The story continues: the king of the Kingdom of Chechi, seeing that Sun the Pilgrim had the power to summon dragons and command the sages, at once affixed his precious seal to the travel permit and was about to hand it to the Tang monk and let them go on their way west.
At this the three Daoists fell to their knees in terror before the throne in the Golden Chimes Hall and presented a memorial. The emperor came down from the dragon throne and raised them up with his own royal hands, saying: "State Preceptors, why do you perform this great ceremony today?"
The Daoists said: "Your Majesty, we came here to uphold the altars of state, to guard the kingdom and protect the people, and we have toiled through twenty bitter years. Today this monk has played his magic powers, snatched the credit away, and ruined our good name. Yet Your Majesty, for the sake of one fall of rain, would pardon the crime of murder—does that not make too little of us? We beg Your Majesty to hold back their travel permit for now, and let us two brothers have one more gamble with him, and see how it goes."
The king was a muddled soul indeed—turn east when the east side spoke, turn west when the west side spoke—and he truly took back the permit, saying: "State Preceptors, how will you gamble with him?"
The Immortal Tiger Power said: "I will gamble with him at sitting in meditation."
"State Preceptor, you are mistaken," said the king. "That monk comes of the school of Chan; he must surely have mastered the secrets of meditation before he dared accept the imperial mandate to fetch scriptures. How can you gamble with him at that?"
"Your Majesty," said the Immortal, "this sitting of mine is not the common sort. It has a special name: 'manifesting sainthood on the cloud ladder.'"
"What is 'manifesting sainthood on the cloud ladder'?" asked the king.
"One hundred tables," said the Immortal. "Fifty tables make one meditation platform, and they are stacked one upon another. No climbing up with hands, no mounting by ladder or stool—each contender rides a cloud up to his platform and sits there, and it is agreed that he must not stir for a certain number of double-hours."
The king saw that this was somewhat difficult, so he passed the word down and asked: "That monk—my State Preceptor wishes to gamble with you at cloud-ladder meditation. Can you do it?"
Hearing this, the Pilgrim pondered and made no answer.
"Brother, why don't you speak?" asked Bajie.
"Brother," said the Pilgrim, "I'll not deceive you. If it's kicking up the sky and stirring the wells, churning seas and overturning rivers, carrying mountains and chasing the moon, swapping the Dipper and shifting the stars—all such clever feats I can do. Even hacking off heads, chopping brains, slicing open bellies and cutting out hearts, every kind of contortion—I fear none of it. But say 'sitting in meditation,' and I've lost. Where would I get the sitting nature? You could lock me to an iron post and I'd still be scrambling up and down it—don't imagine I could sit still."
Then Sanzang suddenly spoke up: "I can sit in meditation."
The Pilgrim rejoiced: "Perfect! Perfect! How long can you sit?"
"When I was young," said Sanzang, "I met a wandering Chan monk who expounded the Way to me. In the root of life and nature itself—settling the nature and preserving the spirit, there at the pass of life and death—I have sat two or three years at a stretch."
"Master," said the Pilgrim, "if you're going to sit two or three years, then let's not fetch the scriptures. The most will be two or three double-hours, and then we come down."
"Disciple," said Sanzang, "the trouble is, I cannot get up there."
"Step forward and say yes," said the Pilgrim, "and I'll carry you up."
And indeed the elder pressed his palms together before his chest and said: "This poor monk can sit in meditation."
The king ordered the platforms set up. The kingdom had strength to topple mountains: in less than half a double-hour two platforms stood ready, one to the left and one to the right of the Golden Chimes Hall.
The Immortal Tiger Power came down from the hall, stood in the middle of the steps, sprang up, trod a wisp of cloud, and went straight up to sit on the western platform. The Pilgrim plucked one hair, changed it into a counterfeit of himself to stand below with Bajie and the Sha Monk, and then, riding an auspicious cloud of five colors, he lifted the Tang monk up into the air and set him sitting upon the eastern platform.
Then he gathered in the auspicious light, changed himself into a tiny gadfly, and flew to Bajie's ear. "Brother," he said, "keep a careful watch on Master, and don't answer anyone in old Sun's stead again."
The blockhead laughed: "Understood! Understood!"
Now the Immortal Deer Power had been sitting on his embroidered stool watching a long while, and since the two on their high platforms were still locked in a deadlock, he decided to lend his elder brother a hand: he plucked a short hair from the back of his head, twisted it into a pellet, and flicked it up into the air. It flew straight to the Tang monk's head, turned into a great bedbug, and bit fast onto the elder. At first the elder felt an itch, and then a pain.
Now the rule of sitting meditation allowed no moving of the hands—to move was to lose. The pain soon became unbearable, and he hunched up his head and rubbed the itch with the edge of his robe.
"It's bad!" cried Bajie. "Master's epilepsy has come on."
"No," said the Sha Monk. "It's his head-wind."
The Pilgrim heard them. "My master is a gentleman of truest sincerity. If he says he can sit in meditation, then he can sit; if he says he cannot, he cannot. Would a gentleman ever miss the mark? You two hold your tongues—let me go up and look."
What a Pilgrim! With one thin buzz he flew onto the Tang monk's head, and there he saw a bedbug the size of a bean biting his master. He quickly pinched it off and gave his master a soothing scratch here and there. The elder, no longer pained or itchy, sat erect upon the platform.
The Pilgrim thought to himself: "A monk's head is shaven bare—not even a louse could get a footing on it. How come a bedbug? It must be that Daoist playing his tricks to harm my master. Ha! Since neither side has won yet, let old Sun go play a trick on him!"
Off flew the Pilgrim, alighting on the head of one of the guardian beasts on the golden hall, shook himself, and changed into a centipede seven inches long. Straight he went and bit the Daoist in the hollow of his nose. The Daoist could not keep his seat—one somersault and he tumbled off the platform, very nearly losing his life. Luckily a host of officials, great and small, rescued him and carried him up. The king was greatly alarmed and at once ordered the master of the imperial carriage to lead him off to the Hall of Literary Splendor to wash and compose himself.
The Pilgrim rode his auspicious cloud again and carried his master down before the steps—the elder had won.
The king could only order them let go, but the Immortal Deer Power memorialized again: "Your Majesty, my elder brother has always suffered from a hidden wind-illness. Climbing to such a height, he was exposed to the wind of heaven and his old ailment came upon him—that is why the monk won. Keep them a while longer, I beg, and let me gamble with him at the guessing game through the board."
"And what is this guessing game through the board?" asked the king.
"Poor Daoist though I am," said Deer Power, "I have the art of knowing objects through a board. Let us see whether that monk can match it. If he can outguess me, let him go; if he cannot, then let Your Majesty fix his crime as you see fit, and avenge us brothers, and our twenty years of guarding the kingdom will not have been shamed for nothing."
Truly that king was muddle-headed beyond all reason, and he heeded the slander. He at once gave orders that a vermilion-lacquered chest be carried into the palace and that the queen put some treasure in it.
Presently it was carried out and set down before the white jade steps, and the monks were told: "You two sides will match your powers: guess what treasure lies in the chest."
"Disciple," said Sanzang, "how can anyone know what is in the chest?"
The Pilgrim gathered in his auspicious light, changed once more into the little gadfly, and settled on the Tang monk's head. "Master, don't worry—let me go take a look."
What a Great Sage! Gently he flew onto the chest and crawled down to its base, where he found a crack between the boards. He squeezed his way in and saw a red-lacquered tray, and on the tray a set of palace robes: the "Robe of Mountains and Rivers and the Altars of State," and the "Skirt of Heaven and Earth and the Geographies of the World."
He picked them up with his hands, crumpled them into a tangle, bit the tip of his tongue, spat a mouthful of blood upon them, and cried "Change!"—and they turned into a battered, tattered, run-down old cassock. And before leaving he sprinkled on a splash of his monkey piss; then he squeezed back out through the crack and flew to the Tang monk's ear. "Master, just guess it's a battered, tattered, run-down old cassock."
"He asked us to guess a treasure," said Sanzang. "What kind of treasure is a 'run-down old cassock'?"
"Never mind that," said the Pilgrim. "Just guess it, that's all."
The Tang monk stepped forward and was about to guess, when the Immortal Deer Power called out: "I'll guess first. In that chest are the Robe of Mountains and Rivers and the Altars of State, and the Skirt of Heaven and Earth and the Geographies of the World."
"No, no," said Sanzang. "In the chest is a battered, tattered, run-down old cassock."
"Insolent monk!" cried the king. "You dare mock my kingdom for having no treasure—guessing some 'run-down old cassock'! Seize him!" The two files of guards were about to lay hands on him, and the Tang monk, in a fright, pressed his palms together and cried aloud: "Your Majesty, grant this poor monk a moment's grace—let the chest be opened and looked into. If it is truly a treasure, I shall accept my punishment; but if it is not, would you not have wronged this poor monk?"
The king ordered it opened. The officer of the carriage opened it at once, and the tray was lifted out—and there, sure enough, was a battered, tattered, run-down old cassock.
The king flew into a rage: "Who put this thing in there?" From behind the dragon throne stepped the queen of the three palaces: "My lord, it was I myself, your humble consort, who placed the Robe of Mountains and Rivers and the Skirt of Heaven and Earth in the chest—I know not how it turned into this thing."
"Let my queen withdraw," said the king. "I understand now. What the palace uses is satin and silk, gauze and damask—there is no such thing as a 'run-down old cassock' in it. Bring the chest up. I shall hide a treasure in it with my own hands, and we shall try again."
The emperor went into the back palace, plucked from the immortal peach tree in the imperial garden a great peach as big as a bowl, laid it in the chest, and had it carried down for guessing again.
"Disciple," said the Tang monk, "they want us to guess again."
"Never fear," said the Pilgrim. "Let me go have another look."
With another thin buzz off he flew, squeezed in through the crack again, and saw it was a peach—just to his liking. At once he resumed his true form, sat down in the chest, and gnawed that peach clean away, clean down to both hollows of the cheeks, and set the pit neatly in the middle.
Then he turned back into the gadfly, flew out, and settled on the Tang monk's ear. "Master, just guess it's a peach pit."
"Disciple," said the elder, "don't play tricks on me. If I hadn't blurted out the truth just now, I'd have nearly gone to punishment. This time it had better be a treasure—what kind of treasure is a peach pit?"
"Don't be afraid," said the Pilgrim. "Just win, that's all."
Sanzang was about to speak when he heard the Immortal Antelope Power say: "I shall guess first: it is an immortal peach."
"It is not a peach," guessed Sanzang. "It is a bare peach pit."
"Nonsense!" shouted the king. "It was I myself who placed the immortal peach there—how could it be a pit? My Third State Preceptor has guessed right."
"Your Majesty," said Sanzang, "open it and see."
The officer carried it up and opened it, lifted out the tray—and sure enough, there was nothing but a pit, without rind or flesh.
The king saw it and his heart went cold with dread. "State Preceptors, no more gambling with them—let them go. The immortal peach I hid with my own hands is now nothing but a pit. Who ate it? There must be ghosts and spirits secretly helping them."
When Bajie heard this, he and the Sha Monk exchanged a quiet snicker: "And they don't know he's an old hand at eating peaches!"
Just then the Immortal Tiger Power came up to the hall, washed and combed at the Hall of Literary Splendor. "Your Majesty, that monk has the art of transporting and exchanging things. Bring up the chest—I will break his magic and have another guess with him."
"What will you guess now, State Preceptor?" asked the king.
"Magic can only substitute for objects," said Tiger Power, "but not for a living person. Let this Daoist novice be hidden inside—then see whether he can exchange him!"
And indeed the little novice was put into the chest, the lid shut, and it was carried down, with the command: "Guess again, monk. What treasure is it this third time?"
"Here we go again!" said Sanzang.
"Let me go take another look," said the Pilgrim. And with a buzz off he flew, squeezed inside, and saw a little Daoist novice.
What a Great Sage! He had resource indeed—such nimble trickery as his is rare under heaven, such quick wit scarce in all the world! He shook himself and changed into the very image of an old Daoist, went into the chest, and called: "Disciple."
The novice said: "Master, where did you come from?"
"I came by the art of escape," said the Pilgrim.
"And what instruction have you come to give me?" asked the novice.
"That monk saw you go into the chest," said the Pilgrim. "If he guesses 'a Daoist novice,' won't he win again? I have come especially to talk it over with you: let's shave your head, and we'll make them guess 'a monk.'"
"As Master pleases," said the novice, "so long as we win. If we lose to him again, it will not only lower our name—I fear the court will no longer hold us in honor."
"Well said. Come here, my son—win this one, and I'll reward you richly." He turned his gold-banded cudgel into a razor, gathered the boy into his arms, and cooed: "There, there—bear the sting, don't cry out, and let me shave your head."
In a moment the hair was shaved off; he wadded it into a ball and stuffed it into a corner of the chest. He put away the razor, patted the boy's bald head, and said: "My son, the head is monkish enough—only the clothes don't match. Take them off, and I'll change them for you."
The novice wore a crane-feather cloak of scallion-white figured silk with embroidered brocade borders. He took it off, and the Pilgrim blew on it a breath of immortal air, cried "Change!"—and it became a yellowish-brown monk's gown, which he put on him.
Then he plucked two more hairs, changed them into a wooden fish clapper, and pressed it into the boy's hand: "Now listen carefully, disciple. If they call 'Daoist novice,' on no account come out. But if they call 'monk,' you push up the lid, beat the wooden fish, and recite a scroll of Buddhist scripture as you crawl out—then the deed will be done."
"I only know the Scripture of the Three Officials, the Scripture of the Northern Dipper, and the Scripture of Dispelling Calamity," said the novice. "I don't know the Buddhist scriptures."
"Can you recite the Buddha's name?" asked the Pilgrim.
"Amituofo—who can't recite that?" said the boy.
"Good enough, good enough," said the Pilgrim. "Just recite the Buddha's name, and spare me teaching you. Remember now. I'm off."
He turned back into the gadfly, squeezed out, and flew to the rim of the Tang monk's ear. "Master, just guess it's a monk."
"This time he'll surely win," said Sanzang.
"How can you be so certain?" asked the Pilgrim.
"The scriptures say," replied Sanzang, "that Buddha, Law, and Monk are the Three Treasures. A monk too is a treasure."
Even as they spoke, the Immortal Tiger Power called out: "Your Majesty, the third time it is a Daoist novice." He called and called, but the boy would not come out.
Sanzang pressed his palms together: "It is a monk."
"It's a monk in the chest!" bawled Bajie at the top of his voice.
At that the novice pushed up the lid, beat the wooden fish, reciting the Buddha's name, and crawled out. The two benches of civil and military officials burst into cheers of delight; the three Daoists stood stricken dumb, unable to utter a word.
"That monk has ghosts and gods to help him!" cried the king. "How is it a Daoist went into the chest and came out a monk? Even if a barber had gone in with him, he could only have shaved the head—how could the clothes have been changed to fit, and the mouth taught to recite the Buddha's name? State Preceptors, let them go!"
"Your Majesty," said the Immortal Tiger Power, "we are, in the end, chess players evenly matched, a general meeting his equal. Let poor Daoist now stake the martial arts I learned as a boy on Mount Zhongnan, and gamble with him once and for all."
"What martial arts?" asked the king.
"We three brothers each have some powers," said Tiger Power. "We can have our heads cut off and put back on; we can be slit open, the heart cut out, and grow whole again; we can bathe in a cauldron of boiling oil."
The king was horrified: "All three of those are roads to death!"
"Only because we have such powers," said the Immortal, "do we dare speak such bold words. We are resolved to gamble with him till it's decided."
The king called out: "Monk of the Eastern Land, my State Preceptor will not let you go—he means to gamble with you at head-cutting and belly-slitting, and bathing in boiling oil!"
The Pilgrim, who had been buzzing to and fro as a gadfly carrying reports, heard this at once, gathered in his hair, resumed his true form, and roared with laughter: "A godsend! A godsend! Business has come to my door!"
"All three of those are ways to lose your life," said Bajie. "What do you mean, business at your door?"
"You still don't know my abilities," said the Pilgrim.
"Brother," said Bajie, "your changes and contortions would already be enough—but you have skills like these too?"
"Me?" said the Pilgrim.
"Cut off my head, I still can speak; Chop off my arms, I still can strike. Skewer my legs, I still can walk; Slit my belly—better yet, a marvel past compare! Like a housewife wrapping dumplings, one pinch and it's whole again. Bathing in an oil cauldron? Easier still— No more than a warm bath to wash off dirt and dust."
At this Bajie and the Sha Monk roared with laughter.
The Pilgrim stepped forward: "Your Majesty, this humble monk knows how to have his head cut off."
"How could you know how to have your head cut off?" asked the king.
"In my years of discipline in the monastery," said the Pilgrim, "I once met a wandering Chan monk who taught me the art of head-cutting. I don't know whether it's any good—let me try it out today and see."
The king laughed: "That monk is young and ignorant. Head-cutting is not something to 'try out'! The head is the chief of the six yang channels—once it's cut off, you die on the spot."
"Your Majesty," said Tiger Power, "that is exactly what we want—only so can we vent our spleen."
The muddled king believed him and at once gave orders to set up the execution ground. One command, and three thousand imperial guards ranked themselves outside the court gate.
The king said: "Monk, go first to be beheaded."
The Pilgrim answered cheerfully: "I'll go first! I'll go first!" With hands clasped he called out loudly: "State Preceptor, forgive my boldness in going ahead of you." Then he swung round his head and strode out.
The Tang monk caught him by the sleeve: "Disciple, be careful—that is no place for play."
"What's to fear?" said the Pilgrim. "Let go, and watch me go and come back."
The Great Sage walked straight into the execution ground, where the executioners seized him, trussed him into a bundle, and pressed him down on the high earthen mound. At the cry of "Strike!"—whish!—the head was struck off, and an executioner gave it a kick, and away it rolled like a watermelon, three or four dozen paces away.
Not a drop of blood came from the Pilgrim's trunk. One only heard a voice inside his belly calling: "Head, come here!"
The Immortal Deer Power, alarmed at such powers, hastily recited a spell and commanded the local deities of the ward: "Hold fast that head! When I have beaten the monk, I will memorialize the king to build your little shrine into a great temple, and your clay image shall be recast in solid gold."
Now those local deities, because he had mastered the Thunder Magic of the Five Thunders, obeyed his summons, and in secret they truly pinned down the Pilgrim's head.
Again the Pilgrim called: "Head, come here!" But the head seemed rooted fast—it would not budge. The Pilgrim grew impatient; he clenched his fists, gave one mighty heave, snapped every rope that bound him, and shouted: "Grow!" And—whish!—a head grew out of his trunk. The executioners were struck dumb with terror, and every one of the imperial guards shook in his boots. The supervising officer rushed into court and memorialized: "Long live the sovereign! The little monk had his head cut off, and he has grown another one!"
Bajie snickered: "Sha Monk, who knew our brother had tricks like that?"
"He has seventy-two transformations," said the Sha Monk, "so he has seventy-two heads."
Hardly were the words out when the Pilgrim came walking up, calling: "Master!"
The Tang monk was overjoyed: "Disciple, was it hard on you?"
"Not hard at all," said the Pilgrim. "Rather good fun."
"Brother," asked Bajie, "do you need any salve for the wound?"
"Just feel and see— is there any scar?" The blockhead reached out and touched, then laughed till his eyes stood staring: "Marvelous! Marvelous! Grown back as good as ever—not so much as a mark of the cut!"
While the brothers were all rejoicing, they heard the king call for the travel permit to be brought: "You are pardoned! Be off! Be off!"
"The permit we have received," said the Pilgrim, "but the State Preceptor must also go to the execution ground and have his head cut—a little trying-out of the new for him as well."
"Great State Preceptor," said the king, "that monk will not let you off either. You gambled with him—don't frighten me now."
Tiger Power had no choice but to go. The executioners threw him down and trussed him too; a flash of the blade, and his head was struck off, given a kick, and sent rolling some thirty paces. From his trunk came no blood either, and he too called out: "Head, come here!"
At once the Pilgrim plucked a hair, blew on it a breath of immortal air, cried "Change!"—and it became a yellow dog, which ran into the arena, snatched up the Daoist's head in its jaws, trotted straight to the bank of the imperial river, dropped it in, and away.
Now the Daoist called three times, but the head did not come—and how could he match the Pilgrim's art and grow a new one? From his trunk the red gore spurted and bubbled. Pitiful indeed!
In vain he had the arts of summoning rain and calling the wind— How could they match the true immortal of the fruit of everlasting life?
In a moment he toppled into the dust, and when the crowd looked, there lay a yellow-haired tiger without a head.
The supervising officer came again to memorialize: "Long live the sovereign! The Great State Preceptor's head was cut off and could not grow back; he has died in the dust—and he is a yellow-haired tiger without a head!"
The king, hearing this, turned pale with horror, his eyes fixed unblinking on the two remaining Daoists.
The Immortal Deer Power rose: "My elder brother's fate and stipend had simply run out—but how could he be a yellow tiger! It is that scoundrelly monk playing his deceiving tricks, who has turned my brother into a beast! I will never forgive him now. I am determined to gamble with him at slitting the belly and cutting out the heart!"
At this the king pulled himself together and called again: "That monk! The Second State Preceptor wants another gamble with you."
"This humble monk has long gone without cooked food," said the Pilgrim. "Coming west the other day, I met a layman's household pressing food on me, and I ate a few too many steamed buns. These past days my belly has been aching—perhaps there are worms in it. I was just wishing to borrow Your Majesty's knife, open my belly, take out my innards, and give my spleen and stomach a good washing—then I can go up to the Western Heaven and see the Buddha."
Hearing this, the king gave orders: "Take him to the execution ground." And a great crowd came hauling and dragging him along.
The Pilgrim wrenched his arms free: "No need for anyone to haul me—I'll walk there myself. Only one thing: my hands must not be bound, for I need them to wash my innards."
The king sent down the command: "Do not bind his hands."
Swaying and swaggering, the Pilgrim walked straight into the execution ground, leaned his body against the great post, untied his sash, and bared his belly. The executioners looped one rope around his neck and bound his legs with another; then, with a short ox-ear knife, one flourish, one slash beneath the belly—a hole was opened.
The Pilgrim spread open his belly with both hands, took out his own innards, and passed a long while sorting them through, one strip at a time; then he set them back inside, coiled them as they had been, pinched the belly together, blew on it a breath of immortal air, cried "Grow!"—and it grew whole again.
The king was appalled. He took the travel permit in both hands and said: "Holy monk, do not delay your journey west—here is your permit; be off."
The Pilgrim laughed: "The permit is a small matter. Shouldn't the Second State Preceptor also have a little slitting and cutting, eh?"
The king turned to Deer Power: "This is none of my doing—you were the one who insisted on crossing him. Go, pray, go."
"Rest easy," said Deer Power. "I am certain I shall not lose to him."
And watch him: just like the Great Sage Sun, swaying and swaggering, he walked into the execution ground. The executioners roped him, and with a swish of the ox-ear knife they slit his belly open; he too took out his liver and innards and fondled them with his hands.
At once the Pilgrim plucked a hair, blew on it a breath of immortal air, cried "Change!"—and it became a hungry eagle, which spread its wings and talons, swooped—whish!—and snatched away the whole of his five viscera and his heart and liver, and flew off who knows where to enjoy them. And the Daoist was left a dripping ghost with an empty trunk and a broken belly, a wandering soul without innards or guts. The executioners kicked down the great post and dragged the body over to look—why! It was a white-haired antlered deer!
The supervising officer rushed back in a panic to memorialize: "Long live the sovereign! The Second State Preceptor has met with misfortune. Just as his belly was opened, a hungry eagle snatched away all his viscera, liver, and innards. He is dead there—his true form was a white-haired antlered deer."
The king shook with fear: "How could he be an antlered deer?"
Then the Immortal Antelope Power memorialized: "My elder brother being dead, how could his beast form show itself? It is that monk working his magic arts to destroy us. Let me avenge my brothers!"
"And what power have you to beat him?" asked the king.
"I will gamble with him at bathing in a boiling-oil cauldron," said Antelope Power.
The king ordered a great cauldron brought and filled with fragrant oil, and told the two to gamble.
"Much obliged for the invitation," said the Pilgrim. "This humble monk has not had a bath for some time—these last few days my skin has been dry and itchy. A good hot soak is just what I need."
The officer of the carriage set up the cauldron, stacked the dry firewood beneath, lit a roaring blaze, brought the oil to a rolling boil, and bade the monk go down first.
The Pilgrim pressed his palms together: "A civil bath, or a military one?"
"What is a civil bath? What is a military one?" asked the king.
"In a civil bath, you keep your clothes on. Like this—with arms folded, down you go, one roll over, and up you come; and the clothes must not be stained—if there is so much as a spot of grease, you lose. In a military bath, you bring a clothes-rack and a towel, strip off, leap in, and turn somersaults and stand on your hands to your heart's content, washing as you play."
The king asked Antelope Power: "Which will you have with him—civil or military?"
"Civil might be dangerous," said Antelope Power, "for his clothes may be treated with drugs that repel the oil. Let it be military."
The Pilgrim stepped forward once more: "Forgive my boldness in going first again."
Watch him: off with his cloth gown, off with his tiger-skin kilt; one spring, and he leapt into the cauldron, splashing and wallowing through the waves like a sporting porpoise.
When Bajie saw this, he bit his finger and said to the Sha Monk: "We did wrong to judge this monkey! All this time we've needled him and teased him for fun—who knew he had such genuine abilities!"
The two of them murmured together, praising him without end.
The Pilgrim caught sight of them and grew suspicious: "That blockhead is laughing at me! It's ever the way—the skillful toil while the clumsy idle. Here's old Sun dancing and plunging, and he takes his ease. Let me fix him up with a good scare."
So, right in the middle of his bath, he flicked a splash of oil, ducked down to the bottom of the cauldron, changed into a date-pit nail, and stayed there, never coming up.
The supervising officer came near and memorialized again: "Long live the sovereign! The little monk has been boiled to death in the oil!"
The king was overjoyed and ordered the bones fished up to be examined. The executioners took an iron strainer and scooped about in the cauldron—but the strainer's mesh was wide, and the Pilgrim had made himself a tiny nail, and to and fro he slipped through the holes and down again. How could they scoop him up?
Again the officer memorialized: "The monk's body was small and his bones tender—they have boiled away to nothing."
The king commanded: "Throw the other three monks into the cauldron!" The guards on either side, seeing that Bajie looked the fiercest, seized and toppled him first and bound his arms behind his back. The Tang monk cried out in alarm: "Your Majesty, grant this poor monk a moment! That disciple of mine, since he turned to the faith, has rendered service at every turn. Today he offended the State Preceptor and died in the cauldron of oil. But the first to die becomes a spirit—how dare I, a poor monk, cling to life? Truly, the officials of all the world govern the people of all the world; if Your Majesty commands his subject to die, how dare the subject not die? I ask only this grace: grant me half a cup of cold rice-water and three sheets of paper money, and let me go to the side of the cauldron and burn this offering for him, to show the single-hearted devotion of master and disciple—then I shall come back and receive my punishment."
Hearing this, the king said: "So be it. Men of the Middle Kingdom have indeed a sense of honor." He ordered rice-water and paper money brought and given to the Tang monk.
When they were brought, the Tang monk asked the Sha Monk to go along. As they walked down below the steps, a few guards had Bajie by the ears, dragging him to the side of the cauldron. Sanzang faced the cauldron and pronounced this prayer:
"Disciple Sun Wukong! From the day you took the precepts in the Chan grove, You guarded me westward, deep in love and kindness. I hoped we both would gain the Great Way at one time— Who could have thought that you today would go down to the shades! In life you thought of nothing but the quest for scriptures; In death, still keep a heart that chants the Buddha's name. Heroic spirit, wait for me across the ten thousand li— As a ghost in the netherworld, I'll climb with you to the Thunderclap!"
Bajie heard him. "Master, that's no way to pray. Sha Monk, you pour the rice-water for me—let me do the praying." And the blockhead, bound on the ground, gasped out furiously:
"Trouble-making rotten monkey! Ignorant Protector of Horses! Death-deserving rotten monkey! Boiled-in-oil Protector of Horses! The monkey's done for—and the Horse-Protector's line is at an end!"
Sun the Pilgrim, at the bottom of the cauldron, heard the blockhead railing away, and he could not help himself: he resumed his true form, stark and dripping, and stood up at the bottom of the cauldron, shouting: "You lousy, hog-swill guzzler! Who are you cursing?"
The Tang monk saw him and cried: "Disciple, you've frightened me to death!"
"Big Brother is used to playing dead and getting off clean," said the Sha Monk.
The two benches of civil and military officials rushed forward in alarm to memorialize: "Long live the sovereign! The monk is not dead—he has come up out of the oil cauldron again!"
The supervising officer, dreading a charge of deceiving the court, memorialized once more: "Dead he is—but the day was ill-omened, and the little monk's ghost has come back to show itself."
At this the Pilgrim flared up in a fury, leapt out of the cauldron, wiped off the grease, put on his clothes, whipped out his cudgel, seized the supervising officer, and with one blow on the head beat him into a lump of meat. "What ghost has come to show itself!" he roared.
The officials, terrified, hastily untied Bajie and fell to their knees begging: "Spare us! Spare us!" The king came down from his throne.
The Pilgrim mounted the hall and caught hold of him: "Your Majesty need not run. First let your Third State Preceptor take a turn in the oil cauldron too."
The emperor trembled from head to foot: "Third State Preceptor, save my life—get into the cauldron quickly, before that monk beats me!"
Antelope Power came down from the hall, stripped just as the Pilgrim had done, leapt into the cauldron, and splashed and wallowed there in the same style. The Pilgrim let go of the king, went near the cauldron, and called to the fire-tenders to feed the fire; then he reached in a hand to test the oil—and oh! The boiling oil was ice-cold. He thought to himself: "When I bathed, it was boiling hot; when he bathes, it's cold. I understand—some Dragon King must be down there protecting him."
He sprang up into the air, recited the syllable "Om," and summoned the Dragon King of the Northern Sea. "You antlered earthworm! You scaly mudfish! How dare you help the Daoist with a cold dragon to guard the bottom of the cauldron, to let him show his sainthood and beat me!"
The Dragon King quailed and bowed again and again: "Aoshun would never dare lend such help. Great Sage, you do not know: this wicked beast did bitterly cultivate for a lifetime and shed his mortal shell, but only the Thunder Magic of the Five Thunders did he truly receive; all the rest he picked up from heretical byways, and so he could not return to the immortal Way. This cold dragon was an art he learned on Little Maoshan. The other two had their magic broken by you, Great Sage, and showed their true forms; this one's cold dragon is of his own refining—good enough to fool the worldly crowd, but how could it deceive the Great Sage? This little dragon will now take away his cold dragon, and I promise you his bones will crack and his hide will scorch—what powers will he show then?"
"Do it at once," said the Pilgrim, "and spare yourself a beating!"
The Dragon King turned into a whirlwind, swept to the side of the cauldron, seized the cold dragon, and carried it down to the sea.
The Pilgrim came down and stood before the hall with Sanzang, Bajie, and the Sha Monk, and they watched the Daoist thrashing in the boiling oil, unable to climb out; he slipped and fell, and in an instant his bones came loose, his skin scorched, his flesh boiled to rags.
The supervising officer came once more to memorialize: "Long live the sovereign! The Third State Preceptor has boiled away to nothing."
The king's eyes brimmed with tears. He beat his hands upon the imperial desk and wept aloud:
"A human body is hard to win, and hard indeed— Without the true transmission, refine no elixir! In vain he had spells to summon gods and charm the water, Yet lacked the pill that lengthens life and keeps one whole. Round brightness, merged and murky—how could he reach nirvana? He wore out his cunning, and his life found no repose. Had he known how lightly he would come to grief, Better to have eaten secret simples and lived quiet in the hills!"
And this was truly the truth of it:
What use to gild the lead and quicken mercury? Wind-summoning, rain-calling—all of it is emptiness!
But how master and disciples fared after this—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.