a few sentences just now," said Bajie. "Truly, we ought not to split up. Brother, there's nothing else for it—let's follow our brother Sha's words, and go find that monster and save the master."
Then the Pilgrim turned his anger to gladness: "Brothers, let us knot our hearts together once more. Gather up the luggage and the horse, up the mountain to hunt for the monster, and rescue the master!"
The three of them clutched vines and gripped creepers, searching slope and ravine, and traveled some fifty to seventy li—yet not a word or sign of him. On the mountain there was no bird in the air nor beast on the ground; only ancient cypresses and tall pines stood in their old places.
The Great Sage Sun, sorely fretted at heart, leapt up to the most perilous peak of all, shouted "Change!"—and turned three-headed and six-armed, the very image of his days of havoc in Heaven. He flourished the gold-banded cudgel, and it became three gold-banded cudgels; with splitting, popping blows he battered a swath along the east and a swath along the west, striking without pause on either hand.
When Bajie saw this he said: "Sha Monk, this is bad—Elder Brother can't find the master and has worried himself into a fit of madness."
The Pilgrim battered away for a while, and battered out a whole tribe of impoverished gods, clad in a rag here and a rag there, trousers without crotches and leggings without tops, who knelt before the mountain crying: "Great Sage! The mountain gods and local deities come to see you!"
"How come there are so many mountain gods and local deities?" asked the Pilgrim.
The gods kowtowed: "We report to the Great Sage: this mountain is called the six-hundred-li Drill-Head Hao Mountain. We are set one mountain god to every ten li and one local deity to every ten li—thirty mountain gods and thirty local deities in all. Yesterday we already heard the Great Sage was coming, but we could not assemble in time, and so received you late and stirred the Great Sage to anger. We beg a thousand pardons for our crime."
"I'll spare you the charge for now. I ask you: how many monsters are on this mountain?"
"Grandfather!" cried the gods. "There is only the one monster, and he has rubbed our heads bald! He has left us without incense or paper, without so much as an offering of meat; every one of us goes half-clad and half-fed—and you ask how many monsters there are to eat!"
"Does this monster live in front of the mountain or behind it?" asked the Pilgrim.
"Neither in front nor behind," said the gods. "In this mountain there is a ravine called the Withered Pine Ravine; beside the ravine there is a cave called the Fire Cloud Cave; and in that cave there is a demon king of vast magic powers. Time and again he carries us mountain gods and local deities off to build his fires and keep his gate, to ring bells and cry the watches for him in the black of night. His little imps come round demanding 'customary money' besides."
"But you are ghosts of the shades and immortals of the underworld," said the Pilgrim. "What money can you have?"
"Just because we have no money for him," said the gods, "we must catch a few mountain roe deer and wild elk, and mornings and evenings lay them out for the imps. If we send nothing, he comes and tears down our temples and strips off our clothes, and lets us have no peace at all! We earnestly beg the Great Sage to sweep this monster away and save the living souls of the mountain."
"Since you are under his thumb and always beneath his cave," said the Pilgrim, "you must know whence this monster comes and what his name is."
"Speaking of him," said the gods, "perhaps the Great Sage has heard. He is the son of the Bull Demon King, born of Princess Rakshasi. He cultivated three hundred years on the Flaming Mountain and refined there the samadhi true fire, and his magic powers are vast indeed. The Bull Demon King sent him to garrison Hao Mountain. His milk name is the Red Boy, and his title is the Great King Holy Infant."
At these words the Pilgrim's heart brimmed over with joy. He dismissed the local deities and mountain gods, resumed his own form, leapt down from the peak, and said to Bajie and the Sha Monk: "Brothers, set your hearts at rest and worry no more. The master will surely come to no harm—the monster is a kinsman of old Sun's!"
Bajie laughed: "Brother, don't tell lies. You are from the Eastern Continent of Superior Body, and this is the Western Continent of Cattle-Gift—a road of many thousands, with ten thousand rivers and a thousand mountains between, and two oceans besides. How is he your kinsman?"
"Just now this tribe here were the local deities and mountain gods of this region," said the Pilgrim. "I asked them about the monster's origins, and they said he is the son of the Bull Demon King, born of Princess Rakshasi, his name the Red Boy, his title the Great King Holy Infant. Now think: five hundred years ago, when old Sun made havoc in Heaven, he roamed every famous mountain under heaven, seeking out the great heroes of the earth—and the Bull Demon King was one of seven brothers sworn with old Sun. There were five or six demon kings all told, and old Sun alone was born small and neat; and so we called the Bull Demon King our eldest brother. This monster is the Bull Demon King's son. Old Sun knew his father well—count it up, and I am his father's sworn younger brother: his old uncle by the league! How would he dare harm my master? Let's hurry along."
The Sha Monk laughed: "Brother, as the common saying goes: 'Call not at the door for three years together, and kinship itself turns cold.' You and he have been parted five or six hundred years, no cup of wine ever passed between you, no festival gift ever summoned you—how will he recognize any kinship with you?"
"How small you measure men!" said the Pilgrim. "As the saying goes: a duckweed leaf drifts at last into the great sea—where in this world do men not meet! Even if he will not own the kinship, at least he will not harm my master. If he sets no banquet for us, surely he will at least hand back a whole and sound Tang monk."
The three brothers, each with devoted heart, led the white horse, loaded the luggage upon it, and sought the highway, pressing straight on. Without rest by day or night they traveled a hundred and some li, when suddenly they came upon a pine wood. Through the wood ran a winding ravine, and below the ravine, clear green living water flew cascading; at the ravine's head a stone-slab bridge led across to the cave dwelling on the far side.
"Brothers," said the Pilgrim, "look there where the stone cliffs glimmer white—surely that is where the monster lives. Let us take counsel together: who will stay and guard the luggage and horse, and who will go with me across to subdue the demon?"
"Brother," said Bajie, "old Pig has no gift for sitting still. I'll go with you."
"Good! Good!" said the Pilgrim, and instructed the Sha Monk: "Hide the horse and luggage deep in the trees, guard them carefully, and wait while we two go to their gate to look for the master." The Sha Monk obeyed. Bajie went along with the Pilgrim, and the two advanced, weapons in hand. Truly:
The unrefined babe's demonic fire is strong indeed— So Mind-Ape and Wood-Mother must lend each other strength.
But as for what fortune or ill befell them on this expedition—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.