The story tells how the king of the Kingdom of Jisai thanked Tang Sanzang and his disciples for recovering the treasure and capturing the monster. Though the king offered them gold and jade, they would not accept a single coin. Instead he ordered the officers of his carriage to have two sets of clothes made for each of the four in the style they usually wore, two pairs of shoes and socks for each, and two sashes with rings for each, and besides this, dried and roasted provisions were prepared, their travel documents were renewed, and a grand imperial procession was laid on. Together with the civil and military officials, the people of the whole city, and the monks of the Temple of the Crouching Dragon, with drums and trumpets sounding loudly, he escorted the four pilgrims out of the city.
After some twenty li they first took leave of the king. The rest escorted them another twenty li and then took their leave in turn. But the monks of the Temple of the Crouching Dragon escorted them fifty or sixty li and would not turn back; some wanted to go with them all the way to the Western Heaven, and some wanted to cultivate their conduct and wait on them. Seeing that none of them was willing to go home, the Pilgrim resorted to a trick: he pulled out thirty or forty of his hairs, blew on them a breath of immortal air, and cried, "Change!" They all turned into spotted, ferocious tigers that barred the road ahead, snarling and leaping about.
Only then did the monks take fright and dare not press forward, and the Great Sage led his master, who spurred on the horse, away.
In a little while they had gone far. The monks burst into loud weeping, all crying: "Gracious and righteous masters! We have no affinity with you—you will not carry us across to salvation!"
No more of the monks' weeping. Let us speak of the master and his three disciples, who took the main road and, once the hairs had been gathered back, headed straight west. Truly, the seasons turn and shift quickly; winter was already waning and spring returning, neither warm nor cold—just right for traveling at one's ease. Suddenly they saw a long ridge stretching across the road, with the way running along its top. Sanzang reined in his horse to look. The ridge was bristling with forked and tangled brambles, overgrown with clinging creepers. Though traces of a road could be seen, on left and right there were nothing but thorns and spines.
"Disciple," called Tang Sanzang, "how is this road to be walked?"
"How can it not be walked?" said the Pilgrim.
Again the master said: "Disciple, the traces of the road are beneath, and the brambles on top. Only snakes and creeping insects crawling flat along the ground could get through. If you try to walk here, you can hardly straighten your back—so how am I to ride my horse?"
"It's nothing," said Bajie. "Let me put my raking hand to work and part the brambles with my rake. Never mind riding a horse—I'll guarantee you get across even in a sedan chair."
"You may be strong," said Sanzang, "but it's a long way to hold out. We don't know how far it is—how could you spend so much of your energy!"
"No need to discuss it," said the Pilgrim. "Let me go and take a look."
With one spring he leapt up into the air and looked down—as far as the eye could see, there was no end to it. Truly:
From the earth to the distant sky, Through gathered mist and veiled rain they lie. Along the road the soft turf runs wild; Over the mountain green canopies are spread. Thick upon thick the young leaves put forth; Tangle on tangle the blossoms breathe their scent. Look afar, and you cannot tell where they end; Draw near, and they seem a vast drift of green cloud. Lush and misty, deep and dark— The wind sighs through them with a rustling sound, The sunlight plays upon them with a glittering sheen. Among them grow pine and cypress and bamboo, Much plum and willow, and more mulberry still. Creepers twine about the ancient trees; Vines and kudzu wind round the drooping willows. Coiled and knotted, they rise like trellises; Linked and laced, they spread like beds. In some places the flowers open in woven brocade; In others the blossoms burst and waft their fragrance far. What man can walk the world and never meet a thorn? But who has ever seen such brambles as the West has grown!
The Pilgrim looked for a long while, then brought his cloud down. "Master, this place is far away indeed!"
"How far?" asked Sanzang.
"To the very horizon," said the Pilgrim. "It seems a thousand li and more."
Sanzang was greatly alarmed. "What is to be done then?"
The Sha Monk laughed: "Master, do not fret. Let us do as the field-burners do—set a fire and burn the brambles clean away, and then pass over."
"Don't talk nonsense!" said Bajie. "Field-burning is done in the tenth or eleventh month, when the grass is withered and the trees dry, so the fire will catch. Now is the height of their growing season—how could you burn them!"
"And even if you could burn them," said the Pilgrim, "it would still be a fearful thing."
"How are we to get across, then?" asked Sanzang.
"If you want to cross," said Bajie, laughing, "you must do as I say." A fine blockhead! He made a magic sign, recited a spell, bent his back, and cried, "Grow!" He grew to a stature of twenty fathoms tall. He flourished his rake and cried, "Change!" And the handle grew to thirty fathoms long. Striding forward, he wielded the rake with both hands and raked the brambles apart left and right. "Master, follow me!" he called. Sanzang was delighted to see it, and urged his horse on close behind.
Behind them the Sha Monk shouldered the luggage, and the Pilgrim, too, thrust the brambles apart with his iron cudgel. All that day they did not pause. When they had traveled more than a hundred li and evening was coming on, they saw a stretch of open ground, and in the middle of the road a stone tablet, on which were carved three large characters: "Bramble Ridge." Below them were two lines of fourteen small characters: "Brambles spread and tangle eight hundred li; of old there has been a road, but few have walked it."
Bajie saw it and laughed: "Let old Hog add a couple of lines to that: From now on Bajie can cleave it through; Straight through to the West the road runs level!"
Sanzang dismounted gladly and said: "Disciple, I have worn you out! Let us put up here for the night and start again at first light tomorrow."
"Master, don't stop!" said Bajie. "While the sky is clear and we have the spirit, let us rake a way through the night, and be done with it!"
The elder had no choice but to go along with him.
Bajie pressed on with all his might, and the master and disciples, hands never resting, the horse never pausing, traveled another day and night until evening fell again. Before them the brambles grew thick and tangled, and they could hear the wind striking the bamboo like chimes and the soughing of the pines. There happened to be another stretch of open ground, and in the middle of it stood an ancient temple. Beyond the temple gate, pines and cypresses congealed their green, and peach and plum vied in their beauty.
Sanzang dismounted and looked at it together with his three disciples. What they saw was this:
An ancient temple before the crag pillows on the cold stream; The setting sun and desolate mist hold the ruined hill in thrall. Deep are the years among the flocks of white cranes; Beneath the terrace of green grass, springs and autumns wheel and turn. The bamboo sways its green pendants as if one heard it speak; The birds trill their lingering notes as if telling of their grief. No cock crows, no dog barks, and few are the footprints of men; Wild flowers and trailing creepers wind about the top of the wall.
Looking at it, the Pilgrim said: "This is a place with more bane than blessing about it—not one to sit down in for long."
The Sha Monk said: "Elder brother, you suspect too much. In a place so wild and lonely as this, with no monstrous beast or demon bird about—what is there to fear?"
Before the words were out of his mouth, a gust of cold wind arose, and from behind the temple gate there turned out an old man. He wore a cornered cap of cloth, plain clothing, and straw sandals, and leaned on a walking staff. Behind him followed a ghostly messenger with a green face and bared fangs, red beard, and bare body, carrying on his head a plate of flat cakes. Kneeling, the old man said: "Great Sage, I am the local deity of Bramble Ridge. Knowing that the Great Sage had come here, and having nothing with which to receive you, I have specially prepared this plate of steamed cakes and present it to the venerable master, that each of you may take a meal. For eight hundred li hereabouts there is not a single household—pray eat a little to stay your hunger."
Bajie was delighted. He stepped forward, stretched out his hand, and made to take a cake.
But the Pilgrim had been studying the old man for some time. He shouted: "Hold on! This fellow is up to no good! Show a little respect! What sort of local deity are you, to try to hoodwink old Sun? Take this!" And he swung his cudgel.
When the old man saw him striking, he whirled about, changed into a gust of cold wind, and with a whoosh carried off the venerable elder, wafting him up and away, no one knew where. The Great Sage was so alarmed he had no idea where to look; Bajie and the Sha Monk stared at each other, their faces turning pale; even the white horse shied and neighed in fright. The three brothers, with the horse making four, in a daze, gazing far and wide, could find not a single trace of him. They searched before and behind, but of that no more.
Meanwhile the old man and the ghostly messenger carried the elder before a stone house wreathed in mist and rosy light, set him down gently, and took him by the hand to help him along. "Holy monk, be not afraid," they said. "We are no wicked men. I am the Eighteenth Duke of Bramble Ridge. Because this night is clear and the moon bright, I have specially invited you here to meet friends and discuss poetry, to while away the heart's fancies."
The elder composed himself at last, opened his eyes, and looked carefully about him. Truly:
Misty clouds drift off into the distance, A clear and pure abode of the immortal kind. Fit for cleansing the body and refining the self, Fit for planting bamboo and nurturing flowers. Ever the cranes come to the emerald cliffs; Ever the frogs croak by the green ponds. It rivals the cinnabar stove of the Terrace of Heaven, And matches the bright clouds of the Flower Mountain. Why speak of plowing clouds or angling for the moon? This life of seclusion is worthy of all praise. Sit here long, and the quiet heart is deep as the sea; Dimly the moonlight climbs the gauze of the window.
Sanzang was still surveying the scene, gradually aware of the bright moon and shining stars, when he heard voices in talk, all saying: "The Eighteenth Duke has invited the holy monk here."
The elder looked up and saw three old men. The first had a frosty mien and a noble bearing; the second had green temples, shaggy and flowing; the third had a hollow heart and a dark green hue. Their faces and their clothes were all different, and they all came forward to bow to Sanzang.
The elder returned their bows. "What virtue does your disciple possess, that I should presume upon the affection of you immortal elders?"
The Eighteenth Duke laughed: "We have long heard that the holy monk possesses the Way, and have been waiting for some time. What good fortune to meet you now. If you would not begrudge us the pearls and jade of your speech, sit at ease and unbosom your heart—that would show us the true lineage of Chan."
Sanzang bowed and said: "May I presume to ask the honored names of the immortal elders?"
"The one with the frosty mien," said the Eighteenth Duke, "is called Duke Guzhi; the one with the green temples, Master Lingkong; the one with the hollow heart, the Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds. As for this unworthy old man, my name is Firm Joint."
[Translator's note: The tree-spirits have taken names that play on their natures—"Eighteenth Duke" spells out the character for pine in Chinese calligraphy, while "Duke Guzhi" ("Lone and Upright"), "Master Lingkong" ("Soaring Through the Void"), and "the Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds" all echo the look and character of the cypress, juniper, and bamboo.]
"How old, then, are the four elders?" asked Sanzang.
Duke Guzhi said:
"My years have seen a thousand ancient ones go by; My leaves thrust at the sky, a spring that knows no end. Fragrant boughs, thick and lush, in dragon-serpent shapes; Shadow upon broken shadow, a body of frost and snow. From my youth I was hard and firm, fit to endure old age; From now on, upright and true, I rejoice in cultivating the Way. Crows roost and phoenixes lodge in me—no common company; Towering, dense and lofty, I stand far from the world's dust."
Master Lingkong laughed:
"My thousand years have braved the wind and frost; My tall trunk and numinous boughs are strong of themselves. In the still of night I murmur like falling rain; On clear autumn days my shadow spreads like gathered clouds. My coiled roots have gained the secret of long life; My appointed lot suits well the art of never aging. I keep the cranes and change to dragons—no vulgar stock; Vast and brisk, I draw close to the land of the immortals."
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds laughed:
"A thousand autumns have passed me in the cold of the year, And my old age is free and easy, clear and more secluded still. Never mixing with the world's clamor, I keep my cool aloofness; Sated with frost and snow, I possess my own elegance. The Seven Worthies were my mates in discoursing on the Way; The Six Idlers were my friends in answering song with song. Chinking like jade, striking like gold—no petty stuff— A nature born of Heaven, roaming with the immortals."
The Firm-Jointed Eighteenth Duke laughed:
"More than a thousand years are mine, Darkly chaste and lovely, at ease with all that is. The power of rain and dew is to be pitied and prized, Borrowed from the crafting secret of Heaven and Earth. Through ten thousand ravines of wind and mist I alone flourish; Through all four seasons, scattered and free, I let my needles thin. I spread my emerald canopy to shelter immortal guests, And play at chess and pluck the zither, discoursing on the Dao."
Sanzang gave his thanks and said: "You four immortal elders all enjoy great age, and the Firm Joint Elder has passed a thousand years and more besides. Attaining the Way in such old age, with such a clear and singular bearing—could you be the Four Greybeards of the Han dynasty?"
The four elders said: "You flatter us! You flatter us! We are not the Four Greybeards, but the four Men of Firm Integrity of the deep mountains. May we presume to ask the holy monk his years?"
Sanzang pressed his palms together and bowed:
"Forty years ago I left my mother's womb, But before my birth my fate was already marked by calamity. Fleeing for life, I fell into the water and drifted on the waves; By good fortune at Gold Mountain I cast off my mortal frame. I nourished my nature and read the scriptures without ever slacking; With a sincere heart I worshipped the Buddha—dare I linger or delay? Now by the command of the emperor I journey west, And on the road I am honored by the immortal elders' gracious regard."
All four elders praised him: "The holy monk has followed the Buddhist faith from the very moment he left his mother's womb. Truly he is one who has cultivated the Way from childhood, a monk of the true and upright school. We are fortunate to meet you face to face, and would presume to beg your great instruction. If you would favor us with a little of your Chan teaching, it would console us for a lifetime."
Hearing this, the elder was moved and showed no fear. Facing them all, he said:
"Chan means stillness, and the Dharma means deliverance. Deliverance within stillness can only be achieved through awakening. Awakening is washing the mind and cleansing the thoughts, casting off the vulgar and leaving the dusty world behind. The human body is hard to obtain, to be born in the Central Land is hard, and the true Dharma is hard to encounter: to have all three complete is fortune beyond measure. With the highest virtue and the wondrous Way, vague and mysterious, the six roots and the six consciousnesses may then be swept away. Bodhi is neither death nor birth, neither surplus nor lack, embracing both emptiness and form, dismissing both sage and commoner. Seek the truth of the hammer and tongs of the Primal Origin; awaken to the reality of the Tathagata's means. Unfold the formless and trample Nirvana to pieces. You must awaken within awakening and perceive within perception, guarding well the single spark of numinous light. Release the blazing flame to shine upon the Saha world, and stride freely through the Dharma realm, revealed alone. At the deepest subtlety, hold fast—who can be ferried across the Dark Pass by word of mouth alone? I have long cultivated the Chan of the Great Awakening; only with affinity and resolve can one remember and awaken."
The four elders bent their ears to this, delighted beyond measure, and each bowed in homage, prostrating themselves and giving thanks. "The holy monk is the very root of awakening in the Chan mystery!" they said.
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds said: "Chan may be stillness and the Dharma may be deliverance, but still one must settle the nature and make sincere the heart. Even one who becomes a great awakened immortal must in the end sit in the Way of the unborn. Our own mystery is vastly different."
Sanzang said: "The Way is not an ordinary thing; substance and function are one. How are you different?"
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds laughed:
"We are all born firm and solid, and our substance and function differ from yours. We feel Heaven and Earth to give us life, and receive dew and rain to nourish our beauty. We laugh in pride at wind and frost, and while away the sun and moon. Not a single leaf of us withers; a thousand branches keep their integrity. Your words do not knock at the gate of the Void; you cling to the Sanskrit teachings. The Dao was originally at rest in the Central Land, yet you go to seek enlightenment in the West. You waste your straw sandals—what is it you think you are searching for? The stone lion has had its heart and liver gouged out, and the wild fox's spittle has soaked through to your very marrow. Forgetting your root to meditate on Chan, vainly seeking the fruit of Buddhahood—all this is but the riddle-talk of the creepers of Bramble Ridge, the tangled speech of the vines. How could such gentlemen be guided across? By such measures, how could the seal be conferred? You must examine the face before your eyes; within stillness there is a livelihood of its own. Draw water with a bottomless bamboo basket; let the rootless iron tree burst into flower. Plant your feet firmly on the peak of Numinous Treasure, and come back to the elegant assembly of the Dragon Flower."
At these words Sanzang knocked his head on the ground in thanks. The Eighteenth Duke reached out a hand to support him, and Duke Guzhi pulled him to his feet. Master Lingkong burst into a great laugh: "The words of the Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds have plainly let too much slip. Holy monk, please rise—do not believe everything he says. We have taken advantage of this bright moon not to discourse on cultivation, but to chant poetry and be at ease, to let our feelings range free."
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds smiled and pointed at the stone house: "If you wish to chant, come into my little hermitage for a cup of tea—how would that be?"
The elder did indeed draw himself up and look at the stone house. On the door were carved three large characters: "Muxian Hermitage." So they went in together, and when the seats were settled, the bare-bodied ghostly messenger appeared, bearing a tray of poria cakes, and presented five cups of fragrant broth. The four elders invited Tang Sanzang to eat first, but Sanzang was startled and suspicious, and dared not touch them. Only after the four elders had all partaken did Sanzang eat two pieces and drink a cup of the fragrant broth, and the tray was taken away.
Sanzang looked about him warily. Everything in the place was exquisite and luminous, as if seen by moonlight:
Water flows out by the rocks; Fragrance wafts in from the flowers. The whole hall is pure and elegant, Without a single speck of dust.
Seeing such an immortal scene, the elder was greatly pleased. His heart opened with delight, and unable to restrain himself he intoned a line:
"Chan mind is like the moon—remote, without a speck of dust."
The Firm Joint Elder laughed and capped it:
"Poetic inspiration like the sky—freshly blue, ever renewed."
Duke Guzhi said: "Fine lines cut idly, woven into brocade."
Master Lingkong said: "A perfect text, unwritten, spits out rare gems."
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds said: "The Six Dynasties' splendor washed away entire; The Four Beginnings recarved, Elegance and Panegyric set apart."
Sanzang said: "Your disciple blurted out a few careless words—truly a case of wielding an axe before Lu Ban, the master carpenter. But I have just heard you immortals' words, fresh and free and ethereal. You are true poets indeed."
The Firm Joint Elder said: "The holy monk need not stand on ceremony. A man of religion must finish what he begins. Since you have made the opening line, why is there no closing one? I pray you complete it."
"Your disciple cannot," said Sanzang. "I must trouble the Eighteenth Duke to round it off into a finished piece—that would be best."
"What a heartless man you are!" said Firm Joint. "You set the line going—why refuse to bring it to fruit? To hoard your pearls and gems is no way to behave."
Sanzang had no choice but to add the final two lines:
"Pillowed half among the pine winds before the tea is brewed, My chanting heart free and easy, my breast all full of spring."
"A fine line!" said the Eighteenth Duke. "'My chanting heart free and easy, my breast all full of spring'!"
Duke Guzhi said: "Firm Joint, you have a deep taste for the flavor of poetry, and so you keep chewing it over. Why not begin another piece?"
The Eighteenth Duke did not decline. "Then I shall begin with a link-stitch line:
Spring brings no blooming, winter no withering; Clouds come and mists go, as if all were nothing."
Master Lingkong said: "I too will follow the same chain-link device with two lines:
Without wind, my dancing shadow sways; With guests, a picture of fortune and long life to admire."
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds capped it in turn:
"A picture like the Old Man of Firm Joints of the western hills, As pure as the heartless fellow of the southern land."
Duke Guzhi also capped it:
"The fellow, for his side-leaves, is called a beam and ridgepole; The terrace, for its cross-boughs, is made the censor's crow."
The elder listened and praised him without end: "Truly 'Spring Snow'—the loftiest music, its spirit piercing the sky! Your disciple, unworthy as he is, dares to set another couplet going."
Duke Guzhi said: "The holy monk is a man of the Way, a man of great nurture. There is no need for more linked lines. Pray favor us with a whole poem, so that we may strive to answer it as best we can."
Sanzang could not refuse. Laughing, he intoned a full regulated verse:
"Staff in hand I come from the east to worship the Dharma King, Wishing to seek the wondrous canon and spread it far. The gold zhi, thrice blooming, is the poetry altar's auspice; The precious tree of a thousand flowers holds the lotus scent. At the top of the hundred-foot pole one must still press forward; In all the ten directions one establishes deed and trace. Cultivate a body solemn as the jade elephant, And before the gate of Paradise lies your field of enlightenment."
When the four elders had heard it out, they all praised him to the skies. The Eighteenth Duke said: "This unworthy old man, though he has no talent, will presume upon your good nature and strain to answer with one of his own." And he said:
"Firm-jointed, lone and proud, I laugh at the king of trees; The sacred cedar cannot match my renown. On the empty mountain my dragon-serpent shadow spreads a hundred fathoms; From the spring wells the fragrance of a thousand-year amber. I know how to lend the world its spirit and its mettle, And joyfully, through wind and rain, shift my going and my hiding. Old and worn, I am ashamed to lack an immortal's bones; Only poria paste knits together my field of long life."
Duke Guzhi said: "The opening of this poem is bold and grand, and the linked lines are strong, but the closing is too self-deprecating by far. Admirable! Admirable! This unworthy old man will answer with one of his own." And he said:
"My frosty form is glad to give the king of birds a roost; Before the Hall of the Four Wonders my great timber is displayed. Heavy dew like a fringe of pearls veils my emerald canopy; A light wind, and the stone teeth shatter the cold fragrance. In the long corridor, still at night, my chanting note sounds faint; In the old hall's autumn shade my pale shadow lies hidden. On the first day of the year, welcoming spring, I once offered long life; In my old age I lodge my pride upon this mountain plot."
Master Lingkong laughed and said: "Fine poems! Fine poems! Truly they touch the heart of the moon and the mind of Heaven. What can this unworthy old man answer with? Yet I must not let the moment pass in silence, and must drag out a few lines for talk's sake." And he said:
"Timber for beam and ridgepole, I draw near to emperors and kings; Beyond the palace of Grand Purity my fame is raised. In the bright pavilion it seems a green vapor comes to greet me; Along the dark walls ever drifts my emerald fragrance. My sturdy joints stand awe-inspiring, lovely through a thousand ages; My deep roots are knotted firm, hidden in the nine springs. My cloud-scaling might canopies my dancing shadow, And has no share in the gaudy courts of common flowers."
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds said: "The poems of you three elders are lofty and elegant, clear and pure—truly the brocade-sack flung wide open. This body of mine has no strength, and this belly of mine no talent; but having received your three elders' instruction, my benighted mind has been opened at last. I have no choice but to smear out a few doggerel lines—I pray you do not laugh at me." His poem said:
"In the garden of Qi'ao I rejoice with the sage-kings; Along the Wei River a thousand acres spread at my will. My emerald culms are unstained by the tears of the Xiang maidens; My mottled sheaths could hand down the fragrance of the Han histories. Frosted leaves, from of old, never change their hue; Misty tips—from now on, what color can they hide? Since Ziyou departed, my connoisseurs are few; Yet my name endures through the ages in the realm of ink and brush."
[Translator's note: Ziyou, or Wang Huizhi of the Jin dynasty, was famous for his devotion to bamboo.]
Sanzang said: "The poems of you immortal elders are verily the spitting of phoenixes and the spraying of pearls—even Zixia and Zigong could add nothing to them. I am deeply moved by your great affection and noble feeling. But the night is already deep, and I do not know where my three little disciples may be waiting for me. I fear your disciple cannot stay long, and would presume to take my leave to go search for them. Your boundless kindness will always be with me. I beg the immortal elders to show me the way back."
The four elders laughed: "Holy monk, be not concerned. This is a rare meeting across a thousand years, and besides, the sky is clear and fine—though the night is deep, the moon shines bright as day. Sit a while longer; when dawn comes we shall escort you far across the ridge, and you may be sure your worthy disciples will be met again."
Just as they were speaking, two maids in blue appeared outside the stone house, carrying between them a pair of crimson gauze lanterns, and behind them came a fairy maiden. The maiden held a sprig of apricot blossom in her hand and, smiling, entered to greet them.
What did the fairy maiden look like? She was:
Dressed in jade-green of the finest kind, Her rosy face outshone the very rouge. Star-bright eyes with light agleam, Moth-wing brows both pretty and even. Below, a light red skirt of five-hued plum; Above, a short jacket of smoke-through-fire gauze. Her arched shoes curved like phoenix beaks, Her silk stockings stitched with brocade flowers. Bewitching, pretty as the fairies of Mount Tiantai, A match for the famous charms of Daji of old.
The four elders rose and asked: "Whence comes the Apricot Fairy?"
The girl made a deep bow to them all and said: "Knowing that a fine guest was here exchanging verses, I have come especially to visit and presume to beg a sight of him."
The Eighteenth Duke pointed at Tang Sanzang and said: "The fine guest is here—no need to ask for a sight of him!"
Sanzang bowed, but dared not speak.
The girl called: "Serve tea at once." Two maids in yellow brought a red-lacquered tray, on which stood six fine porcelain tea cups. In the cups were laid several rare fruits, with spoons resting across them, and they carried a white teapot inlaid with brass, from which a fragrant tea steamed. When the tea was poured, the girl slightly revealed fingers like spring scallions, took up a porcelain cup and offered it first to Sanzang, then to the four elders, and then took a cup for herself to keep them company.
"Why does the Apricot Fairy not sit?" asked Master Lingkong. Only then did the girl take a seat.
When the tea was done, she rose and said: "The immortal elders are making great merry tonight. Would you not favor me with some of your fine verses?"
The Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds said: "All our words are the talk of boors. Only the holy monk's are true High-Tang compositions, worthy of all praise and admiration."
"If you would not begrudge your instruction," said the girl, "pray let me see them." The four elders then recited Sanzang's earlier and later poems and his discourse on the Chan doctrine, one after another.
The girl, beaming with spring, said to them all: "Your humble maid is without talent and should not make a fool of herself before you. But having heard such fine lines, I feel the occasion should not pass empty. Might I presume to strain an answering poem to the latter piece?" And she intoned aloud:
"Above, the canopy keeps the name of Emperor Wu of Han; In the age of Zhou, Confucius set up his altar-ground. Immortal Dong loved me, and my groves grew thick; Sun Chu once cherished my fragrance at the Cold Food feast. Rain moistens my rosy form, delicate and tender; Mist steams my emerald hue, now revealed, now hid. I know myself too ripe, with a little sourness about me; Where I fall, year after year, I keep company with the threshing floor."
Hearing the poem, the four elders all congratulated her, saying: "Clear and elegant, free of all dust—and the lines hold the very breath of spring. A fine couplet, 'Rain moistens my rosy form, delicate and tender'!"
The girl laughed softly: "I am all shame! All shame! Just now I heard the holy monk's verse, and truly it is a brocade heart and an embroidered mouth. If you would not begrudge your pearls and jade, pray favor me with a piece as well." Tang Sanzang dared not answer.
The girl, gradually warming to a fondness for him, edged and sidled closer until she sat near his side, and in a low voice said to him: "Good guest, don't be so reserved. With such a lovely night before us, if we do not play a while, what are we to do? The light of a man's life—how much of it is there, after all?"
The Eighteenth Duke said: "The Apricot Fairy has altogether a high regard for you. How can the holy monk refuse to bend down toward her? If you do not take pity on her, you show yourself lacking in understanding."
Duke Guzhi said: "The holy monk is a man of the Way and of name, and would never do anything lightly. This very proceeding, however, is a fault we are taking upon ourselves—to sully a man's name and ruin a man's virtue is not the way of one who sees far. If the Apricot Fairy is truly willing, let the Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds and the Eighteenth Duke be the go-betweens, and Master Lingkong and I the sponsors of the match. Would it not be a lovely thing to bring about this union?"
At these words Sanzang's face changed color. He sprang to his feet and cried aloud: "You are all a pack of evil things, tempting me so! It was all very well to talk of tempering the mind, to discourse on mysteries and the Way—but now you would use a beauty-trap to deceive and harm a poor monk! What is the meaning of this!"
When the four elders saw Sanzang enraged, they bit their fingers in fright, one and all, and said not another word.
But the bare-bodied ghostly messenger raged like thunder: "You monk, you don't know a good thing when you see it! What is wrong with my sister here? Her looks are handsome and refined, her jade-like form is delicate and lovely—and setting aside her skill with needle and thread, this very gift for poetry of hers is enough to match you. How can you refuse her like this! Do not let the chance slip! What Duke Guzhi said is quite right. If you will not have her by the rules of ceremony, then I shall be the one to officiate at your wedding!"
Sanzang went pale with fright, and whatever nonsense they talked, he would not consent. The ghostly messenger said again: "You monk! We speak to you in all good words and fair speech, and you will not listen. If we rouse our rustic tempers, we shall carry you off altogether and make it so you can neither be a monk nor take a wife—would that not be a life thrown away in vain?"
The elder's heart was as firm as metal and stone, and he would not yield. He thought to himself: "My disciples are somewhere looking for me, I know not where!" At the thought, he could not hold back the tears that fell from his eyes.
The girl, smiling, sidled up to his side, drew from her emerald sleeve a honey-colored silk handkerchief, and wiped his tears for him. "Good guest, do not be troubled. Come, let me lean against you and warm myself in your fragrance—let us go and play a while."
The elder gave a shout of rebuke, sprang to his feet, and made to leave, but the others grabbed him and pulled him this way and that, and so they wrangled until daybreak.
Suddenly they heard a voice calling: "Master! Master! Where are you talking over there?"
It was the Great Sage Sun, with Bajie and the Sha Monk. Leading the horse and shouldering the luggage, they had not stopped all night, threading through thorns and crossing brambles, searching east and west, until, riding half in cloud and half in mist, they had crossed to the west of the eight-hundred-li Bramble Ridge. There they heard the Tang monk's shout, and so they raised their voices.
The elder struggled out through the door, calling: "Wukong, I am here! Come quickly and save me! Come quickly and save me!"
The four elders, the ghostly messenger, the girl, and the maids—with a flicker, they all vanished.
In a moment Bajie and the Sha Monk were at his side. "Master, how did you come to be here?"
Sanzang clung to the Pilgrim and said: "Disciple, you have had great trouble on my account! That old man we saw last evening, who said he was the local deity bringing offerings—when you shouted and struck at him, he carried me off to this place. He took me by the hand and led me inside, and there were three other old men come to meet me. They all addressed me as the holy monk, and spoke with such elegant conversation and chanted poetry so well that I matched verses with them, until about midnight a beautiful girl appeared, holding a lantern, and came to meet me too. She chanted a poem and called me her fine guest, and because she fancied my looks she sought to take me as her husband. Only then did I see what they were about, and I refused; but they went on, some playing the go-between, some sponsoring the match, some officiating at the wedding. I swore I would never consent, and was struggling to get away and arguing with them when, as luck would have it, you arrived. For one thing, dawn had come; for another, they were afraid of you—they were still tugging and dragging at me when, all at once, they vanished."
"Since you chatted and exchanged verses with them," said the Pilgrim, "didn't you ask their names?"
"I asked their names," said Sanzang. "That old man is called the Eighteenth Duke, and his name is Firm Joint; the second is Duke Guzhi; the third, Master Lingkong; the fourth, the Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds. And the girl is known as the Apricot Fairy."
"Where are these creatures, then?" asked Bajie. "Which way did they go?"
"I do not know where they went," said Sanzang, "but the place where they discussed poetry is not far from here."
The three of them went with their master to look, and there they saw a stone cliff, and on the cliff the characters "Muxian Hermitage."
"This is the very place," said Sanzang.
The Pilgrim examined it closely, and saw that they were a great juniper tree, an old cypress, an old pine, and an old bamboo, with a red maple behind the bamboo. Looking further across the cliff, there were also an old apricot, two wintersweet shrubs, and two osmanthus trees.
"Did you see any demon?" asked the Pilgrim.
"No," said Bajie.
"What you don't know," said the Pilgrim, "is that it was these very trees that have turned into spirits here."
"Elder brother, how do you know the spirits are trees?" asked Bajie.
"The Eighteenth Duke is the pine," said the Pilgrim, "Duke Guzhi the cypress, Master Lingkong the juniper, the Old Man Who Brushes the Clouds the bamboo, the bare-bodied ghost the maple, the Apricot Fairy the apricot tree, and the maids the osmanthus and the wintersweet."
Hearing this, Bajie, without stopping to ask whether they were good or bad, fell to with his rake—a flurry of blows and a few long thrusts of his snout, digging and hacking—until he had leveled the two wintersweet shrubs, the osmanthus, the old apricot, and the maple, all thrown to the ground; and sure enough, fresh blood streamed from beneath their roots.
Sanzang came up and caught hold of him. "Wuneng, you must not hurt them! Though they had achieved their powers, they never harmed me. Let us find our road and be on our way."
"Master, do not spare them," said the Pilgrim. "I fear that if they are left to become great demons in days to come, they will do no small harm to people."
That blockhead, in for a penny, fell to with a good flurry of his rake and knocked down the pine, the cypress, the juniper, and the bamboo all at once. Only then did he invite the master to mount his horse, and following the main road, they all continued west.
But what lay before them we do not know—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.