The story continues: the king leaned upon the dragon couch, tears gushing like a spring, and he wept on and on till evening fell without cease.
The Pilgrim stepped forward and called out in a loud voice: "What a muddle-headed wretch you are! There lie the Daoists' carcasses before your eyes—one a tiger, one a deer, and Antelope Power was an antelope. If you don't believe it, have the bones fished up and looked at—since when did a man have a skeleton like that? They were mountain beasts turned spirits, who banded together to come here and destroy you. Seeing that your vital star still burned strong, they did not dare strike. Two more years, and when your vital power waned, they would have taken your life and swallowed your whole kingdom in one gulp. It was our good fortune that we came in time, destroyed the demons, and saved your life. What are you crying for? What are you crying for! Hand over the travel permit quickly and send us on our way."
At this the king finally came to his senses.
The civil and military officials all memorialized: "The dead are indeed a white deer and a yellow tiger, and in the cauldron are truly the bones of an antelope. The holy monk's words must not be disregarded."
"Since it is so," said the king, "our thanks to the holy monk. It is late in the day—let the master of ceremonies escort the holy monks to the Monastery of the Deep of Wisdom. Tomorrow at early court we shall open wide the Eastern Pavilion and have the Court of Imperial Entertainments prepare a pure vegetarian feast in thanks." And indeed he saw them to the monastery to rest.
The next day at the fifth watch the king held court, assembled his officials, and issued a decree: "Post the placard summoning the monks, and hang it at every gate and on every road." Meanwhile a great feast was laid, and the king came in state from the court to the gate of the Monastery of the Deep of Wisdom, invited Sanzang and the others, and went with them into the Eastern Pavilion to the banquet—of this no more need be said.
Now those monks who had escaped with their lives, hearing of the placard summoning monks, came gladly, every one of them, into the city to find the Great Sage Sun, return the hairs, and give thanks. When the elder had left the banquet, the king exchanged the travel permit, and with the queen, the consorts, and the two benches of civil and military officials, escorted them out the court gate.
There were the monks kneeling in worship by the roadside, crying: "Lord Great Sage Equal to Heaven! We are the monks who escaped with our lives from the sand terraces. We have learned how Your Lordship swept away the demons and delivered us, and how our king has posted a placard summoning monks back. We have come especially to return the hairs and bow our thanks for this heavenly grace."
The Pilgrim laughed: "And how many of you have come?"
"Five hundred," said the monks, "not half a one missing."
The Pilgrim shook his body and gathered in the hairs. Then he said to the king, the officials, the monks, and the crowd: "These monks were set free by old Sun; the carts it was old Sun who smashed, working the double pass and boring through the spine; and those two demon Daoists it was old Sun who killed. Today the demons are destroyed—now you know that the gate of Chan has the Way. Never again give way to wild doings and blind faith. I hope you will unite the three teachings in one: honor the monks, honor the Daoists too, and nurture men of talent, and I will guarantee your kingdom everlasting." The king heeded his words and thanked him without end, and so escorted the Tang monk out of the city.
This journey of theirs was truly:
Only through devotion did they lead Sanzang west, Striving and cultivating to glorify the One Primal. Traveling at dawn, resting at night, Drinking when thirsty, eating when hungry— Unnoticed, spring ended and summer waned, And once again it was the season of autumn light.
One day, as the sky was darkening, the Tang monk reined in his horse and said: "Disciples, where shall we lodge this night?"
"Master," said the Pilgrim, "a man who has left the world should not talk like a man of the household."
"How so for the householder? How so for the monk?" asked Sanzang.
"For the householder," said the Pilgrim, "this is the hour of warm bed and snug quilt, a child in his arms and a wife kicking at his feet, sleeping snug and free from care. But for us who have left the world—no such luck! We must fare by moonlight and lie beneath the stars, feed on the wind and lodge by the waters; while there is road, we walk, and only when there is no road do we stop."
"Brother," said Bajie, "you know only the first of it, not the second. The road these days is steep and perilous, and I'm carrying a heavy load—it's truly hard going. We ought to find some place to sleep a good sleep and mend our spirits, so that tomorrow I can bear the load again; otherwise won't I be carried off my feet?"
"Let's walk another stretch by moonlight," said the Pilgrim, "and stop wherever there are households."
Master and disciples had no choice but to follow the Pilgrim on.
They had gone only a little way when they heard the roar of surging waters.
"It's over!" cried Bajie. "We've come to the end of the road!"
"It's a body of water blocking the way," said the Sha Monk.
"However are we to get across?" asked the Tang monk.
"Let me test it," said Bajie, "and see how deep it is."
"Wuneng, no nonsense," said Sanzang. "How can you test the depth of water?"
"Find a goose-egg stone and throw it in the middle. If it splashes up bubbles, it's shallow; if it sinks with a gulping sound, it's deep."
"Go and try," said the Pilgrim.
The blockhead groped about by the roadside, found a rough stone, and hurled it into the water. They heard it gulp and bubble—fish-weed frothed up—and it sank to the bottom.
"Deep! Deep! Deep!" he said. "We can't cross!"
"You may have tested the depth," said the Tang monk, "but you don't know how wide it is."
"That I don't know," said Bajie. "Truly I don't."
"Let me take a look," said the Pilgrim.
What a Great Sage! He leapt upon his somersault cloud, sprang into the air, and fixed his gaze to look. And this is what he saw:
Vast, its gleaming light steeped in moonlight; Boundless, its shadow bearing up the sky. A numinous stream that swallows Mount Hua, A long flow threading through a hundred rivers. A thousand tiers of surging waves roll, Ten thousand folds of towering billows toss. No fisher-fire at the river mouth, But egrets sleeping on the sand—
A wild blur, just like the sea, One gaze, and still no farther shore.
Hastily he drew in his cloud and dropped down by the riverside. "Master, it's wide! Wide! We can't cross! With old Sun's fiery eyes and golden pupils I can see a thousand li by day, and tell good luck from bad; even at night I can see three or five hundred li. And now I can't see the far bank at all—how am I to reckon its width?"
Sanzang was appalled; his voice choked and he could not speak. "Disciple," he managed, "what are we to do?"
"Master, don't weep," said the Sha Monk. "Look—what's that standing by the water's edge? Isn't it a person?"
"Some fisherman working his lift-net, I suppose," said the Pilgrim. "Let me go ask him."
Taking his iron cudgel, he ran the two or three steps to the spot and looked—why! It was no person, but a stone tablet. On it were three great characters in seal script, and beneath, two lines of ten smaller characters.
The three great characters were "The Heaven-Reaching River." The ten small characters read: "Eight hundred li across; since antiquity few men have crossed."
"Master," called the Pilgrim, "come and look."
When Sanzang saw it, tears fell. "Disciple," he said, "when I left Chang'an years ago, I thought the Western Heaven an easy road—who knew there would be demons to bar the way, and mountains and rivers so far and long!"
"Master, listen," said Bajie. "Isn't that the sound of drums and cymbals? It must be some household holding a service. Let's go share some food, ask the way to a ferry, and cross tomorrow."
The Tang monk listened from horseback, and indeed there was the sound of drums and cymbals. "Those are no Daoist instruments—they must be our own Buddhist folk performing a service. Let us go."
With the Pilgrim leading the horse in front, the whole company followed the sound. There was no proper road at all; up hill and down dale they crossed the sand flats, until they saw a cluster of dwellings—four or five hundred households or so—and a well-settled place it was:
Homes leaned on hills beside the thoroughfare, Close by the bank, overlooking the stream. Everywhere brushwood doors were shut, Every house its bamboo courtyard closed. On the sand, roosting egrets dreamed clear dreams; Beyond the willows, the crying cuckoo's throat was cold. The short flute was silent, the cold washing-blocks tuneless. Red smartweed branches swayed in the moonlight, Yellow reed leaves wrestled with the wind. At the lane's end, village dogs barked at sparse hedges; At the ferry, an old fisherman slept in his boat. Lamplight sparse, all human stillness still— In mid-sky the bright moon hung like a mirror. Suddenly a breath of white-clover fragrance— The west wind, blowing it across the stream.
The Tang monk dismounted. At the head of the lane stood a household, a banner-pennant raised outside the door, lights and candles glowing within, and rich incense wreathing the air.
"Wukong," said Sanzang, "this place is not like the mountain hollows and riverbanks. Under the eaves of men we can shelter from the cold dew and sleep at ease. Do not any of you come with me—let me first go beg at the door of the patron's house. If they will take us in, I'll call you; if they will not, you must not play the ruffian. With faces as ugly as yours, I fear you'd frighten them and stir up trouble, and then we'd have no lodging at all."
"Well said," said the Pilgrim. "Master, go ahead; we'll wait here."
Only then did the elder remove his bamboo hat, bareheaded, shake out his patchwork robe, and leaning on his ringed staff, walk straight to the door of the house. He saw the door half open, half shut, and Sanzang dared not enter unbidden.
He stood waiting a little while, when out of the house came an old man, a rosary at his neck, mumbling "Amituofo" as he came to shut the door. In a flurry the elder pressed his palms together and called out: "Old patron, this poor monk salutes you."
The old man returned the greeting: "You've come too late, monk."
"What do you mean?" asked Sanzang.
"Too late, and there's nothing left," said the old man. "Had you come earlier, we were feeding monks at our humble house—all you could eat, three sheng of cooked rice, a length of white cloth, ten coppers. Why do you come only now?"
The old man bowed. "Old patron, this poor monk is not chasing free meals."
"If not chasing meals, what brings you here?" asked the old man.
"I am an envoy of the great Tang of the Eastern Land, sent to fetch scriptures in the Western Heaven. Coming to your honored place, I found the sky growing late, and hearing the sound of drums and cymbals at your mansion, I came specially to beg a night's lodging—we leave at dawn."
The old man waved his hand: "Monk, a man of religion should not lie. From the Eastern Land of the great Tang to my house is fifty-four thousand li. How could you come so far alone?"
"What you say is most true, old patron," said Sanzang, "but I have three little disciples, who cut roads through mountains and build bridges over waters to protect this poor monk—only so have we managed to arrive."
"Since you have disciples, why didn't they come too? Pray come in, come in—we have room to lodge at my humble house."
Sanzang turned and called: "Disciples, come here."
Now the Pilgrim was impatient by nature, Bajie had been born coarse, and the Sha Monk was headlong too. At their master's call the three of them, leading the horse and shouldering the load, burst in like a gust of wind, asking neither what nor how.
At the sight of them the old man toppled over in terror, crying: "Demons! Demons!"
Sanzang raised him up: "Patron, don't be afraid. They're not demons—they're my disciples."
"Such a fine handsome master," the old man quavered, "how did you ever pick such ugly disciples!"
"Ugly their faces may be," said Sanzang, "but they can subdue dragons and tame tigers, catch monsters and capture demons."
Half believing, half doubting, the old man leaned on the Tang monk and walked slowly in.
Now those three fierce ruffians had barged into the main hall, tied up the horse, and dropped the luggage.
In the hall a number of monks were chanting scripture. Bajie cupped his long snout and bawled: "You monks! What scripture are you chanting?"
The monks heard the question and looked up suddenly at the newcomers—what a sight:
Long snouts and ears immense, Bodies coarse and shoulders broad, Voices resounding like thunderclaps. The Pilgrim and the Sha Monk were uglier still. In the hall, however many monks, There was not one but was afraid. The acolyte still chanting scripture, The deacon told him to stop. They could not look to chime or bell, The Buddha's image too was left behind. Together they blew out the lights, And the bright hall went dark in an instant. Tumbling, stumbling, crawling, sprawling— Over the threshold, never a glance! Head butting head, like a collapsing gourd-trellis. A clean and solemn service Turned all at once to a roaring farce.
Seeing those people tumble and sprawl, the three brothers clapped their hands and roared with laughter. The monks grew only more terrified; they knocked their heads and scrambled, each looking to his own life, and every one of them ran off clean away. Sanzang supported the old man up into the hall. Not a lamp was lit, and the three were still hooting and giggling.
The Tang monk cursed them: "You wicked creatures, utterly without goodness! Morning after morning I instruct you, day after day I admonish you. The ancients said: to be good without teaching—what is that but a sage? To be good after teaching—what is that but a worthy? To be taught and still not be good—what is that but a fool? Ruffians like you are the lowest of the low, fools of fools! You walk in a door without knowing high from low, frightened the old patron half to death, scattered the chanting monks, and ruined a household's good deed—is that not heaping sin upon me?"
He scolded them till they dared not answer.
Only then did the old man believe they were his disciples. He turned hastily and bowed: "My lord, it's nothing, nothing. We had just closed the lamps and scattered the flowers—the service was nearly done."
"Since it's finished," said Bajie, "lay out the closing feast, and we'll eat and go to sleep."
"Bring a light! Bring a light!" the old man called.
The household folk heard and marveled: "There were plenty of candles and incense for the chanting in the hall—why call for lights?" When several servants came out to look, the hall was pitch dark; they lit torches and lanterns and crowded in. Looking up suddenly and seeing Bajie and the Sha Monk, they dropped their torches in fright, whipped around, shut the inner door, and ran inside bawling: "Demons! Demons!"
The Pilgrim picked up a torch, lit the lamps and candles, dragged over a folding chair, and asked the Tang monk to sit in the place of honor, his brothers on either side, and the old man in front of them.
As they were settling into their seats, they heard a door open within, and out came another old man, leaning on a staff: "What evil demon comes by night to the house of a virtuous family?"
The old man seated in front rose hastily and met him behind the screen-door: "Elder brother, no shouting. It's no demon—it's an arhat fetching scriptures from the Eastern Land of the great Tang. Fierce as his disciples' faces are, it's truly a case of harsh looks and kindly hearts."
Only then did that old man set down his staff and bow to the four of them.
After the greetings, he too sat down facing them and called: "Bring tea! Lay out the food!" He called several times, but the servants, trembling, dared not come near.
Bajie could not hold back: "Old sir, why are your good fellows keeping to the walls?"
"I told them to bring food to wait upon your lordships," said the old man.
"How many will serve?" asked Bajie.
"Eight," said the old man.
"Eight to serve whom?"
"To serve you four."
"Now, that white-faced master there needs only one; the hairy-faced fellow with the Thunder-God beak, two will do; the dismal-faced one, eight; but for me, it'll take twenty men to serve me properly."
"That being so, I suppose your belly is somewhat larger than most," said the old man.
"You could say it passes inspection," said Bajie.
"Men we have, men we have," said the old man. Calling big and little, he summoned out thirty or forty of them.
With the monk and the old man talking, question and answer, the crowd finally lost their fear. They set one table at the head and asked the Tang monk to sit above; three tables on either side for the three disciples; and one table in front, where the two old men sat. First they laid out fruits and vegetables, then noodles and rice, pastries and vermicelli soup, all arrayed in neat order. The Tang elder lifted his chopsticks and first recited a scroll of the Sutra of Opening the Fast.
Now the blockhead was of a hasty swallow to begin with, and hungry besides; there was no waiting for the Tang monk to finish the sutra. He seized a red-lacquered wooden bowl, and with a gulp he dumped a whole bowl of white rice down his throat—done.
A servant boy standing near said: "This lord has no sense at all. Didn't he even tuck the bowl under his robe? He dumped it straight down—what if he stains his clothes?"
Bajie laughed: "Didn't tuck it. Ate it."
"You never lifted it to your mouth—how could you have eaten it?" said the boy.
"You whelps would call me a liar! I ate it, plain as day. If you don't believe me, I'll eat another to show you." The little servants brought another bowl, filled it with rice, and handed it to Bajie. One flourish of the blockhead, and down it went—done.
The servants, watching, cried: "Lord above! Your throat must be paved with polished brick—so smooth and slick indeed!"
Before the Tang monk had finished one scroll of scripture, five or six bowls had passed through him. Only then did they all raise their chopsticks and eat the meal together. The blockhead, rice or noodles, fruits or pastries, just raked it all in, in one greedy jumble, bawling all the while: "More rice! More rice!"—and gradually the dishes stopped coming.
"Good brother," called the Pilgrim, "eat a little less. Better than going hungry in a mountain hollow—make do with half-full and be content."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Bajie. "As the common saying goes: to feed a monk till he's not full is worse than burying him alive!"
"Clear away the dishes," said the Pilgrim, "and pay him no mind."
The two old men bowed and said: "We'll not hide it from your lordships. By day we'd not have worried—even big-bellied elders like this one, we could feed a hundred or more. But it is late; we had put away the leftover feast and steamed only one dan of wheat rice and five dou of rice with a few tables of vegetarian dishes, meaning to ask in some relatives and neighbors and the monks to share the blessings. We never looked for your lordships to arrive, and the monks were frightened off, and we never dared invite the neighbors—so we have set it all before your lordships. If you are not full, we shall steam some more."
"Steam more! Steam more!" cried Bajie.
When the words were done and the dishes and tables cleared, Sanzang bowed in thanks for the meal, then asked: "Old patron, may I ask your honored surname?"
"My surname is Chen," said the old man.
Sanzang pressed his palms together: "Then we are of the same clan, this poor monk and you."
"Your lordship's surname is Chen too?" asked the old man.
"It is. My family name at home was also Chen. And may I ask what service you were just performing?"
"Master, why ask him!" laughed Bajie. "As if we didn't know. It must be a Green Shoots service, or a Peace service, or a Harvest-End service—nothing more."
"No, no," said the old man.
"What was it, then?" asked Sanzang again.
"It was a pre-mortem service for the dead," said the old man.
Bajie laughed himself off his seat: "Grandpa, you've no eye for a lie! We're great kings who tell lies and build bridges to gull people—but you'd gull us with this one! Monks as we are, don't we know services? There is a pre-mortem Depositing service and a pre-mortem Repaying service—but where was there ever a pre-mortem service for the dead? Nobody in your family has died—what service for the dead would you hold?"
Hearing this, the Pilgrim was secretly pleased: "This blockhead has grown a bit shrewd. Old grandpa, you've misspoken—how can there be a pre-mortem service for the dead?"
The two old men rose from their seats: "You who go to fetch scriptures—why do you not walk the main road, but come splashing into my house?"
"We did walk the main road," said the Pilgrim, "but a body of water blocked us and we could not cross. Hearing the sound of drums and cymbals, we came to your honored mansion to beg a night's lodging."
"When you reached the water, did you see anything?" asked the old man.
"Only a stone tablet," said the Pilgrim. "On it, three characters reading 'The Heaven-Reaching River,' and beneath, ten characters: 'Eight hundred li across; since antiquity few men have crossed.' Nothing else."
"Go a little farther up the bank—only a li or so from the tablet—and there is a temple of the Great King Inspiration. Did you not see it?"
"We did not. Pray, grandpa, tell us: what is this 'Inspiration'?"
The two old men together shed tears: "Your lordship! That king:
His powers felt through all the region, temples raised; His dread majesty for a thousand li guards the folk. Year upon year on our manor he rains sweet dew; Season upon season in our village auspicious clouds descend."
"If he sends sweet rains and drops auspicious clouds, that sounds well enough," said the Pilgrim. "Why then are you so grieved and troubled?"
The old men stamped their feet and beat their breasts, groaning: "Your lordship! Though his bounty is great, there's a grudge in it; though he's merciful and kind, he maims. It's all because he demands to eat young boys and girls—he is no bright, upright, honest god!"
"He demands to eat young boys and girls?" said the Pilgrim.
"Just so," said the old man.
"Then I suppose the turn has come round to your house?"
"This year it is exactly our household's turn. Some hundred families live hereabouts. This place belongs to Yuanhui County of the Kingdom of Chechi, and is called the Village of Chen. This Great King holds a sacrifice once a year: he demands a young boy and a young girl, with pigs and sheep and sweet wine offered up. If he eats them in one meal, he guarantees us mild winds and timely rains; if we fail to sacrifice, he comes down and brings calamity and disaster."
"And how many fine sons has your household?" asked the Pilgrim.
The old man beat his breast: "Alas, alas! Speak not of fine sons—it shames us to death! This is my younger brother, named Chen Qing; I, the old fool, am called Chen Cheng. I am sixty-three this year, he fifty-eight, and children have come hard to us both. At fifty I still had no son. My relatives urged me to take a concubine, and there was nothing for it but to get one—and she bore a daughter, just turned eight this year, named Yichengjin—'A Scales-ful of Gold.'"
"A costly name!" said Bajie. "Why 'A Scales-ful of Gold'?"
"Because children came hard to me," said the old man, "I mended bridges and repaired roads, built temples and raised pagodas, gave alms and fed monks—there is a ledger of it all: here three taels, there five taels. By the year this daughter was born, I had spent a full thirty catties of gold. Thirty catties makes one scales-ful—hence she is called Yichengjin."
"And the boy is whose son?" asked the Pilgrim.
"My brother has a son, also born of a side chamber, seven years old this year, named Chen Guanbao."
"Why was he given that name?" asked the Pilgrim.
"Our household worships the Lord Lord Guan. Because this son was prayed for under the altar of Lord Guan, he was named Guanbao—'Guan's Protection.' The two of us brothers, our years adding up to a hundred and twenty, have only these two seedlings. And now, unluckily, the sacrifice has come round by turns to our houses—so we dare not withhold the offering. Hence this father's love that cannot be cut, cannot be let go: we first perform for the children a service of transcendence for the dead—and that is why we called it a pre-mortem service for the dead."
When Sanzang heard this, the tears rolled down his cheeks without check. "Truly as the ancients said: the yellow plums do not fall, but the green plums fall—old Heaven spitefully harms those who have no sons."
The Pilgrim laughed: "Let me ask him more. Old grandpa, what property has your house?"
"A fair amount," said the two old men. "Forty or fifty qing of paddy fields, sixty or seventy qing of dry fields, eighty or ninety pasture meadows, two or three hundred water buffaloes and yellow oxen, thirty-odd donkeys and horses, and pigs, sheep, chickens, and geese beyond counting. At our house there is grain we cannot eat up and clothes we cannot wear out—our family wealth and estate will bear counting."
"With such an estate," said the Pilgrim, "it shows how thrifty you must have been."
"How so, thrifty?" asked the old man.
"With property like this, how could you bear to sacrifice your own flesh and blood? Throw down fifty taels of silver and you can buy a young boy; throw down a hundred taels and you can buy a young girl—expenses all told no more than two hundred taels—and so keep your own children, your own posterity. Wouldn't that be better?"
The two old men wept: "Your lordship, you don't understand. That Great King is truly inspired—he comes walking among our houses."
"When he comes walking, have you seen his face? How tall is he?"
"Never his shape have we seen—only a fragrant wind comes blowing, and we know the Great King's lordship has arrived. At once we fill the measure and burn incense, old and young bowing to the wind. Every matter in our households, down to spoon and bowl, he knows; the years and months of every birth, old and young, he remembers. Only our own true-born children will he accept and enjoy. Never mind that two or three hundred taels could buy no such child—for thousands upon thousands of taels you could nowhere buy children of the very same age and birth-month, exactly alike."
"So that's how it is," said the Pilgrim. "Very well, very well. Bring your fine son out and let me have a look."
Chen Qing hurried inside and carried little Guanbao out into the hall, setting him before the lamp. The little child, knowing nothing of life or death, tucked fruit into both sleeves, hopping and dancing as he ate and played.
When the Pilgrim saw him, he silently recited a spell, shook his body, and changed into the very image of little Guanbao. The two children, hand in hand, danced together before the lamp. The old man, frightened out of his wits, fell on his knees before the Tang monk: "My lord, sin and shame! Sin and shame! This lord was only just speaking—how has he become the very image of my son? Call, and both answer together; walk, and both walk together! It cuts the years from our lives! Pray show your true form! Pray show your true form!"
The Pilgrim wiped his face with one hand and showed his true form. The old man knelt before him: "So your lordship has arts like these!"
"Was I like your son?" asked the Pilgrim with a laugh.
"Like! Like! Like! The very same face, the very same voice, the very same clothes, the very same height!"
"And you haven't looked closely yet," said the Pilgrim. "Fetch the scales and weigh me—am I his very weight?"
"Yes, yes, yes," said the old man, "the very same weight."
"Then will I do for the sacrifice?"
"Excellent, excellent! You'll serve for the sacrifice!"
"This day I'll take this child's place, and keep the incense of your family line burning; I'll go and be sacrificed to that Great King."
Chen Qing fell to his knees and kowtowed: "If your lordship in mercy truly takes his place, I will give a thousand taels of white silver for Lord Tang's traveling expenses to the Western Heaven."
"And no thanks for old Sun?" said the Pilgrim.
"You've taken the boy's place—then you are lost to us."
"How am I lost?"
"The Great King will have eaten you."
"He dares eat me?"
"If he doesn't eat you, he'll surely complain you smell raw."
The Pilgrim laughed: "Let Heaven's will decide. If he eats me, my allotted span was short; if he doesn't, that's my good fortune. I'll go be your sacrifice."
Chen Qing could only kowtow his thanks, and promised another five hundred taels. But Chen Cheng neither kowtowed nor gave thanks—he only leaned against the screen-door and wept. The Pilgrim knew what was in his heart; he went up and took hold of him: "Elder brother—no promise, no thanks from you. Is it that you cannot bear to part with your daughter?"
Then Chen Cheng knelt: "I cannot bear it. If your lordship's great kindness saves my brother's son, that is already more than enough. But this old fool has no son—only this one daughter. When I die, it is she who will weep for me with all her heart. How can I bear to give her up!"
"Then be quick and steam five dou of rice and prepare some good vegetarian dishes for my long-snouted brother to eat, and have him change into your daughter. My brother and I will go together to the sacrifice—let's do a good deed of hidden merit and save both your children's lives. How about it?"
When Bajie heard this, he was greatly alarmed: "Brother, you're showing off your spirit and caring nothing whether I live or die—and now you want to drag me into it!"
"Good brother," said the Pilgrim, "as the saying goes: even a chicken will not eat the food of no merit. Since we entered this door we have been feasted royally—you were bawling only just now that you weren't full! How can you refuse to save them from their troubles?"
"Brother, you may know how to change—but I don't!"
"You have your thirty-six transformations too—how do you not know how?"
The Tang monk said: "Wuneng, your elder brother speaks most sensibly. As the common saying goes, to save one life is better than building a seven-story pagoda. First, to repay their kindness; second, to store up hidden merit. Besides, the night is cool and there's nothing to do—you two brothers go and have your fun."
"Listen to Master!" said Bajie. "I can change into mountains and trees, stones and mangy elephants, water buffaloes and big fat fellows—those I can manage. But to change into a little girl—that's rather hard!"
"Elder brother, don't believe him," said the Pilgrim. "Bring out your honored daughter and let's see."
Chen Cheng hurried within and carried out the little girl Yichengjin into the hall. The whole household, wives and concubines, great and small, old and young, inner and outer, all came out to kowtow and bow, begging only that the child's life be saved. The little girl wore on her head a jeweled fillet of flowers and kingfisher plumage with hanging pearls; on her body a jacket of red-flashed-yellow silk damask, over it a cape of official-green satin with a chessboard collar; round her waist a great red flowered silk skirt; on her feet pale-red slippers with toad-head fronts; on her legs two knee-trousers of gold-threaded gauze—and she too had fruit tucked in her sleeves, munching away.
"Bajie," said the Pilgrim, "there's your little girl. Change quickly into her likeness, and we'll go to the sacrifice."
"Brother! Something so small and neat and pretty—how can I change?"
"Quick now—or taste the stick!"
Bajie panicked: "Brother, don't beat me—let me try." The blockhead recited a spell, shook his head a few times, and cried "Change!"—and truly the head changed, the very face of a little girl; but the belly stayed fat and big, and the frame would not match. The Pilgrim laughed: "Change again!"
"Beat me as you please! I can't change any further—what can I do?"
"Don't tell me we're to have a girl's head on a monk's body!" said the Pilgrim. "Such a neither-male-nor-female business—how will that do? You'd better set out the Big Dipper steps." And he blew on him one breath of immortal air, and in a moment the body changed indeed, the very match of the little girl.
Then he said: "You two elders, take your honored families with your son and daughter inside—don't mix them up. In a little while, my brother and I, playing truant and playing tricks, may walk in there, and then it will be hard to tell who is who. Give the children good fruit to eat, and don't let them cry out, for fear the Great King should get wind of it and the plan leak away. Now we two are off to have our fun!"
What a Great Sage! He instructed the Sha Monk to guard the Tang monk; he himself became Chen Guanbao, and Bajie became Yichengjin.
When the two of them were ready, they asked: "How shall we be offered? Tied up and carried, or bound and carried? Steamed first, or chopped up first?"
"Brother, don't play games with me," said Bajie. "I've no skill for that."
"Heaven forbid! Heaven forbid!" said the old men. "We would only set you upon two red-lacquered trays, set the trays on tables, and have two young fellows carry each table, bearing you up to the temple."
"Good, good, good!" said the Pilgrim. "Bring out the trays and let's try."
The old men brought out the two trays. The Pilgrim and Bajie sat upon them, and four young fellows raised the two tables, walked a turn about the courtyard, and carried them back, setting them down in the hall.
The Pilgrim was delighted: "Bajie, carried about like this for fun—we're monks who've made it onto the serving trays at last!"
"If they carry us off and carry us back, carried to and fro till dawn, I'd not fear it," said Bajie. "But once we're carried into the temple, it's eating time—and that is no fun at all!"
"Just watch me," said the Pilgrim. "When he starts on me, that's when you run."
"And who knows how he eats? If he eats the boy first, I've time to run. But if he eats the girl first—what then?"
"In years past at the sacrifice," said the old man, "some of the bolder sort of our folk would hide behind the temple or under the offering table, and they saw him eat the boy first and the girl after."
"Good fortune! Good fortune!"
While the brothers were still discussing, they heard outside gongs and drums filling the sky, lamps and torches blazing, and the whole village crowd opening the front gate and shouting: "Bring out the boy and the girl!"
The old man wept and sobbed, and the four young fellows carried the two of them out.
Whether they lived or died—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.