All natures and dispositions are one at root, Holding as much as the sea takes in. A thousand thoughts, ten thousand cares, end in delusion, And every hue and color melts together at last. One day when merit is complete and conduct full, The perfect, brilliant dharma-nature mounts on high. Do not let distinctions scatter you east and west; Lock fast the cage, hold it tight shut. Gather it all and place it in the elixir furnace, Refine it until it is red as the golden crow— Bright, shining, delicate, and fair, Riding the dragon out or in as you please.
The story continues: Sanzang, obeying the Bodhisattva's instructions, had taken the Pilgrim back into the fold, and together with Bajie and the Sha Monk cut off their twofold minds, curbed the ape and reined the horse, and with one heart and united strength sped toward the Western Heaven. There is no telling all the time that flew like an arrow, the days and months that shuttled past like a weaver's throw. They passed the burning days of summer and came again upon the frosty scene of autumn, when you could see:
Thin clouds cut off, the west wind keen, Cranes cry over distant peaks, the frosty woods like brocade. The scene is bleak and grey, The mountains long, the waters longer. Wild geese come from the northern border, Dark swallows return to the southern lanes. A traveler's heart fears the loneliness, A monk's robe is quick to let in the cold.
As the four of them pressed on, they gradually began to feel a heat that steamed up at them.
Sanzang reined in his horse: "Now it is autumn, so why is there this heat?"
"Wouldn't you know it?" said Bajie. "On the road to the West there is a kingdom called Sihali, where the sun goes down—the common folk call it the End of the Sky. When the hours of Shen and You come round, the king sends men up on the city walls to beat drums and blow horns, to drown out the roaring and boiling of the sea. For the sun is the true fire of the Great Yang, and when it drops into the Western Sea it is like quenching fire in water, and the sound of the boiling rolls and rumbles; were it not for the drums and horns drowning the noise, it would shake the little children of the city to death. This place steams with heat—we must be near the place where the sun goes down."
Hearing this, the Great Sage could not help laughing: "Stop your nonsense, you blockhead! If you're talking about the kingdom of Sihali, that's still a long way off. With Master changing his mind morning and night the way he does, delaying us so, he could go from young to old, from old to young again, and live three lives in between, and still not get there."
"Elder Brother," said Bajie, "if it's not the sun's setting place, then why is it so scorching hot?"
"It must be that the season is out of joint," said the Sha Monk, "and autumn is keeping summer's weather."
While the three of them were arguing, they saw beside the road a farmstead—the house roofed with red tiles, the courtyard walls built of red brick, the doors and gate painted red, the plank couches lacquered red; every bit of it was red.
Sanzang dismounted: "Wukong, go ask at that house for some news, and find out the cause of this heat."
The Great Sage put away his gold-banded cudgel, straightened his robes, and put on his most refined and scholarly air; he stepped off the highway and went straight to the door to look. Presently an old man came out from the gate, and this is what he was like: He wore a robe of coarse cloth, neither yellow nor red; on his head a cool hat of woven bamboo splints, neither black nor blue. In his hand he leaned on a bamboo staff, gnarled with knots, neither bent nor straight; on his feet he wore a pair of boots, neither new nor old. His face was the color of red bronze, his beard like white silk thread. Two long eyebrows of longevity shaded his dark eyes; a broad smiling mouth showed his golden teeth.
The old man looked up sharply and was startled at the sight of the Pilgrim. Leaning on his bamboo staff, he shouted: "What sort of monster are you, coming from where? What business have you at my gate?"
The Pilgrim returned the greeting: "Good benefactor, don't be afraid of me. I am no monster. I am a humble monk sent from the Great Tang of the East to the Western Heaven to fetch scriptures. We are a master and three disciples, and we have just come to your worthy place, where we find the air steaming hot. We don't understand the reason, and we don't know the name of the place, so we have come to pay our respects and ask for a word or two of guidance."
Only then did the old man put his mind at ease. He smiled: "Don't take offense, Reverend Sir. My old eyes are dim, and I didn't recognize your honorable face."
"You flatter me," said the Pilgrim.
The old man asked: "Where is your master on the road?" The Pilgrim said: "There he stands on the big road to the south!" The old man said: "Ask him in, ask him in." Delighted, the Pilgrim beckoned with his hand, and Sanzang, together with Bajie and the Sha Monk, leading the white horse and shouldering the luggage, came up and all made their bows to the old man.
When the old man saw how handsome and distinguished Sanzang was, and what strange and striking faces Bajie and the Sha Monk had, he was both alarmed and pleased, and he could only ask them in and seat them, bidding his servants serve tea, and in the meanwhile prepare a meal.
Hearing this, Sanzang rose and gave thanks: "May I ask, grandfather, since your region is in autumn, why is it so hot?"
"Our poor place is called the Flaming Mountain," said the old man. "It has no spring and no autumn; all four seasons are hot."
"Where is the Flaming Mountain?" asked Sanzang. "Does it block the road west?"
"You can't get to the West," said the old man. "The mountain is about sixty li from here, and it is exactly the road that must be taken to the West. It has eight hundred li of flames, and all around it nothing grows, not a blade of grass. If you tried to cross that mountain, even with a head of bronze and a body of iron, you would be melted into molten metal."
At this Sanzang's face went white with fright, and he dared not ask any more.
Just then a young man came out from the gate, pushing a red cart, which he stopped beside the door, calling: "Cakes for sale!"
The Great Sage plucked a hair from his body, changed it into a copper coin, and went to buy a cake from the man. The man took the money and, without more ado, lifted the cloth covering on his cart; the steam rose hot and thick, and he took out a cake and handed it to the Pilgrim.
The Pilgrim held it in his hand—it was like a burning coal from a brazier, a red-hot nail from a stove.
Watch him! He tossed it from his left hand to his right, from his right hand back to his left, and kept saying: "Hot, hot, hot! Can't eat it! Can't eat it!"
The young man laughed: "If you're afraid of heat, don't come here. It's just this hot in these parts."
"You fellow is most unreasonable," said the Pilgrim. "As the saying goes, 'If it's not cold and not hot, the five grains won't set seed.' It's so scorching here—where does your cake flour come from?"
"If you want to know where the flour of this cake comes from," said the man, "you must go and ask the Iron-Fan Immortal."
"What about the Iron-Fan Immortal?" asked the Pilgrim.
"The Iron-Fan Immortal has a plantain fan," said the man. "If you go and ask for it, one wave puts out the fire, a second brings the wind, and a third brings the rain. Then we can sow our seeds and harvest in season, and so the five grains feed us. Otherwise, truly not one blade of grass could grow."
Hearing this, the Pilgrim turned and went inside, handed the cake to Sanzang, and said: "Rest easy, Master. Don't go worrying yourself into next year over it. Eat the cake, and I'll tell you all about it."
The elder took the cake and said to the old man of the house: "Grandfather, please have some cake."
"How can I eat your cake when my own tea and rice haven't been offered yet?" said the old man.
The Pilgrim laughed: "Old sir, you needn't trouble with tea and rice. Let me ask you: where does the Iron-Fan Immortal live?"
"Why do you ask?" said the old man.
"That cake-seller just said," replied the Pilgrim, "that this Immortal has a plantain fan, and that if you go and ask for it, one wave puts out the fire, a second brings the wind, and a third brings the rain; then your region can sow and reap, and the five grains feed you. I want to go to her and ask for the fan to put out the fire of the Flaming Mountain so that we can cross it, and also so that this region can sow and harvest in season and live in peace."
"There is indeed such a saying," said the old man. "But you have no gifts to offer, and I'm afraid the sage will not come."
"What gifts does she want?" asked Sanzang.
"Folks here," said the old man, "go to make their petition once every ten years. Four pigs, four sheep, flowers and silks, rare incense and fruits of the season, chickens and geese and fine wine—and after bathing with reverence and sincerity, they go to worship at her Immortal Mountain and beg her to come out of her cave and work her miracle here."
"Where is that mountain?" asked the Pilgrim. "What is the name of the place? How many li is it? Let me go and ask her for the fan."
"The mountain is in the southwest," said the old man, "and it is called Cuiyun Mountain. In the mountain there is an immortal cave called the Plantain Cave. The faithful of this region who go to worship at the Immortal Mountain have to walk a full month round trip—altogether some fourteen or fifteen hundred li."
"Never mind that," laughed the Pilgrim. "I'll go and be back at once."
"Wait a moment," said the old man. "Eat some tea and rice first, and make some dry provisions. You must take a companion. There are no houses on that road, and it is full of wolves and tigers. It can't be reached in a single day—don't treat it as a joke."
"No need, no need!" laughed the Pilgrim. "I'm off!" And with that he vanished on the instant.
The old man was thrown into a fluster: "Good heavens! So he is one of those spirits who ride the clouds and mist!"
Leave the family at their house treating Sanzang with redoubled hospitality, and say instead how in a flash the Pilgrim arrived at Cuiyun Mountain. He pressed down his auspicious light and was searching for the cave mouth when he heard a ding-dong sound—a woodcutter in the mountain felling timber. The Pilgrim hurried over to him and heard him singing:
"On the fringe of the clouds I recognize my old woods, The path is hard to find among the wild grass of the broken cliffs. From the western peak I can see the morning rain coming, And where I crossed the southern stream, the ford is deep."
The Pilgrim went up and bowed: "Woodcutter, greetings to you."
The woodcutter put down his ax and returned the salute: "Where is the reverend sir bound?"
"May I ask, woodcutter," said the Pilgrim, "is this Cuiyun Mountain?"
"It is," said the woodcutter.
"There is a Plantain Cave belonging to an Iron-Fan Immortal. Where is it?"
The woodcutter laughed: "The Plantain Cave exists, true enough, but there is no Iron-Fan Immortal in it. There is only the Iron-Fan Princess, also known as the Rakshasi."
"I hear," said the Pilgrim, "that she has a plantain fan that can put out the fire of the Flaming Mountain. Is it she?"
"Right, right," said the woodcutter. "That sage has this treasure, and it is good at putting out fire and protecting the folk of that region, so she is called the Iron-Fan Immortal. We folk here have no use for her—we only know her as the Rakshasi, the wife of the Bull Demon King of Great Strength."
The Pilgrim's face changed color with alarm, and he thought to himself:
"We are enemies again! When I subdued Red Boy that time, I was told he was this fellow's child. Earlier at Po'er Cave on Jieyang Mountain I met his uncle, and he would not even give me water, bent on avenging the boy. Now I run into his parents—how on earth can I borrow this fan?"
The woodcutter saw the Pilgrim sunk in thought, sighing endlessly, and laughed: "Reverend sir, you are a man who has left the world—what worry or doubt do you have? This little path leads east; no more than five or six li and you are at the Plantain Cave. Don't fret your heart."
"To be honest with you, woodcutter," said the Pilgrim, "I am the senior disciple of the Tang monk of the Great Tang in the East, sent to the Western Heaven for scriptures. A few years ago at Fire-Cloud Cave I had some dealings with Red Boy, the Rakshasi's son, and I fear the Rakshasi holds a grudge and won't lend it to me—that is why I am worried."
"A man of mettle reads faces and colors," said the woodcutter. "Just go in the name of borrowing the fan, and don't bring up that stale old business; I warrant she'll lend it."
At this the Pilgrim made a deep bow: "Thank you for your instruction, woodcutter. I'm off."
So he parted from the woodcutter and went straight to the mouth of the Plantain Cave, where he saw the two gates shut fast and barred, while the scenery outside the cave was beautiful and charming. What a fine place it was! Truly:
The mountain makes its bones of rock, And rock is the spirit of the earth. Mist and haze hold the lingering moisture, Moss and lichen feed the fresh green. The soaring crags out-tower the isles of the blessed; In the quiet, the scent of flowers seems a sea-girt fairyland. Several tall pines harbor wild cranes, A few withered willows speak with mountain orioles. Truly a relic of a thousand years, A trace of immortals ten thousand ages old.
On the green parasol tree sings the phoenix of many colors, In the living waters hides the azure dragon. On the winding path the briars hang and trail, The stone stairs are caught in climbing vines. Monkeys cry on the green cliffs, glad the moon has risen; Birds call in the tall trees, pleased with the clear sky. The shade of the bamboo groves on either side is cool as rain, The flowers on the single path are thick, hiding the embroidery thread. Now and then white clouds come from the distant peaks, Without fixed form, drifting idly on the wind.
The Pilgrim went up and called: "Brother Bull! Open the door! Open the door!"
With a creak the cave door opened, and from inside came a shaggy-haired serving girl, carrying a flower basket in her hand and a hoe on her shoulder. Truly she was all in plain homespun without ornament, her whole face full of spirit, with a heart set on the Way.
The Pilgrim went up to meet her and pressed his palms together: "Girl, do me the trouble of reporting to the Princess. I am a monk fetching scriptures, and on the road to the West I cannot get past the Flaming Mountain, so I have come especially to ask to borrow the plantain fan."
"That monk," said the shaggy girl, "from what monastery are you, and what is your name? I'll announce you properly."
"I come from the East," said the Pilgrim, "and my name is the monk Sun Wukong."
The shaggy girl turned and went back into the cave, knelt before the Rakshasi, and said: "Mistress, outside the cave door there is a monk from the East called Sun Wukong, who wants to see you to ask to borrow the plantain fan for crossing the Flaming Mountain."
At the name Sun Wukong, the Rakshasi felt as if salt had been thrown into fire and oil poured on the flames. The red flushed up over her face; fierce anger blazed in her heart, and she cursed: "That cursed ape! So he has come today!"
She called: "Maids, bring my armor and my weapons!" Then she put on her armor, took up two blue-tempered swords, and came out fully armed. The Pilgrim dodged outside the cave and stole a look at how she was arrayed, and this is what he saw:
Her head bound with a kerchief of clustered flowers, Her body clad in a cloud-patterned brocade robe. Double-knotted at the waist a tiger-sinew sash, Faintly showing her embroidered skirt's trailing edge. Phoenix-beak bow-shoes on her three-inch feet, Dragon-whisker knee-guards worked with gold. Sword in hand she cries aloud in fury, Fierce as the face of the Lady in the Moon.
The Rakshasi came out of the door and called loudly: "Where is Sun Wukong?"
The Pilgrim went up, bowed, and said: "Sister-in-law, old Sun is here, paying his respects."
The Rakshasi snorted: "Who is your sister-in-law? Who wants your respects!"
"Your honored husband, the Bull Demon King," said the Pilgrim, "once formed a sworn brotherhood with old Sun—we were among the seven brothers. Now that I hear the Princess is Brother Bull's good lady, how could I not call you sister-in-law!"
"You cursed ape!" said the Rakshasi. "If you were brothers, why did you destroy my son?"
"What son is that?" asked the Pilgrim, pretending ignorance.
"My son," said the Rakshasi, "was Red Boy, the Saintly Infant King of Fire-Cloud Cave in the Withered Pine Ravine of Hao Mountain, and you ruined him! We had nowhere to find you to take revenge, and now you come to my very door to give up your life—do you think I would spare you?"
The Pilgrim smiled all over his face: "Sister-in-law, you don't see the rights of the matter, and you blame old Sun wrongly. Your son had captured my master and wanted to steam him and boil him; luckily the Bodhisattva Guanyin came to save him and took him away, and rescued my master. He is now with the Bodhisattva as the boy Sudhana, truly attaining the Bodhisattva's right fruit—never born, never dying, neither defiled nor pure, sharing the life of Heaven and Earth, as old as the sun and moon. Instead of thanking old Sun for saving his life, you blame him—what sort of reasoning is that?"
"You smooth-talking cursed ape!" said the Rakshasi. "Even if my boy did not lose his life, how could he ever come back to my side? When will I ever see his face again?"
The Pilgrim laughed: "Sister-in-law, what is so hard about seeing your son? Lend me the fan first, so I can put out the fire and see my master across the mountain; then I will go to the Bodhisattva in the Southern Sea and ask her to bring him here to see you, and I will return the fan to you besides. What harm in that? When you see him then, you will see he has not lost a hair! If he has so much as a scratch on him, you would have reason to blame me; but if he is as handsome as ever, you ought to thank me."
"Less of your tongue, cursed ape!" said the Rakshasi. "Stick out your head and let me take a few hacks at it! If you can stand the pain, I will lend you the fan; if you cannot bear it, you will meet King Yama all the sooner!"
The Pilgrim folded his arms and came forward, smiling: "Sister-in-law, say no more. Old Sun will stretch out his shaven head and let you cut at it as much as you please. Only when your strength gives out, mind you lend me the fan."
Without another word the Rakshasi swung both swords and came down on the Pilgrim's head with a clangor and a clatter of a dozen or more blows—and the Pilgrim paid not the slightest attention.
The Rakshasi was frightened, and turned to run back, but the Pilgrim said: "Sister-in-law, where are you going? Lend it to me quick, let me use it!"
"My treasure is not lightly lent," said the Rakshasi.
"If you won't lend it, then take a stroke of your uncle's cudgel!" The good Monkey King—with one hand holding her, with the other he drew his cudgel from his ear and shook it to the thickness of a bowl. The Rakshasi tore herself free and raised her swords to meet him, and the Pilgrim swung his cudgel at once. The two of them fought in front of Cuiyun Mountain, with no thought of kinship now, nothing but their enmity. This was a fine battle! Truly:
The lady in skirts was a demon by her own cultivation, Hating the ape for her son's sake. The Pilgrim, fierce and furious though he was, Because the mountain blocked his master, yielded to the woman. First he spoke of borrowing the plantain fan, Not displaying his valor, keeping his temper soft. The Rakshasi, ignorant, swung her swords and hacked; The Monkey King, intent, pleaded the ties of kin. How should a woman fight with a man? In the end the male's strength prevails over the female. His gold-banded iron cudgel was savage and fierce; Her frosty blue-tempered blades were close and pressing. Blows at the face, strikes at the head, They fought on in bitter fury without ceasing. Parrying left, blocking right, they showed their skill; Meeting in front, fending behind, they used their cunning. They had just fought to the height of passion When, unawares, the sun sank in the west. Hastily the Rakshasi took out her true fan; One wave of it—and demons and gods would grieve!
The Rakshasi fought with the Pilgrim till evening. Seeing how heavy his cudgel was, and how complete his skill, she knew she could not beat him, and so she took out her plantain fan, shook it, and gave one wave of it—an eerie wind that blew the Pilgrim away without trace or shadow, beyond all hope of stopping. And the Rakshasi returned home victorious.
The Great Sage drifted and tumbled, unable to sink down on the left, unable to find a footing on the right, like a dead leaf spun by a whirlwind, a fallen blossom carried on a stream. He rolled all night long, and only at dawn did he come down at last upon a mountain, where he clasped a crag of rock in both arms. After a long while he steadied himself and looked about, and only then recognized it as Little Mount Sumeru.
The Great Sage gave a long sigh: "What a ferocious woman! How did she ever send old Sun to a place like this? I remember that once I came here to beg the Bodhisattva Lingji to subdue the Yellow Wind Monster and save my master. Yellow Wind Ridge is over three thousand li due south of here; but coming around by this western road into the southeast quarter, it must be tens of thousands of li. Let me go down and ask the Bodhisattva Lingji for some news, and so find my way back."
Just as he was hesitating, he heard the clear sound of a bell, and hurried down the slope straight to the meditation cloister.
The Taoist at the gate recognized the Pilgrim's looks and went in to report: "That hairy-faced Great Sage who came two years ago to ask the Bodhisattva to subdue the Yellow Wind Monster has come again."
The Bodhisattva knew it was Wukong and hastily came down from his jeweled seat to welcome him, and after they had gone inside and bowed, he said: "Congratulations! Have you come for the scriptures?"
"Not yet, not at all!" answered Wukong. "Still far to go!"
"Since you have not yet reached the Great Thunderclap Monastery," said Lingji, "what brings you to look back on this wild mountain?"
The Pilgrim said: "Ever since last year, when you were so kind as to subdue the Yellow Wind Monster, we have suffered no telling how many hardships on the road. Now we have come to the Flaming Mountain and cannot go forward. I asked the natives, and they said there is an Iron-Fan Immortal with a plantain fan who can fan the fire out. Old Sun went especially to find her, and it turned out that this Immortal is the wife of the Bull Demon King and the mother of Red Boy. She said I had made her son a boy-attendant of the Bodhisattva Guanyin, so that she can't see him often, and she holds a grudge against me and would not lend the fan. She fought with me, and when she found my cudgel too heavy to withstand, she gave me one wave of the fan and blew me drifting and tumbling all the way here before I could come to rest. That is why I have come to your quiet cloister to ask the way back. How many li is it from here to the Flaming Mountain?"
Lingji laughed: "That woman is called the Rakshasi, also known as the Iron-Fan Princess. Her plantain fan was originally a spiritual treasure formed by Heaven and Earth behind Kunlun Mountain since the separation of Chaos—a leaf of the very essence of the sun, and so it can quench the power of fire. If it fans a person, he must drift 84,000 li before the eerie wind stops. From my mountain to the Flaming Mountain is only a little over 50,000 li—and even that only because you, Great Sage, have the art of holding clouds, and so came to rest. Were it an ordinary man, he could not stop at all."
"Dreadful, dreadful!" said the Pilgrim. "But then how is my master to get across that region?"
"Set your heart at rest, Great Sage," said Lingji. "Your coming here is also part of the Tang monk's destined affinity—it is fitting that the Great Sage should win success."
"How do you make out success?" asked the Pilgrim.
"When I received the Tathagata's command long ago," said Lingji, "he gave me a wind-fixing pill and a flying-dragon staff. The flying-dragon staff has already subdued the Wind Demon, but the wind-fixing pill has never yet been used. Now I present it to you, Great Sage, and it will see to it that this woman can't fan you a hair's breadth. Then you take her fan, put out the fire—and won't that be a feat accomplished at once?"
The Pilgrim bowed his head in salute, thanking him beyond measure.
Then the Bodhisattva took a brocade pouch from his sleeve, put the wind-fixing pill into the Pilgrim's collar, and sewed it tight with needle and thread. Then he saw the Pilgrim out of the door, saying: "I can't keep you for a proper visit. Go northwest, and you will come to the Rakshasi's mountain ground."
The Pilgrim took leave of Lingji, mounted his somersault cloud, and went straight back to Cuiyun Mountain, where he arrived in an instant. He struck the cave door with his iron cudgel and called: "Open up! Open up! Old Sun has come to borrow the fan!"
The girl inside was frightened and ran to report: "Mistress, the fan-borrower is back!"
The Rakshasi was alarmed and thought: "That cursed ape really has some skill! My treasure blows a person 84,000 li before he can stop—how can he have been blown away and come back already? This time let me give him two or three waves in a row and make him lose all track of the way back!"
She jumped up, put her gear in order, and, swords in both hands, came out of the door: "Sun Wukong! Not afraid of me, so you have come to seek death again!"
The Pilgrim laughed: "Sister-in-law, don't be stingy. Do lend it to me, let me use it. Once I have got the Tang monk across the mountain, I will bring it right back to you. I am a gentleman of more than full good faith, not one of those petty fellows who borrow and never return."
The Rakshasi swore at him again: "Cursed gibbon! No sense at all, no understanding at all! The blood-debt of my stolen son is not yet paid—how can your request for the fan be granted? Don't run! Take one sword of your old mother!"
The Great Sage, utterly unafraid, met her head-on with his iron cudgel.
The two of them came and went, and after five or seven rounds the Rakshasi's hands were too weak to lift her swords, while Sun the Pilgrim, strong of body, bested her easily. Seeing that matters had taken a bad turn, she took out her fan and waved it at the Pilgrim once—and the Pilgrim stood as firm as a mountain.
The Pilgrim put away his iron cudgel and said, all smiles: "This time is not like the last! Fan at me as you please—if old Sun moves so much as a step, I'm no man!"
The Rakshasi waved it again, twice. Still he did not move.
The Rakshasi panicked, hastily put away her treasure, turned and ran into the cave, and shut the door fast behind her.
When the Pilgrim saw the door shut, he used his arts: he undid his collar, took the wind-fixing pill into his mouth, shook himself, and changed into a tiny cicada, which slipped through the crack of the door.
Inside, he heard the Rakshasi cry: "Thirsty! Thirsty! Bring tea quickly!"
A serving girl brought a pot of fragrant tea, poured out a bowl with a rustle and a hiss, the foam frothing up. The Pilgrim was delighted; with a whir of his wings he flew down beneath the tea-foam. The Rakshasi, parched, took the bowl and drank it down in two or three gulps.
And the Pilgrim was inside her belly. Resuming his true form, he shouted in a loud voice: "Sister-in-law, lend me the fan, let me use it!"
The Rakshasi's face went white with shock. She called: "Little ones, have you shut the front gate?" They all said: "It's shut." She said: "If the gate is shut, how is Sun Wukong calling from inside the house?"
"It is in your body that he is calling," said the girl.
"Sun Wukong," said the Rakshasi, "where are you working your tricks?"
"Old Sun has never in his life worked tricks," said the Pilgrim. "These are all true methods, real skills. I am already inside your belly, your good sister-in-law's, having a bit of sport, and I have seen your lungs and liver. I know you are hungry and thirsty too, so first I will give you a bowl to sit on and quench your thirst!" And he stamped his foot down.
The pain in the Rakshasi's belly was more than she could bear, and she sat down on the ground, crying out in agony.
"Sister-in-law," said the Pilgrim, "don't be so shy. I'll give you a little snack to fill your stomach!" And he thrust his head up.
The pain in the Rakshasi's heart was unbearable; she only rolled on the ground, her face turned yellow, her lips white, crying over and over: "Uncle Sun, spare my life!"
Only then did the Pilgrim stop his hands and feet: "So you know your uncle now? For the sake of Brother Bull, I will spare your life. Quick, bring the fan and let me use it."
"Uncle," said the Rakshasi, "there is a fan, there is a fan! Come out and take it!"
"Bring the fan for me to see, then I will come out," said the Pilgrim.
The Rakshasi at once told the girl to bring a plantain fan and hold it by her side.
When the Pilgrim, peering up at her throat, saw it, he said: "Sister-in-law, since I am sparing your life, I won't bore a hole through you under your ribs—I'll come out through your mouth. Open your mouth wide, three times."
So the Rakshasi opened her mouth. The Pilgrim turned himself again into a tiny cicada, flew out first, and alighted on the plantain fan. The Rakshasi, not knowing this, opened her mouth three times in succession, calling: "Come out now, Uncle."
The Pilgrim changed back to his own form, took up the fan, and called: "Here I am, see? Thanks for the loan! Thanks for the loan!" And with long strides he went off toward the front. The maids hastily opened the door and let him out of the cave.
This Great Sage turned his cloud around and went straight back toward the east, and in a moment pressed down his cloud and stood beneath the red-brick wall.
Bajie was delighted at the sight of him: "Master, Elder Brother is here! He's here!"
Sanzang and the old man of the farm, with the Sha Monk, came out to meet him, and they all went into the house together. The Pilgrim leaned the plantain fan against the wall: "Old sir, is this the fan?"
"It is! It is!" said the old man.
Delighted, the Tang monk said: "Worthy disciple, you have achieved a great feat, and taken great pains to get this treasure."
"Never mind the pains," said the Pilgrim. "That Iron-Fan Immortal—do you know who she was? That creature was the wife of the Bull Demon King, the mother of Red Boy, named the Rakshasi, also called the Iron-Fan Princess. When I got to the cave and asked for the fan, she started on our old enmity and took a few cuts at me with her swords. I frightened her with my cudgel, and she gave me one wave of her fan, which blew me drifting and tumbling all the way to Little Mount Sumeru. Happily I met the Bodhisattva Lingji, who gave me a wind-fixing pill and pointed out the way back, and so I came again to Cuiyun Mountain. The Rakshasi fanned at me again, but couldn't move me an inch, so she went back into her cave. Old Sun changed into a tiny cicada and flew in after her. That creature was just asking for tea, so I hid under the tea-foam, got into her belly, and went to work on her. She could not bear the pain and called me uncle over and over, begging for her life, and willingly lent me the fan. So I spared her and brought the fan away—once we are over the Flaming Mountain, I will still take it back to her."
Sanzang gave thanks beyond measure, and master and disciples all bowed and took leave of the old man.
They journeyed west for some forty li, and gradually the scorching heat steamed up at them again. The Sha Monk kept crying: "The soles of my feet are burning!" Bajie also said: "My trotters are scalded sore!" The horse ran faster than usual, for the heat of the ground made it impossible to linger; it was very hard going.
"Master, get down from the horse for now," said the Pilgrim. "Brothers, don't stir. Let me fan the fire out, and when wind and rain have fallen and the ground has cooled a bit, we will cross the mountain."
So the Pilgrim raised the fan, went straight to the edge of the fire, and waved it with all his might. The flames on the mountain rose roaring up. He waved it again, and the fire doubled, trebled, a hundredfold; a third wave, and the flames were fully a thousand feet tall, and slowly they began to singe his own body. The Pilgrim turned hastily back—two patches of his body-hair were already burnt clean away. He ran straight to the Tang monk and cried: "Back! Back! The fire is coming! The fire is coming!"
The master scrambled onto his horse and, with Bajie and the Sha Monk, fled east again for twenty li and more before they stopped. "Wukong," he said, "what is to be done now?"
The Pilgrim threw down the fan: "It's no good! It's no good! That creature fooled me!"
At this the Tang monk's brows drew together in worry, gloom weighed on his heart, and tears streamed down his cheeks in spite of himself. All he could say was: "What is to be done!"
"Elder Brother," said Bajie, "why did you come hurrying back telling us to run?"
"I gave the fan one wave," said the Pilgrim, "and the fire blazed up; at the second wave the fire grew fiercer still; and at the third the flames leapt a thousand feet high. If I had not run fast, all my body-hair would have been burned away!"
"You always said thunder couldn't hurt you and fire couldn't singe you," laughed Bajie. "How is it you're afraid of fire now?"
"You blockhead, you understand nothing!" said the Pilgrim. "When I said that, I was always on my guard, and so I was not hurt. Today, because I was only thinking of fanning out the fire, I never recited the fire-repelling spell, and I used no body-protecting charm—that is why two patches of my hair got burned."
"With the fire so fierce," said the Sha Monk, "there is no road through to the West. What is to be done?"
"Just take a road where there is no fire," said Bajie.
"Which quarter has no fire?" asked the Tang monk.
"East, south, and north have no fire," said Bajie.
"And which quarter has the scriptures?" asked the Tang monk again.
"The West has the scriptures," said Bajie.
"Then I mean to go to the place where the scriptures are!" said the Tang monk.
"Where the scriptures are, there is fire," said the Sha Monk, "and where there is no fire, there are no scriptures. Truly, it is a case of advance and retreat alike being hard!"
As the four of them were talking all this nonsense, they heard a voice call: "Great Sage, don't fret. Come and eat some vegetarian fare, and we will talk it over."
The four looked back and saw an old man, wrapped in a wide-sleeved wind-cloak, a half-moon cap on his head, a dragon-head staff in his hand, iron-shafted boots on his feet. Behind him came a demon with a beak like a carving knife and gill-sacs like a fish's, carrying on his head a copper basin, in which were steamed cakes, gruel and rice, and yellow millet. The old man bowed from the roadside and said: "I am the local deity of the Flaming Mountain. Knowing that the Great Sage is guarding the holy monk and cannot go forward, I have come especially to offer this meal."
"Small matter, the meal," said the Pilgrim. "But when will this fire be put out, so that my master can get across?"
"To put out the fire," said the local deity, "you must ask the Rakshasi to lend you the plantain fan."
The Pilgrim picked up the fan from the roadside: "Isn't this it? The fire only blazes higher with every wave. Why is that?"
The local deity looked at it and laughed: "This is not the true fan. She fooled you."
"How do I get the true one?" asked the Pilgrim.
The local deity bowed again, hunching his back, and said with a faint smile: "If you want to borrow the true plantain fan, you must go and seek out the King of Great Strength."
We do not know what the King of Great Strength had to do with it; listen to the next chapter for the explanation.