The story continues: the Great Sage Sun supported the Tang monk, and together with Bajie and the Sha Monk hurried out onto the great road, heading due west. They had gone barely half a morning when they suddenly came upon a place of storied towers and pavilions, palaces rising grand and high.
The Tang monk reined in his horse: "Disciples, look—what sort of place is that?"
The Pilgrim raised his head to look, and this is what he saw: hills ringed with towers, streams winding among terraces. Before the gate, mixed trees stood dense and dark; outside the walls, wild flowers shone fragrant and bright. White egrets perched among the willows, spotless as flawless jade in the mist; golden orioles warbled in the peach trees, like gold with color glowing in fire. Wild deer, pair upon pair, roamed carefree upon the green sward; mountain birds, couple after couple, chattered and sang on high in the red-tipped trees. It was truly like the Tiantai grotto of Liu and Ruan, no whit inferior to the immortal gardens of Langyuan.
[Translator's note: Liu Chen and Ruan Zhao, men of the Han who lost their way in the Tiantai mountains and dwelt among immortal maidens.]
The Pilgrim reported: "Master, that place is no mansion of prince or marquis, no house of the rich and great—it looks like a monastery or abbey. We shall know for certain when we get there."
Hearing this, Sanzang whipped his horse onward. Master and disciples came up to the gate and looked: a stone tablet was set into the gateway, bearing three characters—"Yellow Flower Temple."
Sanzang dismounted. Bajie said: "The Yellow Flower Temple is the house of a Daoist. Let's go in and meet him—it will do well enough. Though his cap and gown differ from ours, the practice of the Way is one and the same."
The Sha Monk said: "Well said. For one thing, we can go in and see the grounds; for another, it will serve to rest the horse and beast. And if it's convenient, we can get some food arranged for Master."
The elder agreed, and the four of them went in together. On the second gate hung a pair of spring couplets: "Yellow Sprout and White Snow, the mansion of the immortals; jade grass and wonder-flowers, the home of the feathered men." The Pilgrim laughed: "This will be one of those sulfur-burning, drug-refining, furnace-fussing, pot-lugging Daoists." Sanzang pinched him: "Speak softly! Speak softly! We're not acquainted with him, nor related; we're only passing an hour or two in his company—what does it matter what he is?" Before the words were done, they passed the second gate, and there was the main hall shut fast; beneath the east colonnade sat a Daoist, rolling pills of medicine.
Just look at how he was dressed: on his head a glaring-red crown inlaid with gold; on his body a robe of darkest black; on his feet a pair of green cloud-toed shoes; round his waist a yellow sash of the Lord Lü pattern. A face like wrought iron; eyes like the bright stars. A nose high and large as a Hui man's; lips upturned and spread like a Tartar's. Within his Daoist heart, a hidden thunderclap—a very feathered man who subdues tigers and tames dragons.
When Sanzang saw him, he called out in a loud voice: "Old Immortal, this poor monk greets you." The Daoist looked up with a start, and at the very sight his heart jumped; he dropped the pills from his hands, straightened his hairpin, set his clothes in order, and came down the steps to receive them: "Venerable Father, forgive my failure to welcome you! Pray come inside and sit."
The elder went happily up into the hall, pushed the door open, and saw the sacred images of the Three Pure Ones; on the altar table stood a censer with incense. He took up incense and set it in the censer, bowed three full rounds of worship, and only then exchanged courtesies with the Daoist. They went to the guests' seats, and he sat down together with his disciples.
The Daoist hastily called an immortal boy to serve tea. Two little boys went at once within, hunting up the tea tray, washing the teacups, wiping the tea spoons, laying out the tea fruits—running about busily, and early disturbing those several old enemies.
Now the seven female demons of the Coiled Silk Cave had studied their arts in the same hall with this Daoist; and once dressed in their old clothes and having called out their sons, they had come straight to this place. They were in the back, cutting and sewing clothes, when they saw the boys preparing tea, and asked: "Lads, what guests have come, to make such a bustle?"
"Four monks have just come in," said the immortal boys, "and Master told us to serve tea."
The female demons said: "Is there a plump white monk among them?"
"There is."
"And is there one with a long snout and big ears?"
"There is."
The female demons said: "Go quickly, serve your tea, and give your master a wink of the eye—have him come in here. We have weighty matters to discuss."
Sure enough, the immortal boys carried out the five cups of tea. The Daoist gathered his robe, took up one cup with both hands, and presented it to Sanzang; then he served Bajie, the Sha Monk, and the Pilgrim.
When the tea was drunk and the cups cleared, the little boys gave their wink, and the Daoist rose from his seat: "Honored guests, pray be seated." He told the boys: "Put up the tea tray and bear them company; I must step away, but I shall return at once." Then the elder and his disciples, with one little boy, went out of the hall to look about—but of that no more.
The story turns: the Daoist walked into the abbot's quarters, and the seven women all knelt down together, crying: "Brother! Brother! Hear your little sisters one moment!"
The Daoist raised them up with his hand: "When you came this morning, you wanted to speak with me; but of all days I was rolling medicine today, and this batch must not be seen by women, so I did not answer you. And now there are guests outside—say what you have to say slowly."
The demons said: "We must tell you, brother—this business could only be spoken of because the guests have come; once the guests are gone, all the telling in the world would be useless."
The Daoist laughed: "Listen to your talk, dear sisters! What could only be said because guests have come? Aren't you deranged? Never mind that I am a quiet cultivator of immortality—even were I a common man of the world, with wife and children and household affairs, I would still wait until the guests were gone to settle things. What bad management is this—putting a fool's mask on me! Let me go out."
The demons all clutched at him together: "Brother, calm your anger. We ask you: these guests in the front—from what quarter do they come?" The Daoist turned his face away and would not answer. The demons said: "Just now the little boys came in for the tea things, and we heard them say: four monks." The Daoist said in anger: "Monks, so what?" The demons said: "Four monks—and one of them is white-faced and plump, one long-snouted and big-eared. Did you ask them, brother, where they come from?" The Daoist said: "There are those two among them, now that you say it. How do you know? Have you seen them somewhere?" The women said: "Brother, you do not know the ins and outs of this. That monk is one sent by the Tang court to the Western Heaven to fetch scriptures. This morning he came to our cave to beg food, and truly, sisters, having heard the name of the Tang monk, we seized him."
The Daoist said: "What did you seize him for?"
The women said: "We had long heard it said that the Tang monk is the true body of ten lifetimes' cultivation, and that whoever eats a piece of his flesh gains long life. So we took him. But then that long-snouted, big-eared monk trapped us in the Spring of Washing Away Stain: first he snatched our clothes, and then, flaunting his powers, he forced his way in to bathe with us, and we could not stop him. He leapt into the water, changed into a catfish, and went wriggling in and out between our legs, meaning to have his will of us—of all the lazy, shameless wretches! Then he leapt out of the water, showed his true form, and when he saw we would not submit, he took up a nine-toothed rake and threatened our very lives. Had we not had some presence of mind, we had well-nigh fallen into his cruel hands. So we fled trembling for our lives, and sent your poor nephews out to fight him—we do not know if they live or die. We have come especially to throw ourselves upon our brother, and we pray you, brother, for the sake of our old days as classmates in the same hall, be the one to avenge us!"
At these words the Daoist's anger kindled, and his voice and face changed: "So this monk is a brute like that! A lazy, shameless wretch! Set your minds at ease, all of you—leave him to me to dispose of!" The women thanked him: "Brother, if you mean to act, let us all come and help you beat him."
The Daoist said: "No need to beat him! No need to beat him! As the common saying goes, 'one blow, and you're three parts the lower.' Come along with me, all of you."
The women followed at his right and left. He went into his chamber, fetched a ladder, passed behind the bed, climbed to the roof-beam, and took down a little leather chest. The chest stood some eight inches high, a foot long, and four inches wide, secured with a small bronze lock. From his sleeve he drew a square goose-yellow silk handkerchief, and knotted to the handkerchief's corner was a tiny key.
He opened the lock and took out a packet of medicine. And this medicine was:
The droppings of a hundred birds of the mountains, Swept and gathered, a thousand catties' weight. Boiled in a cauldron of copper, Simmered slow with fire evenly timed. A thousand catties stewed down to a single ladle; A single ladle refined to three parts. The three parts roasted yet again, Forged once more and smoked once more. Thus is this poison compounded, More precious than treasure or pearl. Taste but the least savor of it— At the mouth's first touch you see King Yama!
The Daoist said to the seven women: "Sisters, this treasure of mine—if a common mortal eats it, one li is quite enough: into the belly, and he dies. If an immortal eats it, three li will finish him. These monks may well have some cultivation in them—three li apiece it must be. Quick, fetch the little scale."
[Translator's note: the li is the smallest of apothecaries' weights; ten li make one fen.]
One of the women hastily brought a tiny scale. "Weigh out one fen and two li," said the Daoist, "and divide it into four shares." Then she took twelve red jujubes, pinched each one slightly open, tucked in a li of the poison, and set them in four tea cups; two black jujubes went into a single cup, and this she placed on a tray. She said to the women: "Wait till I go and ask him. If they are not from Tang, well and good; but if they are come from Tang, I'll call for the tea to be changed—and you are to have this tray carried out by the boys. Once they have drunk it, every one of them dies, and your revenge is accomplished and your troubles at an end."
The seven women were gratitude itself.
The Daoist changed his robe and came walking out with a show of courtesy and respect, inviting the Tang monk and the rest back into the guest seats: "Venerable Father, forgive me! Just now I went to the back to instruct my young disciples to pick some green vegetables and radishes and lay on a vegetarian meal in your honor—that is why I left you."
Sanzang said: "This poor monk came to pay his respects empty-handed—how dare I trouble you for a meal?" The Daoist laughed: "You and I are both men who have left the world; whoever presents himself at the mountain gate is owed his three pints of allowance rice—what is this talk of empty hands? May I ask the Venerable Father, from what precious mountain, and on what errand?"
Sanzang said: "This poor monk is one sent from the great Tang empire of the East to fetch scriptures at the Great Thunderclap Monastery in the Western Heaven. Just now I passed your immortal palace, and came in with all devotion to pay my respects."
Hearing this, the Daoist's whole face bloomed with spring: "The Venerable Father is a loyal and greatly virtuous Buddha! This poor Daoist knew it not, and failed to wait upon you at a distance—forgive me! Forgive me!" He called: "Boys! Go quickly and change the tea, and at the same time hasten with the meal!" The little boys went in—and the women beckoned to them: "Here is good tea, ready made—carry it out." And sure enough, the boys carried out the five cups.
The Daoist hastily took up, with both hands, the cup with its red jujubes and presented it to the Tang monk. Seeing Bajie's bulk, he took him for the eldest disciple, and the Sha Monk for the second; seeing the Pilgrim's small stature, he took him for the third—and so it was the fourth cup he presented to the Pilgrim.
But the Pilgrim's eyes were sharp. Taking his cup, he had already marked that the cup on the tray held two black jujubes. He said: "Sir, let you and I trade cups."
The Daoist laughed: "I'll not deceive the Venerable One. A poor Daoist of the wild hills—tea fruits are not always to hand. Just now I went in person to hunt up fruits in the back, and found only these twelve red jujubes, which I made into four cups to offer you. I could not sit by empty-handed, so I took two inferior dark jujubes for my own cup—this is merely my poor token of respect."
The Pilgrim laughed: "What talk is that? As the ancients said, 'At home no man is poor; on the road, poverty kills.' You are a man with a home—how can you call yourself poor? It's we traveling monks who are the truly poor. Let's trade, let's trade." Sanzang heard this and said: "Wukong, this holy master is only showing his regard for his guests. Drink it up—why trade?" The Pilgrim had no choice; he took the cup in his left hand and covered it with his right, watching the others.
Now Bajie—hungry, and thirsty too, with that great bread-basket of his—saw the three red jujubes in his cup, lifted it, and gulgged them all down into his belly. The master drank, and the Sha Monk drank. In an instant, watch: Bajie's face changed color, the Sha Monk's eyes brimmed with running tears, and the Tang monk frothed at the mouth; none of them could keep their seats, but swooned and fell to the floor.
The Great Sage knew at once it was poison. He raised the tea cup in his hand and flung it, cup and all, full into the Daoist's face; the Daoist fended it off with his sleeve, and with a clang the cup smashed to pieces on the floor.
The Daoist said in fury: "You monk—what boorish rudeness! Why did you smash my cup?"
The Pilgrim cursed: "You beast! Look what you have done to my three men! What quarrel had I with you, that you drug my people with poisoned tea?"
The Daoist said: "You clodhopping beast—you have brought this trouble down on yourself. Do you not know it?"
The Pilgrim said: "We had just entered your gate, had barely taken our seats and spoken of our home places, never one high word—what trouble could we have brought down?"
The Daoist said: "Did you, or did you not, beg food at the Coiled Silk Cave? Did you, or did you not, bathe at the Spring of Washing Away Stain?"
The Pilgrim said: "The Spring of Washing Away Stain belongs to seven female demons. Since you say this, you must be in league with them—you must be a demon yourself! Don't run! Take my cudgel!"
What a Great Sage! From his ear he drew out the gold-banded cudgel, flourished it to the thickness of a rice bowl, and brought it crashing down at the Daoist's face. The Daoist spun aside to dodge it, took up a precious sword, and came on to meet him. The two of them cursed and fought, and the noise soon roused the female demons within.
All seven came surging out, crying: "Brother, don't trouble yourself—let your little sisters take him!"
The Pilgrim saw them, and his wrath redoubled; with the iron cudgel wheeling in both hands he spread his strokes and rolled in among them, hacking wildly. At that, the seven bared their bosoms, thrust out their snow-white bellies, and worked their magic from the navel-holes: silk cords came gushing out in tangles, and reared up a canopy of silk that covered the Pilgrim beneath it.
The Pilgrim saw that things were going badly; he vaulted over, recited a spell-word, turned a somersault, and with a crash burst through the silk canopy and escaped. Mastering his temper, he hung sulking in midair and looked: the demons' silk cords gleamed and glistened, crossing and recrossing like the shuttle-work of warp and weft, and in a moment they had veiled every tower and terrace, hall and pavilion of the Yellow Flower Temple, till not a shadow or shape of it remained.
The Pilgrim said: "Formidable! Formidable! It is well I never fell into their hands! No wonder Zhu Bajie took all those falls! But what is to be done now? My master and my brother-disciples have swallowed the poison, and this pack of demons is of one mind and one will—and I don't know what their provenance may be. Let me go ask the local deity once more."
What a Great Sage! He brought down his cloud, knotted the spell-signs, recited the true word "Om," and summoned the old local deity once again. The deity came trembling and knelt by the roadside, knocking his head: "Great Sage—you went to save your master; why have you come back?"
The Pilgrim said: "This morning I saved my master, and we had gone no great way when we came upon a Yellow Flower Temple. My master and the rest of us went in to look around, and the abbot received us. Just as we were exchanging words, he drugged my master and the others with poisoned tea. I alone had not drunk, and I struck at him with my cudgel; but he spoke of the begging at the Coiled Silk Cave and the bathing at the Spring of Washing Away Stain—and then I knew the rascal for a demon. I had scarcely raised my hand against him when out ran the seven women, spewing out their silk cords; only my presence of mind saved old Sun. I reckon that since you are a god in these parts, you must know their provenance. What demons are they? Speak the truth, and spare yourself a beating!"
The local deity knocked his head and said: "The demons have not dwelt here above ten years. Since your little god's inspection three years ago, I have seen their true forms: they are seven spider spirits. Those cords they spew are spider silk."
Hearing this, the Pilgrim was greatly pleased: "By what you say, they are small fry. If that is how it is, go back—I shall work a spell and subdue them myself." The local deity knocked his head and departed.
The Pilgrim then went outside the Yellow Flower Temple, plucked seventy hairs from his tail, blew on them a breath of immortal air, cried "Change!"—and they became seventy little Pilgrims. He blew another breath of immortal air on the gold-banded cudgel, cried "Change!"—and it became seventy double-horned fork-staves, one for each little Pilgrim. One he wielded himself, standing outside, and all together they stirred up the silk cords with their forks, heaving in unison with a great work-cry, till they had tangled every cord asunder; each had wound off ten-odd catties of it. Out from within they dragged seven spiders, bodies as big as bushel baskets, every one with limbs huddled and head roped, crying: "Spare us! Spare us!" The seventy little Pilgrims pinned the seven spiders down—how would they let them go?
The Pilgrim said: "Don't beat them yet. Only tell them: give me back my master and my brother-disciples!"
The demons cried out at the top of their voices: "Brother! Give him back his Tang monk—save our lives!" The Daoist came running out from within: "Sisters, I mean to eat the Tang monk—I cannot save you!"
Hearing this, the Pilgrim blazed with fury: "You will not give me back my master? Then watch what your sisters look like!" What a Great Sage! He flourished the fork-staves back into one iron cudgel, raised it in both hands, and beat the seven spider spirits to a pulp—seven bags of mangled flesh, dripping with gore. Then he gave his tail two shakes, gathered up his hairs, and single-handed, cudgel in hand, charged in after the Daoist to beat him.
The Daoist, seeing his sisters-in-art beaten to death, could not bear it in his heart; he hardened himself, raised his sword, and came on to meet him. And this battle, with wrath in every breast and each displaying his powers to the utmost, was a fine one indeed:
The demon wheels his precious sword; the Great Sage raises his gold-banded band. All for the sake of the Tang dynasty's Sanzang, first he sent the seven women to their doom. Now each unfolds his master-hand, flaunting power, plying arts, playing the martial lord. The Great Sage's divine radiance grand; the demon immortal's courage coarse. Their whole bodies' skill like flowered brocade; their two hands' swift evasion like a well-sweep. Ping-pang, the sword and cudgel ring; bleak and wan, the wild clouds drift. Cutting words and cunning schemes; back and forth like a painted scroll. They fight till the wind cries and the sand flies and wolf and tiger are afraid; Sky dark, earth dim, not a Dipper star left in the heavens.
The Daoist fought the Great Sage through fifty or sixty rounds, and gradually felt his hands grow soft; in a moment his sinews loosened, and he untied his sash—with a sudden rip he stripped off his black robe.
The Pilgrim laughed: "My son! Beaten, and stripping for it—stripping won't save you!"
Now when the Daoist had stripped off his robe he raised both arms together—and behold, beneath his two ribs were a thousand eyes, and from the eyes burst forth golden light, most formidable:
Dense yellow fog; brilliant golden light. Dense yellow fog: from the two flanks it billows like spouting clouds; brilliant golden light: from the thousand eyes it pours like racing fire. Left and right, it is like a golden barrel; east and west, like a bronze bell. This is the demon immortal plying his magic power, the Daoist displaying his arts: it dazzles the eyes and bewilders the sky, veils sun and moon, and wraps a man in a feverish, smothering haze—and thus the Great Sage Sun, Equal to Heaven, is trapped within the golden light and yellow fog.
The Pilgrim lost his footing in consternation, and could only turn round and round within that glow of golden light: forward he could not lift a step, backward he could not move a foot—just like a man turning inside a barrel. And there was no enduring the stifling heat of it. Desperate, he gave one tremendous leap upward—and burst through the golden light, falling head over heels with a crash. He felt his head ache from the blow, stretched up a hand to feel it, and found the crown of his skull knocked soft. He fumed to himself: "Ill luck! Ill luck! This head of mine is good for nothing today! Swords have hacked it and axes chopped it and never scratched it—how can the golden light have knocked the skin soft? It will surely fester with pus; and even if it heals, it will be lockjaw."
For a while he could hardly bear the smart of it; then he reckoned it out for himself: "Forward I cannot go; backward I cannot go; left is no good, right is no good; upward I dare not leap again—what's to be done? Then let me go downward, plague take it!"
What a Great Sage! He recited a spell-word, shook himself, and changed into a pangolin—called in the common tongue the scaly carp. And truly:
Four iron claws, that bore through mountains and crush stone like pounded powder; Scales over all his body, that break ridges and pierce rock like slicing scallions. Two eyes bright, just like a pair of shining stars; One mouth sharp, better than any steel drill or golden awl. In the pharmacopoeia his nature is written "mountain-borer" pangolin; The common folk call him the scaly carp.
Watch him, head down, bore into the earth—he bored a good twenty-odd li before he dared poke his head out. For the golden light had covered only a dozen-odd li.
He came out, showed his true form—his strength gone limp, his sinews numb, his whole body aching, and the tears he could not hold back. Suddenly he cried out despite himself: "Master!
In those years I took the teaching and came out of the mountains, And together we toiled westward through our pains. The great sea's towering waves I never feared— Yet in a roadside gutter I have met the wind!"
The Handsome Monkey King was at the very depth of his sorrow when he suddenly heard someone weeping behind the mountain. He rose on one knee, wiped his tears, and turned to look. He saw a woman dressed in deep mourning, bearing in her left hand a bowl of cold rice-gruel, in her right several sheets of paper money, coming along step by step, a cry at every step.
The Pilgrim nodded and sighed: "Truly, a weeping eye meets a weeping eye; a heartbroken man meets a heartbroken man! What this woman is weeping for, I do not know—let me go and ask her."
Before long the woman came up onto the road, walking straight toward the Pilgrim.
The Pilgrim bowed and asked: "Bodhisattva, for whom do you weep?"
The woman answered through her tears: "My husband fell out with the abbot of the Yellow Flower Temple over the price of a bamboo pole, and the Daoist killed him with poisoned tea. I am burning this sheet of paper money to repay the bond of husband and wife."
Hearing this, the tears started from the Pilgrim's eyes.
The woman saw it, and said in anger: "How ignorant you are! I grieve and sorrow for my husband—and you with your tearful eyes and rueful brows, do you mock me with a false heart?"
The Pilgrim bowed: "Bodhisattva, calm your anger. I am Sun Wukong the Pilgrim, eldest disciple of Tang Sanzang, the sworn brother of the Tang emperor and the Venerable One sent by the great Tang empire of the East. Journeying to the Western Heaven, we halted our horses at the Yellow Flower Temple. The Daoist of that temple—what demon he is, I do not know—has sworn brotherhood and sisterhood with seven spider spirits. Those spider spirits, at the Coiled Silk Cave, would have harmed my master; it was I, with my brother-disciples Bajie and the Sha Monk, who saved and freed him. The spider spirits fled to this place, and bore false tales against us, saying we had meant them treachery. The Daoist then drugged my master and my two brother-disciples—three men, four souls counting the horse—with poisoned tea, and they lie sunk in his temple. I alone did not drink his tea; I smashed the cup, and he fought with me. Just as we were at it, out ran the seven spider spirits, spewing out silk cords to bind me, and only by my magic powers did I escape. I questioned the local deity, who told me their true forms; then I worked my body-dividing spell, tangled their silk cords to pieces, dragged the demons out, and beat them to death with my cudgel. The Daoist, to avenge them, raised his precious sword and fought with me. After sixty rounds he lost the field, stripped off his robe, and from beneath his ribs unleashed a thousand eyes and ten thousand rays of golden light, which pinned me fast. So, unable to advance or retreat, I changed into a scaly carp and bored my way out under the earth. I was deep in this sorrow when suddenly I heard you weeping, and therefore asked. Seeing you with paper money to repay your husband, while my master has lost his life with never a thing to offer him in return, I fell to blaming myself and grieving—how would I dare make sport of you!"
The woman set down the rice-gruel and paper money, and made her apologies to the Pilgrim: "Forgive me—forgive me! I did not know you were the one in trouble. From what you say, you do not know that Daoist. He is in truth the Hundred-Eyed Demon, called also the Many-Eyed Monster. Since you have transformations enough to escape the golden light and fought him all this while, you must have great magic power—but still you cannot come near that rascal. I will direct you to a holy worthy who can break the golden light and subdue the Daoist."
The Pilgrim hastened to raise his hands in thanks: "Bodhisattva, you know the provenance—pray instruct me! If it is truly that holy worthy, I will go and entreat him, to save my master from this peril and avenge your husband besides."
The woman said: "I will tell you outright: go and beg him, and if he subdues the Daoist, you may have your revenge—but I fear he cannot save your master."
The Pilgrim said: "How can he not save him?"
The woman said: "That rascal's poison is the cruelest: once it has felled a man, within three days his very marrow rots. Your going and returning will be too slow, I fear—therefore he cannot save him."
The Pilgrim said: "I know how to travel: were it ten thousand li, a thousand li is but half a day to me."
The woman said: "Since you know how to travel, hear me: from here to that place is a thousand li and more. There is a mountain there called Purple Cloud Mountain, and in the mountain a cave called the Thousand Flower Cave. In the cave dwells a holy worthy called Pilan. She can subdue this monster."
The Pilgrim said: "Where does that mountain stand? Which way must I go?"
The woman pointed with her hand: "Due south, straight before you."
The Pilgrim turned to look back—and the woman had already vanished. He hastened to bow in worship: "Which Bodhisattva was that? Your disciple was dazed with boring through the earth and could not know you—I beg you, leave your name, that I may give thanks!" And from midair came a voice: "Great Sage, it is I." The Pilgrim looked up quickly—it was the Old Mother of Mount Li. He hurried up into the sky to thank her: "Old Mother, from where have you come to instruct me?"
The Old Mother said: "I have just come back from the Dragon-flower Assembly. Seeing your master in peril, I played the mourning wife, borrowing the name of a husband's funeral to save your life. Go quickly and entreat her—but you must not say it was I who instructed you. That holy worthy is somewhat given to finding fault with people."
The Pilgrim gave his thanks and took his leave. With one bound of the somersault cloud he was at once upon Purple Cloud Mountain; he brought his cloud to rest, and there before him was the Thousand Flower Cave. Outside the cave:
Green pines shade the blessed retreat; kingfisher cypresses ring the immortal dwelling. Green willows line the mountain way; wondrous flowers fill the ravine streams. Fragrant orchids fence the house of stone; sweet grasses mirror the mountain's bending folds. Flowing waters join the brooks in jade; cloud seals the ancient trees in emptiness. Wild fowl clamor; quiet deer walk slowly, slowly. Tall bamboo, every branch refined; red plum, every leaf at ease. Winter crows roost in the ancient trees; spring birds sing in the tall ailanthus. Summer wheat fills the broad fields; autumn grain spreads over all the land. Through the four seasons no leaf falls; through the eight terms flowers bloom the same. Ever the auspicious haze rises to join the Milky Way; Ever the propitious clouds reach to the Great Void.
The Great Sage walked in, glad at heart, mile after mile, his eyes never tired of the prospects at the sky's edge. Straight into the innermost depths he went—and not a soul was to be seen: all hushed and still, without so much as the crow of a cock or bark of a dog. He thought to himself: "This holy worthy must be from home."
He walked several li further in, and saw a female Daoist nun sitting upon a couch. Just look at her:
On her head, a brocade cap of five gathered flowers; On her body, a gown of woven gold. On her feet, cloud-point phoenix-head slippers; Round her waist, a twin-tasseled sash of plaited silk. Her face is like autumn's face, aged after the frost; Her voice is like a spring swallow's, sweet before the equinox. Long has she known the Law of the Three Vehicles in her belly; Constantly she cultivates the Four Truths, rich and full. Awakening out of the emptiness of emptiness, she has won the true fruit; Refining clear upon clear, she is free and at her ease. This is the Buddha of the Thousand Flower Cave: Bodhisattva Pilan, high and wide her name.
The Pilgrim could not hold back his feet; he came near and called: "Bodhisattva Pilan, this monk salutes you!"
The Bodhisattva came down from her couch at once, pressed her palms together, and returned the greeting: "Great Sage, forgive my failure to welcome you. From where have you come?"
"How did you know me for the Great Sage?" asked the Pilgrim.
"When you rioted through the Heavenly Palace all those years ago," said Pilan, "your likeness was circulated everywhere. Who does not know it? Who does not know you?"
"Just so—good deeds never leave the gate, but evil travels a thousand li," said the Pilgrim. "Now that I have turned to the Buddha's gate, you hear nothing of it!"
"When did you turn to the truth? My congratulations! My congratulations!"
"Of late I escaped with my life, and now escort my master, the Tang monk, to the Western Heaven for the scriptures. My master met the Daoist of the Yellow Flower Temple, and was drugged with poisoned tea. I fought it out with the rascal, and he let out his golden light and pinned me under it; but I worked my magic and escaped. I heard that the Bodhisattva can quench his golden light, and have come especially to entreat you."
"Who told you this?" said the Bodhisattva. "Since I attended the Ullambana assembly, three hundred years and more ago, I have never gone abroad. I have hidden my name and buried my surname, and not one soul knows of me—how did you come to know?"
"I am a regular lurking ghost," said the Pilgrim. "Wherever it may be, I can sniff it out for myself."
"So be it—so be it," said Pilan. "I ought not to go; yet since the Great Sage has condescended to descend upon me, I must not extinguish the good work of the scripture-seeking. Let us go."
The Pilgrim gave his thanks, then said: "I was over-hasty and ignorant, thrusting myself upon you—but have you brought any weapon?"
"I have an embroidery needle," said the Bodhisattva, "that can break that rascal."
The Pilgrim could not help himself: "The Old Mother has done me a disservice! Had I known it was an embroidery needle, I need not have troubled you—old Sun could have furnished a whole shoulder-load of them!"
"Your embroidery needles are steel and iron and gold, no more—useless," said Pilan. "This treasure of mine is neither steel, nor iron, nor gold: it was refined in the eye of the sun by my little son."
"And who is your son?" asked the Pilgrim.
"My son is the Star Officer Mao, the cockerel of the sun," said Pilan.
The Pilgrim was struck with amazement beyond all telling. And already the golden light blazed bright in the distance; he turned back to Pilan: "Where the golden light is—that is the Yellow Flower Temple."
Pilan drew from her collar an embroidery needle, as thick as an eyebrow-hair and five or six fen long, took it between her fingers, and cast it into the sky. After a moment there was a crack—the golden light was broken.
The Pilgrim rejoiced: "Bodhisattva—marvelous! Marvelous! Find the needle! Find the needle!" Pilan held it out on her palm: "Is this not it?"
The Pilgrim pressed down the cloud with her, and they walked into the temple. There was the Daoist with his eyes shut tight, unable to lift a step.
The Pilgrim cursed: "You brazen monster—playing the blind man, are you!" He drew the cudgel from his ear to strike, but Pilan caught hold of him: "Great Sage, don't strike—let us first look to your master."
The Pilgrim went straight to the guest seats at the back, and there were his three men lying on the floor, spitting and foaming at the mouth. The Pilgrim's tears fell: "What is to be done! What is to be done!"
"Do not grieve, Great Sage," said Pilan. "Since I have come out today, let me make it a whole deed of hidden merit. I have pills that undo poison—let me give you three."
The Pilgrim turned and begged with a bow. The Bodhisattva took from her sleeve a tattered paper packet, and from it handed him three red pills, telling him to put them into their mouths. The Pilgrim pried open their clenched jaws and slipped one pill into each mouth. In a little while the medicine's power sank into their bellies, and all together they retched and vomited, bringing up the poison—and their lives were saved.
Bajie was first to scramble up: "Smothered, I was—smothered!" Sanzang and the Sha Monk both came to: "What a giddiness!" The Pilgrim said: "You took poison in that tea! It was the Bodhisattva Pilan who saved you—quick, all of you, come and give thanks." Sanzang rose, straightened his robes, and gave his thanks.
Bajie said: "Brother—where is that Daoist? Let me go ask him a question or two: why did he do this to us!"
The Pilgrim told the whole story of the spider spirits, and Bajie raged: "The rascal—sworn brother to spiders! A demon beyond doubt!" The Pilgrim pointed: "He's standing outside the hall, playing the blind man." Bajie took up his rake to smash him, but Pilan stopped him again: "Tianpeng, calm your wrath. The Great Sage knows there is no one in my cave—let me take him home to watch my gate for me."
The Pilgrim said: "For such great kindness, what could we do but comply! Only—have him show his true form, that we may all have a look."
"Easy enough," said Pilan. She stepped forward and pointed at him with one finger; the Daoist toppled into the dust, and there was his original body—a great centipede spirit, seven feet long.
Pilan picked it up on the tip of her little finger, mounted her auspicious cloud, and returned straightaway to the Thousand Flower Cave.
Bajie staggered back in awe: "And that old dame is formidable too—how does she bag a wicked thing like that?"
The Pilgrim laughed: "I asked her what weapon she had to break the golden light, and she said an embroidery needle, refined by her son in the eye of the sun. When I asked who her son might be, she said: the Star Officer Mao. And I reckoned: the Star Officer Mao is a cockerel—so this old mama must be a hen. Cocks are the born subduers of centipedes; that is how she could take him in."
Hearing this, Sanzang bowed in worship without end, and said: "Disciples, let us pack up and go." The Sha Monk went within, found some rice and grain, and prepared a meal; all of them ate their fill. They led out the horse, shouldered the luggage, and asked their master out the gate. The Pilgrim set a fire in the kitchen, and in a moment the whole temple was burned to ash and cinder; then they stretched their strides and journeyed long. Truly:
The Tang monk wins his life and gives his thanks to Pilan; His nature perfected, the Many-Eyed Monster is swept away.
But what matters still awaited them upon the road ahead—listen to the explanation in the next chapter.