The story continues: The Great Sage Sun, leading the horse and shouldering the load, was searching and calling for his master all over the mountain, when suddenly Zhu Bajie came running up, panting hard. "Brother, what are you shouting for?"
"Master has disappeared—have you seen him?" said the Pilgrim.
"I signed on simply to be a monk with the Tang Priest," said Bajie, "and then you had to make a fool of me, making me out to be some general! I risked my life fighting that demon for a while, and barely won it back. Master was in your keeping and the Sha Monk's—why come asking me?"
"Brother, I don't blame you," said the Pilgrim. "Somehow your eyes went dim and you let the demon through to seize Master. I went to beat that demon and left the Sha Monk watching Master—and now even the Sha Monk has vanished."
Bajie laughed. "I expect the Sha Monk took Master off somewhere to relieve his bowels." Even as they spoke, the Sha Monk came along.
"Sha Monk," asked the Pilgrim, "where has Master gone?"
"You two both went dim-eyed and let the demons through to seize Master," said the Sha Monk. "Old Sha went off to fight that demon, and Master was sitting on his horse by himself."
The Pilgrim leaped about in a fury. "We've fallen for their trick! Fallen for their trick!"
"Fallen for what trick?" asked the Sha Monk.
"It was the Plum-Blossom Split-Petal Stratagem! It drew us three brothers apart, and from right among us it scooped up Master and made off with him! Heaven! Heaven! What are we to do?" And the tears rolled unchecked down his cheeks.
"Don't cry!" said Bajie. "The moment you cry, you turn craven! He can't be far—it's on this very mountain. Let's go search."
The three of them, helpless for any better plan, went into the mountains to search. After they had traveled some twenty li, they saw below a jutting cliff a cave dwelling: sheer peaks half-veiling one another, strange rocks jumbled and towering. Rare flowers and jade grasses breathed their fragrance; red apricots and green peaches blazed in beauty. The ancient trees before the cliff, frost-barked and rain-slicked, forty spans around; the dark pines outside the gate, their blue-black crowns two thousand feet in the sky. Pairs of wild cranes came often to dance in the clear wind before the cave mouth; couples of mountain birds sang the daylight through upon the branches. Clusters of yellow rattan hung like draped cords; rows of misty willows trailed like drooping gold. A square pond gathered its waters; a deep burrow leaned against the hill. The square pond gathering its waters hid an unhorned dragon, its scales not yet changed; the deep burrow leaning against the hill housed a many-year-old, man-eating monster. Truly no whit inferior to an immortal's realm—a very nest of hoarded wind and gathered breath.
When the Pilgrim saw it, in two or three bounds he leaped to the front gate and looked: the stone door was shut fast, and across its top was set a stone slab bearing eight large characters: "The Mountain of Hidden Mist; the Linked-Ring Cave of Broken Peaks."
"Bajie, to work!" said the Pilgrim. "This is where the demons live—Master must be in their house."
That idiot, throwing his weight about, raised his rake and struck with all his strength, smashing a great hole in the stone door, and shouted: "Demons! Bring my master out at once, or my rake will batter down your door, and your whole household will be settled for good!"
The little demons guarding the gate ran panic-stricken inside to report: "Great King, trouble has come to our door!"
"What trouble?"
"Someone out front has smashed the gate, and he's bawling for his master!"
The old demon was startled. "Who can have tracked us here?"
"Never fear!" said the Vanguard. "Let me go out and see."
The little demon ran to the front gate and, at the smashed hole, cocked his head sideways to peer out. Seeing a long snout and great big ears, he turned and called out loudly: "Great King, don't fear him! This is Zhu Bajie—he hasn't much skill, and he dares not behave badly. If he does behave badly, we'll open the door, grab him, and throw him in the steamer. The one to fear is that hairy-faced, Thunder-God-beaked monk."
Outside, Bajie heard him. "Brother, he's not afraid of me—only of you! Master must be in his house. Go on up, quick!"
The Pilgrim cursed: "Wretched beast! Your Grandpa Sun is here! Send my master out, and I'll spare your lives!"
"Great King, this is bad!" said the Vanguard. "Sun the Pilgrim has tracked us here too!"
The old demon grumbled: "It's all your doing, with your 'split-petal this' and 'split-petal that'—and now the trouble is at our very gate! How is this to end?"
"Great King, set your mind at rest and stop your grumbling," said the Vanguard. "I recall that Sun the Pilgrim is a magnanimous, ocean-hearted sort of monkey. Vast as his magic powers are, he loves to be flattered. Let's take out a fake human head to fool him, butter him up with a few soft words, and tell him simply that his master has been eaten by us. If we fool him into leaving, the Tang Priest is still ours to enjoy; if we can't fool him, we'll think again."
"Where are we to get a fake human head?"
"Let me make one and see."
A clever monster indeed! Taking a keen steel ax, he hacked a willow root into the shape of a human head, sprayed on it a little human blood, smeared it over carelessly, and had a little demon carry it out on a lacquer tray to the gate, where he called: "Great Sage Grandpa, stay your wrath and hear us out."
Now the Pilgrim did indeed love flattery, and the moment he heard the cry "Great Sage Grandpa," he held Bajie back. "Don't strike yet—let's hear what he has to say."
The little demon with the tray said: "Your master was carried into our cave by our Great King. But the little demons of the cave are a rude, boorish lot who know no better—one came to swallow, another came to gnaw; grabbing and biting, they have eaten your master, and only the head is left, right here."
"If he's eaten, then so be it," said the Pilgrim. "Just hand out the head and let me see whether it is real or fake."
The little demon tossed the head out through the hole in the door, and the moment Zhu Bajie saw it he began to wail: "Oh, the pity! A master went in looking like that, and look what a master comes out!"
"Idiot," said the Pilgrim, "first see whether it's real or fake, and then cry!"
"Don't be silly—since when does a human head come in real and fake?"
"This is a fake human head."
"How can you tell it's fake?"
"A real head, when it's thrown out, lands with a muffled thud. A fake one rings out like a clapper. If you don't believe me, let me throw it and you listen." He picked it up and dashed it against the stones—with a loud clang.
"Brother," said the Sha Monk, "it rang!"
"If it rang, then it's fake. I'll make it show its true form for you to see." He whipped out his gold-banded cudgel, and with one crack smashed it open. When Bajie looked, it was a willow root.
The idiot could not hold back his cursing: "You pack of shaggy louts! You've hidden my master in your cave and try to fob off your Pig Grandpa with a willow root—do you imagine my master was some willow-tree spirit transformed?"
The little demon with the tray fled in terror, quaking, and ran to report: "Hard! Hard! Hard!"
"What is so hard?" asked the old demon.
"Zhu Bajie and the Sha Monk were fooled easily enough, but Sun the Pilgrim is an antique dealer—he knows the genuine goods! He knew at a glance it was a fake head. Now we must get him a real human head—maybe then he'll go away."
"But where do we get a real human head? Go to the Flaying Pavilion and pick one from the heads of the men we couldn't finish eating."
The demons went at once to the pavilion and chose a fresh head; they had it gnawed clean of scalp, slick and smooth, and again carried it out on a tray, calling: "Great Sage Grandpa, the head before was indeed a fake. This one is truly Master Tang's head. Our Great King kept it to guard the house, and now we present it to you." And with a plop they tossed the head out through the hole in the door, where it rolled dripping blood all about.
Sun the Pilgrim could see it was a real human head. There was nothing for it but to weep, and Bajie and the Sha Monk both wailed aloud with him.
Bajie, tears in his eyes, said: "Brother, don't cry for now. The weather is none too good—the head may soon go rank. Let me carry it off and bury it while it's still fresh, and then we'll cry."
"That makes sense," said the Pilgrim. The idiot, shrinking from no foulness, tucked the head in his arms and ran up the mountainside.
On the sunny side he found a sheltered spot where wind was stored and breath gathered, drove his rake in and dug a pit, buried the head, and piled up a grave mound over it. Then he called to the Sha Monk: "You and Brother cry here, while I go find some offerings to make to him."
He went off to the ravine, broke off several big willow branches, picked up a few goose-egg stones, and came back to the grave. He planted the willow branches left and right and piled the stones in front.
"What is the meaning of this?" asked the Pilgrim.
"These willow branches will serve for pines and cypresses, to shade the master's grave mound; these stones will serve for pastries, as offerings to the master."
"Lout!" the Pilgrim thundered. "The man is dead, and you'd offer him stones!"
"It's but to show the heart of the living—a token of a filial heart."
"None of your foolery! Sha Monk, stay here: first, to keep vigil at the tomb; second, to guard the luggage and the horse. You come with me, Bajie—we'll smash their cave, seize the demon, and hack him into ten thousand pieces, and avenge our master!"
The Sha Monk said through his tears: "Elder Brother speaks rightly. You two take care; I will stay here and keep watch."
A fine Bajie! He stripped off his black brocade tunic, tightened the light clothes on his body, raised his rake, and followed the Pilgrim.
The two of them pressed forward furiously, brooking no parley, and straightaway smashed through the stone door, their cries shaking Heaven: "Give us back our living Tang Priest!"
In the cave, all the demons, great and small, felt their souls fly and scatter, and every one of them blamed the Vanguard.
The old demon asked the Vanguard: "These monks are beating in our very door—how are we to deal with them?"
"The men of old said it well," the Vanguard replied: "the hand that dips into the fish basket cannot escape the fishy smell. One thing not done, two things never done—let us marshal the household troops either way and go kill those monks!"
Hearing this, the old demon had no better plan; he truly gave the order: "Little ones, be all of one heart! Take your sharpest weapons and follow me out to battle!" And with a mighty shout they all charged out of the cave gate.
The Great Sage and Bajie hastily fell back a few paces to a level spot on the mountain, where they checked the demon host and shouted: "Which of you is the famous chief? Which is the demon who seized our master?"
The demon host planted their camp, a brocade banner of flowers flashed once, and the old demon, gripping his iron pestle, answered in a ringing call: "You reckless monks, do you not know me? I am the Great King of the Southern Mountain, who has run wild here for several hundred years. Your Tang Priest is already seized and eaten by me—what can you do about it?"
The Pilgrim cursed: "What a brazen shaggy lout! How many years can you have to your name, that you dare take the words 'Southern Mountain' to yourself? Lord Lao Zi, the patriarch who opened Heaven and split Earth, still sits on the right of the Grand Pure One; the Buddha Tathagata, honored as the sovereign of this age, still sits below the Great Peng; and Confucius the Sage, the honored patriarch of the Confucian teaching, is called only 'the Master.' And you—a wretched beast—dare style yourself the Great King of the Southern Mountain, these several hundred years of wildness! Stand not! Take a blow from your Grandpa!" The demon swayed aside and blocked the iron cudgel with his pestle, glaring round-eyed: "With that monkey mug of yours, you dare crush me with so many words! What powers have you, to run riot at my very gate?"
The Pilgrim laughed. "You nameless wretched beast—so you do not know old Sun! Stand fast, screw up your courage, and listen:
My home of old was the great Divine Continent of the East, Held in the embrace of Heaven and Earth for tens of thousands of autumns. On the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit lay the immortal stone egg; The egg cracked open and brought forth my root and sprout. Born unlike any child of common clay, My holy body was the companion of sun and moon. The nature I cultivated of myself was no small matter; Heaven-endowed and quick of wit, the germ of the Great Elixir. By royal seal a Great Sage, I dwelt in the Cloud Palace, Throwing my weight about, battling the Dipper and Ox. A hundred thousand divine soldiers could not come near me; The starry host of all the heavens was easy game to bag. My fame filled the universe—every quarter knew it; My wisdom threaded heaven and earth—every place preserves it. Now happily I have turned and taken the Buddhist faith, Escorting the elder on the journey to the West. Where mountains bar the way, I open roads, and none can stop me; Where waters block the path, I build bridges, to the demons' grief. In the woods I wield my might and seize tigers and leopards; Before the cliffs, with one turn of the hand I snare the pixiu. From the East, bearing the true fruit, I have come to the West— What demon or fiend would dare show his head? Beast, you harmed my master, and my hatred is true: I promise you—this very hour, your life shall end!"
Hearing this, the monster was both startled and enraged. Gritting his teeth, he leaped in close and brought his iron pestle down on the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim lightly caught it on his cudgel, still minded to parley with him—but Bajie could contain himself no longer, whipped out his rake, and struck wildly at the Vanguard. The Vanguard led all the rest in a charge. This battle, joined on the level ground of the mountain, was truly a fine fight:
Monks of a great eastern land, a sovereign realm above all realms, Come west to the Utmost Bliss to fetch the true scriptures. The great leopard of the Southern Mountain sprays wind and fog, Blocking the road in deep mountains, showing off alone. He laid his clever scheme, played his cunning game, And in ignorance seized by mistake the monk of Great Tang. Now he meets the Pilgrim, vast in magic powers, And Bajie besides, a man of no small name. The demon host rages in melee on the level mountainside; Dust and dirt fly thick; the sky itself turns dark. On that side the little demons howl and roar, spears and swords thrusting wild; On this side the godly monks shout and bawl, rake and cudgel rising together. The Great Sage, a hero with no match under heaven; Wuneng, stout and hale, brimming with battle-glee. The old monster of the Southern Waste, the Vanguard of his band— All for one piece of the Tang Priest's flesh, They stake their lives and throw their souls away. These two have made a blood-feud for their master's life; Those two, for lust of Tang Priest's flesh, have turned so vicious. Back and forth they fought past half a session, Clashing and battering with no victory either way.
Now the Great Sage saw that the little demons were fighting fiercely and could not be beaten back despite repeated blows. So he used his body-splitting magic: he plucked off a handful of hairs, chewed them in his mouth, sprayed them out, and cried "Change!"—and all of them became his very image, each wielding a gold-banded cudgel, and they struck inward from the front. Those one or two hundred little demons could not guard the front and the rear at once, could not shield left and right together; one by one they fled for their lives, routed back to the cave. The Pilgrim and Bajie came slashing out from within the melee. A pity for those demons who knew no better: those who met the rake bled from nine holes; those who caught the cudgel were ground to mud and bone!
The Great King of the Southern Mountain, scared out of his wits, rolled up wind and fog and fled for his life. The Vanguard, having no art of transformation, was felled at once by one blow of the Pilgrim's cudgel, and reverted to his true form—an iron-backed gray wolf demon.
Bajie walked up, seized him by the feet, flipped him over and looked. "This rascal—since he was a young one, who knows how many people's piglets and lambs he stole and ate!"
The Pilgrim shook his body, took back his hairs, and said: "Idiot! No dawdling! Quick—chase the old demon and make him pay for our master's life!"
Bajie turned his head—the little Pilgrims were nowhere to be seen. "Brother, all your magic doubles have gone!"
"I've already taken them back."
"Splendid! Splendid!" And the two of them went merrily back in triumph.
Now the old demon, having escaped with his life, returned to his cave and ordered the little demons to haul stone blocks and carry earth and stop up the front gate. The little demons who had survived, every one trembling, stopped up the gate and dared not show their heads again. When the Pilgrim led Bajie up to the gate and shouted, no one answered within. When Bajie struck with his rake, it would not so much as budge.
The Pilgrim knew what it meant. "Bajie, waste no strength—they've blocked up the door."
"Blocked the door—and how then do we avenge our master?"
"Let's go back and see the Sha Monk at the grave." The two returned to the place and found the Sha Monk still weeping. Bajie's grief redoubled. He dropped his rake, flung himself upon the grave, and pawed the earth, weeping: "Master of bitter fate! Master from a far country! Where shall we ever see you again!"
"Brother, don't grieve so," said the Pilgrim. "The demon has blocked the front gate, so there must be a back gate to go in and out by. You two stay here while I go look again."
Through his tears Bajie said: "Brother, be careful! Don't let them scoop you up too, or we won't know how to cry—we'd cry one cry for Master, one cry for Elder Brother, and soon be crying all to pieces."
"No fear! I have my own methods!"
Marvelous Great Sage! He put away his cudgel, tightened his kilt, stretched his stride, and rounded the mountainside. Suddenly he heard the gurgle of rushing water. Turning to look, he saw it was the water of a mountain torrent pouring down from upstream. And on the far side of the torrent he saw a door, and to the left of the door a hidden channel where water ran out—a channel from which red water was flowing.
"No need to say more—that is the back gate. If I went in with my own face, some little demon opening the door might see me and know me. Let me turn into a water snake and slip across. Hold on—if I turn into a snake, my master's ghost may learn of it and blame me, a man of religion, for turning long and wriggling. Let me turn into a little crab and scuttle across. No, that's not good either—Master might blame me, a man of religion, for having too many legs."
So he made himself a water rat, and with a whizz darted across, slipping in through the outflow channel and burrowing into the courtyard within. Poking out his head to look, he saw several little demons in a sunny spot, laying out strips of human flesh, piece by piece, to dry.
"Ah, my boys! That must be Master's flesh—too much to eat, so they're drying it into jerky against rainy days. If I showed my true form and rushed up and clubbed them dead, it would look like I have courage but no cunning. Let me transform again, go deeper in, and find that old demon, and see how things stand."
He leaped out of the channel, shook his body, and changed again—this time into a winged ant. Truly:
Weak of strength and small of body, called the Dark Steed, Long years of hidden cultivation gave it wings to fly. At ease it crosses by the bridge, marshaling its ranks; In merry mood it comes beneath the bed to match its wits. It knows full well when rain is due and seals its hole; The piled-up dust grows deep at last, and all turns gray. Nimble, nimble; light, light—so deft and quick, Time after time it slips unmarked past the wicker gate.
He spread his wings and, soundless and shadowless, flew straight into the main hall. There sat the old demon, glum and fretting, when a little demon came bounding in from the rear to report: "Great King, ten thousand joys!"
"Whence comes the joy?"
"I was just now scouting at the head of the torrent outside the back gate when I suddenly heard someone wailing. I climbed the peak to look, and it was Zhu Bajie, Sun the Pilgrim, and the Sha Monk, bowing over a grave and weeping bitterly. I reckon they took that human head for the Tang Priest's head, buried it, piled it into a grave mound, and are crying there."
Hearing this in the shadows, the Pilgrim rejoiced inwardly: "If that's the tale, then my master is still hidden in there, not eaten yet. Let me go search him out and see whether he lives or dies, and then deal with them."
Marvelous Great Sage! He flew into the main hall, peering this way and that, and saw a small side door, shut very tight. He slipped in through the crack to look—and it was a great garden, and faintly he could hear the sound of grief. He flew straight into its depths and saw a grove of great trees, and beneath the trees two men tied up—and one of them was the Tang Priest.
At the sight, the Pilgrim's heart itched beyond bearing; he could not help reverting to his true form. He drew near and called softly: "Master!"
The elder knew him, and his tears fell. "Wukong, you've come? Save me, quickly! Wukong! Wukong!"
"Master, don't keep calling my name—there are people about; the news might leak. Since you still have your life, I can save you. That monster claimed he had already eaten you and fobbed me off with a fake human head, and we fought him bitterly for it. Set your heart at ease, Master, and bear it a little longer; wait till I have toppled the demon, and then I'll come free you."
The Great Sage recited a spell, shook his body, and changed back into an ant, returning to the main hall, where he clung to the main beam. He saw the little demons who had escaped with their lives clustering and crowding, babbling and wrangling. Suddenly one of them leaped out to report: "Great King, they found the gate stopped up and could not batter their way in. So they've given up all hope, abandoned the Tang Priest, and made that fake head into a grave. Today they'll cry one day, tomorrow they'll cry another, and the day after they'll keep the third-day rite—and then, no doubt, they'll go home. Once we learn they've scattered, we bring out the Tang Priest, chop him fine, stew him with plenty of spices, and fragrant and steaming we'll each eat a piece—we'll all get a share of long life out of him!"
Another little demon clapped his hands: "Say no more, say no more! Steaming's the tastiest way to eat him!"
Another said: "Boiling saves firewood."
And another: "He's a rare thing to begin with—salt him down a bit, and we can eat him that much longer."
On the beam the Pilgrim heard all this, and rage blazed in his heart: "What mortal grudge has my master done you, that you scheme over how to eat him!" He plucked a handful of hairs, chewed them to pieces in his mouth, blew them out lightly, and recited a secret spell, commanding them all to become sleep bugs, which he cast onto the faces of the demon crowd. One by one they bored into their nostrils, and the little demons began to nod and doze; before long, all of them had dropped off to sleep. Only the old demon could not sleep soundly. He kept rubbing his head and scrubbing his face with both hands, sneezing without stop and pinching his nose.
"Can it be he has found out?" thought the Pilgrim. "Give him a double dose!" He plucked another hair, made it over in the same pattern, and threw it onto his face; it bored into his nostril. Two sleep bugs now, one entering from the left, one from the right. The old demon sat up, stretched, yawned twice, and—snoring away—he too toppled into sleep.
The Pilgrim rejoiced in secret, leaped down, and reverted to his true form. He took the cudgel from his ear, gave it a flourish till it was thick as a duck's egg, and with one great blow smashed through the side door. He ran to the back garden and called loudly: "Master!"
"Disciple, come quickly and untie the rope—it has cut me to the bone!"
"Master, don't be hasty. Wait till I've killed the demons, then I'll come free you." He whipped around and ran to the main hall. Just as he raised his cudgel to strike, he checked his hand: "No! Wait till I've freed Master, then strike." He returned to the garden, then thought again: "No—strike first, then rescue." Thus he went back and forth two or three times, until at last he came capering and dancing into the garden.
The elder, seeing him, turned grief to joy: "Monkey, is it that you've seen my life was not taken, and you're so happy you don't know what to do with yourself—dancing about like that?"
Only then did the Pilgrim come forward, untie the rope, and lead his master away by the arm. Then he heard the man tied to the tree opposite call out: "My lord, in your great mercy, save my life too!"
The elder stood fast and called: "Wukong, untie that man as well."
"Who is he?"
"He was carried in a day before I was. He is a woodcutter, and he says he has an aged mother he thinks on most tenderly—he is a dutiful son. Save him along with me."
The Pilgrim did as he was told, untied the cords, and brought him out through the back gate with them. They climbed the rocks and crossed the steep torrent.
The elder gave thanks: "Worthy disciple, it is thanks to you that his life and mine were saved! Where are Wuneng and Wujing?"
"Those two are over there weeping for you. Give them a shout."
The elder indeed called out at the top of his voice: "Bajie! Bajie!"
The idiot had wept himself dizzy. Wiping his sniveling nose and eyes, he said: "Sha Monk, Master's ghost has come home to haunt us! Isn't that him calling us somewhere?"
The Pilgrim stepped up and barked: "Lout! What ghost? Is this not Master come back?"
The Sha Monk raised his head and saw. Hurriedly he knelt before them: "Master, how much you must have suffered! How did Elder Brother save you?"
The Pilgrim told the whole story. Hearing it, Bajie ground his teeth in hatred, and could not restrain himself: he raised his rake and battered down the grave mound in one burst, dug out the human head, and smashed it to a pulp.
"Why did you smash it?" asked the Tang Priest.
"Master," said Bajie, "who knows whose dead man this was—making me bow over him and cry!"
"It was thanks to him that my life was saved," said the elder. "When you brothers stormed their gate demanding me, they must have taken him to fend you off; otherwise they would have killed me outright. Bury him again—it befits us men of religion."
Hearing the elder's words, the idiot gathered up the mangled flesh and bones, buried the bundle, and raised a grave mound over it.
Then the Pilgrim said with a laugh: "Master, pray rest here a moment while I go wipe the nest out."
He leaped down the rocks once more, crossed the torrent, and entered the cave. Carrying the ropes that had bound the Tang Priest and the woodcutter into the main hall, he found the old demon still asleep, trussed him up with his four hooves gathered, hoisted him onto his shoulder with the gold-banded cudgel, and marched straight out the back gate.
Zhu Bajie saw him from far off. "Brother certainly loves this load-carrying work! Why not find another one to make a matched pair for your carrying pole?"
When the Pilgrim reached them and set the demon down, Bajie raised his rake to strike.
"Hold!" said the Pilgrim. "There are still little demons in the cave we haven't caught."
"Brother, if there are, take me in to smash them."
"Smashing them would waste time. Better gather some firewood and finish them off at the root."
The woodcutter, hearing this, led Bajie at once to the eastern hollow, where they gathered broken bamboo tops, blighted pines, hollow willows, severed vines, yellow wormwood, old reeds, rushes, and dry mulberry—quite a load of it—and carried it in through the back gate. The Pilgrim set the fire, and Bajie fanned it with his two ears. The Great Sage leaped up, gave his body a shake, and took back the hairs that had been the sleep bugs. As the little demons came to, flames and smoke burst out together—alas! Not one of them kept half a life. The whole cave dwelling burned down to bare emptiness, and they went back to see the master.
The master heard the old demon, just now waking, groaning and grumbling, and called: "Disciples, the demon has come to."
Bajie stepped up and with one stroke of the rake killed the old monster, who reverted to his true form—and he was a mugwort-leaf spotted leopard spirit.
"A spotted leopard can eat tigers," said the Pilgrim, "and of late he could turn into a man as well. Killing him with this stroke ends the evil for good and all!"
The elder's thanks were beyond all words as he climbed into the saddle. The woodcutter said: "My lord, not far to the southwest lies my humble home. I beg you honor it with a visit, so my mother may see you and bow her thanks for the gift of my life, and then we will see you on your way."
The elder gladly agreed; he did not ride, but walked together with the woodcutter, the four of them traveling in company, winding their way southwest. Before many a mile, this is what they saw: stone paths deep in moss, a wicker gate netted over with flowering vines. Mountain light closing in on every side; a whole wood of birds clamoring. Dense pines and bamboos mingling their green; rare plants and wondrous blossoms in profusion. A place of secluded cloud in deep seclusion—a household of bamboo fence and thatched hut.
From far off they saw an old woman leaning on the wicker gate, her eyes brimming with tears, wailing to heaven and earth for her son.
When the woodcutter saw it was his mother, he left the elder and hurried ahead to the gate, where he knelt and cried: "Mother! Your son has come!"
The old woman seized him in her arms. "My son! These days you never came home, and I thought the master of the mountain had carried you off and done you to death—the ache in my heart was past bearing. Since you were not killed, why did you only come back today? Where are your rope-frame and your ax?"
The woodcutter knocked his head to the ground. "Mother, your son had indeed been carried off by the master of the mountain and tied to a tree, and truly my life hung by a thread—thanks be to these honored lords! This lord is a luohan of the Tang court of the East, journeying to the Western Heaven for scriptures. He too had been carried off by the master of the mountain and tied to a tree; but his three disciples, lords of vast magic power, beat that mountain master dead with one furious pounding—and he was a mugwort-leaf spotted leopard spirit. All the little demons were burned to death, and they brought this honored lord down and delivered him, and delivered your son as well. This is a kindness high as Heaven and deep as Earth! Had it not been for them, your son would surely have died. Now the mountain is at peace, and your son could walk it all night long without harm."
Hearing this, the old woman bowed with every step as she received the elder and his three disciples, and they all entered the wicker gate and sat down in the thatched cottage. Mother and son knocked their heads in thanks without end, and bustled about in a flurry to prepare a vegetarian meal in gratitude.
Bajie said: "Woodcutter brother, I can see your household is poor and thin. Just make do with a simple meal—don't trouble yourself laying out a grand spread."
"I'll not deceive you, my lord," said the woodcutter. "Here in these mountains we are truly poor. We have no fragrant mushrooms, no winter mushrooms, no Sichuan pepper, no fine spices—only a few dishes of wild greens to set before you, in token of our small hearts."
Bajie laughed. "Much noise, much noise! Just be quick about it—our bellies are hungry."
"At once! At once!" And sure enough, before long the tables and stools were wiped and spread, and up were set several platters of wild greens. Just look:
Tender blanched day-lily shoots, Sour pickled dandelion greens. Floating pondweed and purslane, River cress and "goose-gut" sprouts. "Swallow-won't-come," fragrant and tender; Fist-curled little buds, crisp and green. Well-stewed "horse-indigo" tops, White-braised "dog's-footprint" weed. Cat's-ear leaves and wild pepperwort, Lambsquarters boiled soft and fit to eat; "Scissor-handles" and "ox-pond spears," Snail-coil cress and besom shepherd's-purse. Broken-rice cress, lettuce cress— Several dishes, green and fragrant, smooth and rich. Oil-fried "black-hero" flowers, and water-caltrop shoots worth boasting of; Cattail-root stems and wild-rice shoots, Four kinds grown by the water, truly pure and fine. "Wheat-watcher," delicate and choice; "Tattered-cloth," that none will wear, With bitter-hemp stalks by the fence-side trellis. "Sparrow's cotton sheet" and "monkey's footprints," Fried till they glisten—just right for eating. Slanting wormwood, green wormwood, "embrace-mother" wormwood, Where moths fly up onto the buckwheat trays. "Sheep's-ear" bald-head and wolfberry shoots, Add some "black-orchid"—and no oil needed. Thus several wild greens made one whole meal— The woodcutter's devout heart, given in thanks.
Master and disciples ate their fill, packed up, and prepared to set out. The woodcutter dared not detain them long; he asked his mother to come out, and they bowed and gave thanks again and again. The woodcutter could only knock his head; then he took a jujube-wood staff, bound up his clothes, and came out to see them on their way.
The Sha Monk led the horse, Bajie carried the load, the Pilgrim kept close on either side, and the elder, with folded hands from the saddle, said: "Woodcutter brother, be so good as to lead the way first; we shall part at the highway."
Together they climbed heights and descended slopes, rounded torrents and searched out the paths. From horseback the elder mused:
"Disciples! Since I left my sovereign for the Western lands, On and on, far and far, the road ahead runs long. Waters upon waters, mountains upon mountains—calamity never frees me; Demons upon demons, fiends upon fiends—fate is hard to escape. Heart upon heart set only on the Tripitaka's scriptures; Thought upon thought still seeking the ninth heaven above. Toiling and moiling—what day will it ever end? When will my conduct be fulfilled and I return to the Tang court?"
Hearing him, the woodcutter said: "My lord, do not grieve. Along this highway, westward, it is not a thousand li to the Land of India, the home of Utmost Bliss."
Hearing this, the elder turned and dismounted. "You have labored far on our behalf. Since we have reached the highway, Woodcutter brother, pray return home. Give our deepest respects to your honored mother: for the generous vegetarian meal we have just troubled her with, this humble monk has nothing to repay it with—only morning and evening I shall recite the scriptures, praying that mother and son be kept in peace, with long life of a hundred years."
The woodcutter bowed and took his leave again and again, and returned by his own road; and master and disciples pressed straight on toward the West. Truly:
Subduing the monster, dissolving the wrong, they left the bitter pass; Receiving kindness, they took the road and walked with heedful hearts.
If you would know how many days more it took them to reach the Western Heaven, listen to the explanation in the next chapter.