The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 3

by Unknown

  When the woodcutter saw that Pilgrim had become lost in his deliberations, sighing to himself repeatedly, he said with a smile, “Elder, you’re someone who has left the family, and you should have no anxious thoughts. Just follow this path eastward and you’ll find the Palm-Leaf Cave in less than five miles. Don’t worry.” “To tell you the truth, Brother Woodsman,” said Pilgrim, “I’m the eldest disciple of the Tang Monk, a scripture pilgrim sent by the Tang court in the Land of the East to go to the Western Heaven. Some years back I had a small feud with Red Boy, the son of Rākṣasī, at the Fiery Cloud Cave. I feared that her hostility might cause her to refuse me the fan, and that was the reason for my anxiety.” “A man,” replied the wood-cutter, “must determine another’s appearance by examining his color. You should go now with the sole purpose of borrowing the fan and not be bothered by any old grudge. I’m sure you’ll succeed.” On hearing this, Pilgrim bowed deeply and said, “I thank Brother Woodsman for this instruction. I’ll go.”

  He thus took leave of the woodcutter and went up to the entrance of the Palm-Leaf Cave, where he found both of its doors tightly shut but lovely scenery outside. Marvelous place! Truly

  This mountain uses rocks for bones,

  And rocks form the essence of earth.

  The mist keeps moisture overnight;

  Lichen and moss then add fresh green.

  The rugged shape soars to top Isle Peng,

  Its secluded blooms as fragrant as Yingzhou’s.

  Beneath a few knotty pines the wild cranes rest;

  On some sad willows the orioles speak.

  It’s indeed an ancient spot of a thousand years,

  An immortal site of ten thousand years.

  The phoenix sings in green paulownia trees;

  And living streams hide aged dragons.

  The path winds as beans and vines dangle;

  The stone steps ascend with the creepers.

  Apes of the peak wail, saddened by the moon rising;

  Birds sing on tall trees, gladdened by the bright sky.

  Two forests of bamboo, their shade cool as rain;

  One path of dense flowers, thick little brocade.

  From distant hills will white clouds often show;

  Formless, they drift where gentle breezes blow.

  Walking forward, Pilgrim cried out: “Big Brother Bull, open the door! Open the door!” With a creak, the doors opened and out walked a young girl who had in her hands a flower basket and on her shoulder a little rake. Truly

  She had no adornment but only rags on herself;

  Her spirit was full, for she had the mind of Dao.

  Pilgrim approached her with palms pressed together and said, “Little girl, please take the trouble of announcing me to your princess. I’m actually a monk journeying to acquire scriptures. It’s hard for me to cross the Mountain of Flames on this road to the West, and I’ve come especially to borrow your palm-leaf fan.” The little girl said, “To which monastery are you attached and what is your name? Tell me and I’ll announce you.” “I’m a priest from the Land of the East,” replied Pilgrim, “and my name is Sun Wukong.”

  The young girl turned around and went inside to kneel before Rākṣasī, saying, “Madam, there is a priest outside our cave by the name of Sun Wukong, who has come from the Land of the East. He wants to see you and ask to borrow the palm-leaf fan, so that he may cross the Mountain of Flames.” When that Rākṣasī heard Sun Wukong, those three words, it was as if salt was added to a fire and oil was poured on flames.

  Billowlike, redness swelled in her cheeks;

  Savage anger flared in her heart.

  “This wretched ape!” she cried. “So he’s here today! Maids, bring out my armor and my weapons.” She put on her armor at once, and holding two treasure swords of blue blade, she walked out of the cave. Pilgrim stepped aside to steal a glance at her and saw that she wrapped on

  Her head a flower-patterned scarf,

  And wore a brocade priestly robe.

  A belt—two tiger tendons—bound her waist;

  Her silk skirt was slightly hitched up.

  Phoenix-bill shoes, just three inches;

  Trousers with knee-fringes of gold.

  Gripping treasure swords and shrieking she came,

  Looking more fierce than the moon dame.11

  As she walked out of the door, Rākṣasī shouted, “Where’s Sun Wukong?” Pilgrim went forward to meet her, bowing, and said, “Sister-in-law, old Monkey’s here to greet you.” “Who’s your sister-in-law?” hissed Rākṣasī, “and who wants your greeting?”

  “The Bull Demon King of your household,” replied Pilgrim, “and old Monkey once formed a fraternal alliance; there were, in fact, seven of us bond-brothers.12 I understand that you, princess, are the consort proper of Big Brother Bull. Would I dare not address you as sister-in-law?” “Wretched ape!” said Rākṣasī. “If you have any regard for fraternal relations, then why did you ensnare my son?” Pretending not to know, Pilgrim asked, “Who’s your son?” “He’s the Red Boy,” answered Rākṣasī, “The Great King Holy Child of the Fiery Cloud Cave by the Dried Pine Stream at the Roaring Mountain, who was brought down by you. I was just wondering where I could go to find you for vengeance, and you delivered yourself at the door. You think I would spare you?”

  Smiling as broadly as he could to try to placate her, Pilgrim said, “Sister-in-law, you haven’t quite probed to the depth of the matter, and you’ve wrongly blamed old Monkey. Your boy took my master captive and even wanted to steam or boil him. It was fortunate that the Bodhisattva Guanyin subdued him and rescued my master. Now he has become the Boy Skilled in Wealth at the Bodhisattva’s place; having received from her the right fruit, he now undergoes neither birth nor death and he experiences neither filth nor cleanliness. He shares the same age as Heaven and Earth, the same longevity as the sun and the moon. Instead of thanking old Monkey for the kindness of preserving your son’s life, you blame me. Is that fair?”

  “You smart-mouthed ape!” said Rākṣasī. “Though my son was not killed, how could I ever get him back so that I could see him again?” Smiling, Pilgrim said, “If you want to see your boy, that’s easy. Lend me your fan so that I can extinguish the fire. After I accompany my master across the mountain, I’ll go at once to the Bodhisattva of South Sea and bring him back for you to see, and I’ll return your fan at the same time. Is there anything wrong with that? At that time, you can examine him thoroughly to see if there’s any harm done to him. If there is, then you can rightfully blame me. But if you find him even more handsome than ever, then you should thank me indeed.”

  “Monkey devil!” cried Rākṣasī. “Stop wagging your tongue. Stretch out your head and let me hack you a few times with my sword. If you can endure the pain, I’ll lend you the fan. If you can’t, I’ll send you to see King Yama right away.” Folding his hands before him, Pilgrim walked forward and said, laughing, “Sister-in-law, no need for further talk. Old Monkey will stretch out his bald head right now and you may hack me as many times as you please. You may stop when your strength runs out. But you must lend me your fan then.”

  Without permitting further discussion, Rākṣasī raised her hands and chopped at Pilgrim’s head some ten or fifteen times. Our Pilgrim thought that it was all a game. Growing fearful, Rākṣasī turned around and wanted to flee. “Sister-in-law,” said Pilgrim, “where are you going? Lend it to me quickly.” “My treasure,” said Rākṣasī, “is not to be lent lightly.” “In that case,” said Pilgrim, “have a taste of your brother-in-law’s rod!”

  Dear Monkey King! With one hand he caught hold of her, and with the other he took out from his ear the rod, which with one shake grew to the thickness of a bowl. That Rākṣasī, however, managed somehow to struggle free and turned to meet him with upraised swords. Pilgrim, of course, followed up at once and struck her with the rod. Before the Jade Cloud Mountain, the two of them discarded any fraternal sentiments; they were driven only by animosity. This was so
me battle!

  The lady’s a fiend deft in magic arts,

  Who hates the monkey because of her son.

  Though Pilgrim’s anger has been much aroused,

  He still, for master’s sake, defers to her,

  Saying at first he wants the palm-leaf fan

  And not using might on the gentle one.

  Foolish Rākṣasī slashes with her sword,

  Though Monkey King would claim relations first.

  (How could a woman battle with a man

  Who, after all, would a woman suppress?)

  How ferocious is this one’s golden-hooped iron rod!

  How thick and fast are that one’s blue and frosty blades!

  A blow on the face—

  A slash on the head—

  They bitterly fight and refuse to quit.

  Left and right they parry with martial skill;

  Back and front they cover most craftily.

  In their battle they are so wholly rapt

  That they hardly notice the sun has set.

  Swiftly Rākṣasī takes out her true fan

  And one wave brings the gods and ghosts distress.

  Rākṣasī fought with Pilgrim until dark; when she saw how heavy the rod of Pilgrim was and what great skills he had as a fighter, she knew that she could not prevail against him. She took out her palm-leaf fan and fanned Pilgrim once: a strong gust of cold wind at once blew him completely out of sight while she returned to her cave in triumph.

  Drifting and soaring in the air, our Great Sage could not stop at all: he sank to the left but he was unable to touch ground; he dropped to the right but he could not remain still. The wind bore him away like

  A cyclone dispatching fallen leaves,

  A stream sweeping some withered flowers.

  On he tumbled for a whole night, and only by morning did he finally drop down on a mountain. Hugging a rock on the summit with both his hands, he rested for a long while before he looked around. Then he recognized that this was the Little Sumeru Mountain. Heaving a lengthy sigh, our Great Sage said, “What a formidable woman! How in the world did she manage to send old Monkey back to this place? I remember I once asked for the assistance of the Bodhisattva Lingji here some years past to subdue the fiend Yellow Wind in order to rescue my master.13 The Yellow Wind Ridge is about three thousand miles due north of here. Since I’m blown back here from the road to the West, I must have traveled in a southeasterly direction for who knows how many tens of thousands of miles. I think I’d better go down there to talk to the Bodhisattva Lingji and see if I can find my way back.”

  As he thought to himself like that, he heard loud chiming bells. He hurried down the slope to reach the temple, where he was recognized by the worker at the front gate, who immediately went inside to announce: “The hairy-faced Great Sage who came some years back to ask the Bodhisattva to go subdue the fiend Yellow Wind is here again.” Knowing it was Wukong, the Bodhisattva quickly left his treasure throne to meet his visitor and to greet him, saying, “Congratulations! Have you acquired the scriptures already?” “Not quite, not quite!” replied Wukong. “It’s still too early.” “If you have not yet reached Thunderclap,” said Lingji, “why is it that you have returned to this humble mountain?”

  Pilgrim said, “Since that year when you were kind enough to help us subdue the fiend Yellow Wind, we have gone through countless ordeals on our journey. We have now arrived at the Mountain of Flames, but we can’t proceed. When we asked the natives there, they said that the palm-leaf fan belonging to an Immortal Iron-Fan could extinguish the fire. Old Monkey went to visit her and discovered that that immortal was in fact the wife of the Bull Demon King, the mother of Red Boy. Because she claimed that she could no longer see her son frequently since I had sent him to be the youth attendant of the Bodhisattva Guanyin, she regarded me as her worst enemy, refused to lend me the fan, and fought with me. When she saw how heavy my rod was, she fanned me once with her fan and I drifted all the way back here before I dropped down. That’s why I have intruded upon your abode to ask you for the way back. How many miles are there from here to the Mountain of Flames?”

  Laughing, Lingji replied, “That woman is named Rākṣasī, and she’s also called Princess Iron-Fan. Her palm-leaf fan happens to be a spiritual treasure begotten of Heaven and Earth at the back of Mount Kunlun at the time when chaos divided. It is a finest leaf of the supreme yin, and that is why it can extinguish all fires. If a man is fanned by it, he will drift for eighty-four thousand miles before the cold wind subsides. There are only some fifty thousand miles between my place here and the Mountain of Flames. It is only because the Great Sage has the ability to halt the clouds that he is able to stop. No mortal person can possibly stand still after such a short distance!”

  “Formidable! Formidable!” exclaimed Pilgrim. “How could my master overcome this hurdle?” “Relax, Great Sage,” said Lingji. “It is actually the affinity of the Tang Monk that you have landed here. This will ensure your success.” “How so?” asked Pilgrim, and Lingji said, “In years past when I received the instructions from Tathāgata, I was given a Flying-Dragon Staff and a Wind-Arresting Elixir. The staff was used to subdue the wind demon, but the elixir has never been used. I’ll give it to you now, and you can be certain that that fan will not be able to move you. You can take the fan, extinguish the fire, and achieve your merit then.” Pilgrim bowed deeply at once to thank him, whereupon the Bodhisattva took out from his sleeve a tiny silk bag in which there was the Wind-Arresting Elixir. The pellet was firmly sewn onto the underside of Pilgrim’s collar with needle and thread. Then the Bodhisattva saw Pilgrim out the door, saying, “There’s not time for me to entertain you. Go toward the northwest and you’ll find the mountain home of Rākṣasī.”

  Taking leave of Lingji, Pilgrim mounted the cloud somersault and went back to the Jade Cloud Mountain. In a moment he arrived and, beating the door with his iron rod, shouted: “Open the door! Open the door! Old Monkey wants to borrow the fan!”

  The maid inside the door hurriedly went to report: “Madam, the person who wants to borrow the fan is here again.” On hearing this, Rākṣasī became fearful, saying, “This wretched ape’s truly able! When I fan someone with my treasure, he’ll have to drift eighty-four thousand miles before he can stop. This ape was blown away not long ago. How could he return so soon? This time, I’m going to fan him three or four times so that he won’t be able to come back at all.” She got up quickly, and after putting on her armor properly, she picked up both of her swords and walked out of the door, saying, “Pilgrim Sun, aren’t you afraid of me? Are you here seeking death once more?” “Don’t be so stingy, Sister-in-law,” said Pilgrim, chuckling. “Please lend me your fan. I’m a gentleman with an excess of honesty, not a small man who doesn’t return what he borrows.”

  “You brazen baboon!” scolded Rākṣasī. “You’re so impudent, so empty-skulled! I have yet to avenge the wrong of having my son taken. How could I possibly grant you the wish of borrowing the fan? Don’t run away! Have a taste of this old lady’s swords!” Our Great Sage, of course, was not to be intimidated; he wielded the iron rod to meet her. The two of them charged each other and closed in some six or seven times, when Rākṣasī’s arms began to weaken even as Pilgrim Sun grew stronger than ever. When she saw that the tide was turning against her, she took out the fan and fanned Pilgrim once. He, however, stood there without moving at all. Putting away his iron rod, he said to her, full of smiles, “This time is not the same as last time! You can fan all you want. If old Monkey budges a teeny bit, he’s not a man!” Rākṣasī indeed gave him a couple more, but he remained unmoved. Horrified, Rākṣasī put away her treasure and dashed inside the cave, tightly shutting the doors behind her.

  When Pilgrim saw her shutting the doors, he resorted to his other abilities. Tearing open his collar, he took out the Wind-Arresting Elixir and placed it in his mouth instead. With one shake of his body, he changed into a tiny mole cricket and crawled inside throug
h a crack in the door. There he found Rākṣasī crying, “I’m terribly thirsty! Bring me some tea.” The maid attending her took up a pot of fragrant tea and filled the cup so hurriedly that bubbles welled up. Delighted by what he saw, Pilgrim spread his wings and dived right into the bubbles.

  As she was extremely thirsty, Rākṣasī grabbed the tea and finished it in two gulps. Pilgrim by then already reached her stomach; changing back into his true form, he shouted, “Sister-in-law, lend me your fan!” Turning white, Rākṣasī cried, “Little ones, have you shut the front door?” “We have,” they all replied. “If you have shut the door,” she said, “then how is it that Pilgrim Sun is making noises in our house?” “He’s making noises in your body,” said one of the maids.

  “Pilgrim Sun,” said Rākṣasī, “where are you playing your tricks?”

  “Old Monkey in all his life hasn’t known how to play tricks,” said Pilgrim. “What I rely on are all real competences, genuine abilities. I’m now having a little fun in my esteemed Sister-in-law’s stomach! I am, as the saying goes, seeing right through you! I know how thirsty you must be, so let me send you a ‘sitting bowl’ to relieve your thirst.” Suddenly he shoved his foot down hard and unbearable pain shot through Rākṣasī’s lower abdomen, sending her tumbling to the floor and moaning. “Please don’t refuse me, Sister-in-law,” said Pilgrim, “I’m presenting you with an added snack14 for your hunger.” He jerked his head upward, and unbearable pain coursed through Rākṣasī’s heart. She began to roll all over the ground, the pain turning her face yellow and her lips white. All she could do was to cry out, “Brother-in-law Sun, please spare my life!”