by Unknown
“Oh, disciples!” said the Tang Monk. “Below’s the faded path; above are the brambles. Only reptiles or insects creeping on the ground can get through. Even for you, it means walking while bending double. How could I possibly stay on horseback?” “Don’t worry,” said Eight Rules. “Let me show you my ability to rake firewood and spread open the brambles for you. Don’t speak of riding a horse. Even if you were to ride a carriage, you would be able to get through.”
“Though you may have the strength,” said Tripitaka, “you can’t last over a long distance. I wonder how wide this ridge is. Where can we find the energy?” Pilgrim replied, “No need to discuss this anymore. Let me go and have a look.” He leaped into the air and what he saw was an endless stretch. Truly
They cloak the earth and fade into the sky,
They gather mist and hold up rain—
These soft, disheveled mats flanking the road,
These jade-green tops shading the mount.
Dense and luxuriant the newly sprouted leaves;
Rank and prolific they thrive and bloom.
They seem from a distance to have no end;
Close up they look like a vast green cloud.
Furry and lush,
In fresh dark green,
They rustle loudly in the wind
As the bright sun makes them glow.
In their midst are pines, cedars, and bamboos;
Many plums, willows, and mulberries even more.
Creepers wind around old trees
And wisteria, the drooping willows.
Laced together like a prop,
They seem like a matted cot.
There are flowers blooming like brocade,
And wild buds send fragrance far away.
Which man has not met some brambles during his life?
Who has e’er seen such vast thickets of the West?
After he had stared at the region for a long time, Pilgrim lowered his cloud and said, “Master, this ridge is enormous!” “How enormous is it?” asked Tripitaka. “I can’t see the end of it,” replied Pilgrim. “It seems to be at least a thousand miles long.” Horrified, Tripitaka said, “What shall we do?”
“Please don’t worry, Master,” said Sha Monk with a laugh. “Let’s follow the example of those who burn off the land and set fire to the brambles so that you may pass through.” “Stop babbling!” said Eight Rules. “To burn off the land, you must do it around the time of the tenth month when the vegetation has dried up and is readily ignitable. Right now it is growing luxuriantly. How could it be burned?” “Even if you could,” added Pilgrim, “the flame would be quite terrifying.” “How are we to get across then?” asked Tripitaka. “If you want to get across,” said Eight Rules with a laugh, “you’ll have to do as I say!”
Dear Idiot! Making the magic sign with his fingers, he recited a spell and gave his torso a stretch, crying, “Grow!” At once he reached the height of some two hundred feet. Shaking his muckrake, he cried, “Change!” and the handle of the rake attained the length of some three hundred feet. In big strides, he walked forward and, his two hands wielding the rake, pushed away the brambles left and right. “Let Master follow me!” he said, and a highly pleased Tripitaka quickly urged his horse forward, followed by Sha Monk poling the luggage and Pilgrim, also using his iron rod to clear up the path.
That whole day they did not rest at all and journeyed for some one hundred miles. By evening they arrived at a small clearing, where they came upon a stone monument. On top were inscribed in large letters the words, Bramble Ridge. Down below there were two rows of smaller characters, which read:
Eight hundred miles of brambles intertwined,
A road that few since days of old have trod.
When Eight Rules saw the monument, he said, laughing, “Let old Hog add two more lines to the inscription:
But now Eight Rules’s able to clear a path
Straight to the West, which is level and broad.”
Delighted, Tripitaka dismounted and said, “Oh, disciple! We’ve tired you out! Let’s spend the night here, and we’ll journey again when it’s light tomorrow.” “Don’t stop now, Master,” said Eight Rules. “While the sky is still fair and we’re inspired, we should clear the path right through the night and get on with it!” The elder had to comply.
Eight Rules went forward and again made a great effort; with the rider not resting his hands and the horse not stopping its trotting, master and disciples journeyed for one whole night and another day. Once more it was getting late, but what lay before them was a bosky sight. They also heard the song of wind-whipped bamboos and the sound of rustling pines as they came upon another stretch of clearing, in the center of which was an old shrine. There, outside the door, were pines and cedars arrested in green, peaches and plums vying to display their beauty.
After he dismounted, Tripitaka and his three disciples looked around. What they saw was
An old shrine atop a cool stream before the cliff,
And desolate grounds, mist-wrapped, met one’s eye.
For clumps of sāla trees long years had passed;
A mossed-terrace stood there as seasons went by.
Like swaying jade the bamboos seemed to speak,
And grief was told by a bird’s fading cry.
Scant traces of man, or of beast and fowl;
Just wild blooms and creepers on walls most high.
After he had surveyed the region, Pilgrim said, “This place portends more evil than good. We shouldn’t stay here long.” “Elder Brother, aren’t you overly suspicious?” asked Sha Monk. “There’s not even a trace of humans here, let alone of a weird beast or a fiendish bird. What’s there to be afraid of?” He had hardly finished speaking when a gust of cold wind brought out from behind the shrine door an old man. He had on his head a square turban, a simple robe on his body, a cane in his hand, and a pair of straw sandals on his feet. He was followed by a demon attendant who had a red beard and a scarlet body, a green face with jutting tusks, and who had on his head a platter of wheat cakes. Going to his knees, the old man said, “Great Sage, this humble deity is the local spirit of the Bramble Ridge. Having learned of your arrival, I have little to offer you except this platter of specially prepared steamed cakes. I present this to all of you venerable masters and ask you to have a meal. Throughout this region of eight hundred miles, there is no human household. So, please take some cakes for the relief of your hunger.”
Delighted, Eight Rules walked forward with outstretched hands and was about to take one of the cakes. Pilgrim, however, who had had the old man under scrutiny for some time, shouted immediately, “Stop! This isn’t a good fellow! Don’t you dare be impudent! What sort of a local spirit are you that you dare come to deceive old Monkey? Watch my rod!”
When the old man saw him attacking, he spun around and at once changed into a gust of cold wind. With a loud whoosh, it swept the elder high into the air. Tumbling over and over, he soon vanished from sight. The Great Sage was so taken aback that he did not know how to begin to search for his master, while Eight Rules and Sha Monk stared at each other, paling with consternation. Even the white horse neighed in fear. The four of them, three brothers and the horse, seemed to be in a trance; they looked far and near but there was not a trace of their master. We shall leave them there, busily searching.
We tell you now instead about that old man and his demon attendant, who hauled the elder before a mist-shrouded stone house and then lowered him gently. Taking the hand of the elder, the old man said, “Holy monk, please don’t be afraid. We are not bad people. I’m actually the Squire Eight-and-Ten1 of Bramble Ridge. Since ours happens to be a night of clear breeze and bright moonlight, I have brought you here especially to meet a few friends and to talk about poetry, just to spend a pleasant moment of leisure.” Only then did the elder manage to collect himself. As he glanced about carefully, this was truly what he found:
A haunt of misty clouds obscure,
A house in scen
es divinely pure,
Good for keeping the self pure in training,
For flower and bamboo planting.
Cranes on verdant cliffs will be seen;
Frogs croak from ponds lovely and green.
Tiantai’s magic hearth it surpasses,
Brighter than Mount Hua’s air masses.
Fishing and plowing need we mention?
Worthy is this place of reclusion.
Sit still and your thoughts turn serene
As faint moonlight ascends the screen.
As Tripitaka enjoyed the scenery, he felt that the moon and the stars grew even brighter. Then he heard voices, all saying, “Squire Eight-and-Ten has succeeded in inviting the holy monk here.” When the elder raised his head, he saw three old men: the first bore frostlike features, the second had flowing green hair and beard, and the third was meek-mannered and dark colored. They each had different looks and different garments, and they all came to salute Tripitaka. Returning their bows, the elder said, “What merit or virtue does this disciple possess that he should win such kind attention from these aged immortals?”
“We have always heard,” replied Squire Eight-and-Ten with a smile, “that the holy monk is possessed of the Way. Having waited for you for a long time, we are fortunate indeed to be able to meet you now. If you are willing to share with us the pearl and jade of your wisdom, we beg you to sit and chat with us, as we long to know the true teachings, the mysteries of Chan.”
Again bending low, Tripitaka said, “May I ask the honorable styles of the aged immortals?” “The one with the frostlike features,” replied Squire Eight-and-Ten, “is called Squire Lonesome Rectitude. The green-haired one has the name of Master Void-Surmounting, and the humble one goes by the title of Cloud-Brushing Dean. This old moron bears the name of Knotty Virtue.” “And what is the honorable age of the immortals?” asked Tripitaka.
Squire Lonesome Rectitude said,
My age has a thousand years attained:
Dense leaves, ever young, reach toward the sky.
Thick, fragrant boughs shaped like dragons and snakes;
A frame of luscious shade frost and snow did try.
Hardy since childhood and not worn by time,
E’er upright, I on magic arts rely.
The phoenix, no common bird, finds shelter here—
Lush and lofty, from this world’s dust raised high.
Smiling, Master of Void-Surmounting said,
A thousand years old, I’ve braved wind and frost
With tall, spiritual stems by nature strong.
My sounds hum like rain in a quiet night;
My shade spreads cloudlike all autumn day long.
My roots are coiled for endless life I’ve known;
I’ve been taught of eternal youth the song.
My guests are cranes and dragons, no worldly life.
Vibrantly green, with gods I dwell along.
Smiling, Cloud-Brushing Dean said,
A thousand cold winters I, too, have passed:
Old but cheerful, my form’s both pure and quaint.
Aloof, I shun mixing with worldly dust and noise,
Still romantic though by frost and snow untaint.
Seven Worthies2 are my friends of the Way;
Six Hermits3 would join me in verse to paint.
Not ditties or jingles, we make noble rhymes.
I am by nature friend of long-life saints.
Smiling, Knotty Virtue, Squire Eight-and-Ten, said,
I, too, am over a thousand years old.
Still fair and true, I am naturally green.
My strength is lovely, born of dew and rain;
The world’s creative mystery I did glean.
Only I thrive in all gorges’ mist and wind;
In all four climes none’s more than I serene.
I spread a hood of jade to shade my guests,
Discussing Dao or with lute and chess are seen.
Thanking them, Tripitaka said, “All four of you immortals are enjoying long life. Why, Master Knotty Virtue is more than a thousand years old! Having attained the Way at such an advanced age, and blessed with such extraordinary and refined features, could you be the Four White-Haired Ones4 of the Han?” “You praise us far too much!” replied the four old men together. “We are not the Four White-Haired Ones, but only the Four Disciplined Ones deep in the mountain. May we ask in turn the holy monk for his age?”
With hands folded before his chest and bowing, Tripitaka replied:
I left mother’s womb forty years ago:5
Even before my fate on earth was woe!
Fleeing for life, I tossed on waves manifold;
I cast my shell, meeting by luck Mount Gold.
Myself I trained and sūtras read with zeal;
Buddha’s true worship was my sole ideal.
Now my King sends me to go to the West.
Your divine presence thus favors my quest.
The four old men all joined in praising him, and one of them said, “From the moment he left his mother’s womb, the holy monk has followed the teachings of Buddha. He has indeed practiced austerities from childhood, and thus he is in truth a superior monk who possesses the Way. Now that we have this good fortune of receiving your honorable presence, we make bold to seek from you your great doctrine. We beg you to instruct us on the rudiments of the law of Chan, and that would gratify our lifelong desire.”
When he heard these words, the elder was not in the least daunted. He began to speak to the four of them, saying, “Chan is quiescence, and the Law is salvation. But the salvation of quiescence will not be accomplished without enlightenment. The cleansing of the mind and the purgation of desires, the abandonment of the worldly and departure from the dust—that is enlightenment. Now, it’s a rare opportunity to attain a human body, to be born in Middle Land,6 and to encounter the correct doctrine of Buddha. There is no greater blessing than the possession of these three things. The wondrous ways of ultimate virtue, vast and boundless, can neither be seen nor heard. It can, however, extinguish the six organs of sense and the six kinds of perception. Thus, perfect wisdom has neither birth nor death, neither want nor excess; it encompasses both form and emptiness, and it reveals the nonreality of both saints and commoners. To contact the truth, you must know the mallet and tong of Primal Origin;7 to intuit the Real, you must realize the technique of Śākyamuni. Excercise the power of mindlessness;8 tread and shatter Nirvāṇa. By means of the awakening of awakening, you must comprehend the enlightenment of enlightenment.
One spark of spirit light would protect all.
Let the fierce flame shine like a dancer’s robe,
Sweeping the dharma realm as one thing seen.
Pierce the dark and tenuous;
Fortify also the strong.
This mysterious pass, thus mentioned, who can go through?
Mine’s the originally practiced Chan of great awakening,
Retained and known just by those of affinity and will.”
The four elders showed boundless delight when they received this instruction. With hands folded and bowing in submission, all of them said, “The holy monk is indeed the very source of enlightenment in the principle of Chan!”
Then Cloud-Brushing Dean said, “Though Chan is quiescence and the Law, salvation, it is still required of us to be firm in our nature and sincere in our mind. Even if we became the true immortal of great awakening, it is, in the end, the way of no birth.9 The mystery we live by, you see, is greatly different from yours.”
“The Way is indeed extraordinary,” said Tripitaka, “but while substance and function are one, how could there be any difference?”
Smiling, Cloud-Brushing Dean said, “Since we were born hardy and strong, our substance and function differ from yours. Indebted to Heaven and Earth for giving us a body, we’re beholden to rain and dew for our colors’ nourishment. Smiling, we disdain the wind and frost and pass the days and months. Not one leaf of ours would wither; all
our branches hold firm to virtue. Our words are unlike yours which, instead of consulting the Liezi, cling to those of Sanskrit. Now, the Dao10 was originally established in China. Instead, you seek its illumination in the West. You’re squandering your straw sandals! I wonder what it is that you are after? A stone lion must have gouged out your heart! Your bones must have been pumped full of wild foxes’ saliva! You forget your origin to practice Chan, vainly seeking the Buddha’s fruit. Yours are like the prickly riddles of my Bramble Ridge, like its tangled enigmas. This sort of superior man, how could he teach and lead? With this kind of model, how could he transmit truth’s imprint?
You must examine the appearances before you,
For there’s life by itself in quiescence.
The bottomless bamboo basket will draw water;
The rootless iron tree will bring forth flowers.
Plant your feet firmly on the Lingbao summit;
Maitreya’s fine congress you’ll attend back home.”
When Tripitaka heard these words, he kowtowed to thank the speaker, but he was raised by Squire Eight-and-Ten. As Squire Lonesome Rectitude also came forward to pull him up, Master Void-Surmounting let out a loud guffaw and said, “The words of Cloud-Brushing are obviously shot full of holes. Please rise, holy monk, and don’t believe all he says. In this moonlight we never intended at all to discuss the theories of self-cultivation. Let’s indulge rather in the composing and chanting of poetry.” “If you want to do that,” said Cloud-Brushing with a smile, “Let’s go inside our little shrine for a cup of tea. How about it?”
The elder leaned forward to stare at the stone house, which had on top of its entrance an inscription of four words written in large characters: Shrine of Sylvan Immortals. They walked together inside and took their proper seats. Then the scarlet-bodied demon attendant came to serve them with a platter of China Root pudding and five goblets of fragrant liquid. The four old men invited the Tang Monk to eat first, but he was so suspicious that he dared not take it right away. Only after the four old men partook of the food did Tripitaka also eat two pieces of the pudding. Each of them then drained the fragrant liquid and the goblets were taken away.
