The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 3

by Unknown

  After he had had some food, our Idiot had grown strong once more. Picking up his muckrake, he went to the rear with the Great Sage and broke open the cellar door to untie all the prisoners. When they came back out to the jewelled tower, Tripitaka put on his cassock to bow to each one of the deities to thank them. Thereafter the Great Sage sent the five dragons and two warriors back to Wudang, Prince Little Zhang and the four warriors back to Bincheng, and finally the Twenty-Eight Constellations back to Heaven. The guardians and the protectors of monasteries, too, were released to return to their stations.

  Master and disciples then rested for half a day at the monastery, where they also fed the white horse and tidied up the luggage before starting out again in the morning. As they left, they lit a fire and had all those jeweled towers, treasure thrones, tall turrets, and lecture halls reduced to ashes. So it was that,

  Without care or hindrance, they escaped their ordeal;

  Their calamity dispelled, they were free to leave.

  We do not know how long it was before they reached the Great Thunderclap; let’s listen to the explanation in the next chapter.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Having rescued Tuoluo, Chan Nature is secure;

  Escaping filthiness, the Mind of Dao is pure.

  We were telling you about Tripitaka and his three disciples, who set out on the road once more, glad to have left the Little Western Heaven. They spent about a month traveling, and now it was the time of late spring when flowers blossomed. They saw the green fading at various gardens and groves, and a sudden squall of wind and rain brought the evening near. Reining in his horse, Tripitaka said, “O disciples, it’s getting late! Which road shall we take to find lodging?”

  “Master, relax!” said Pilgrim, laughing. “Even if there’s no place for us to ask for lodging, the three of us at least have some abilities. You may ask Eight Rules to chop some grass and Sha Monk to cut down a few pine trees. Old Monkey knows how to play carpenter. I can build for you right by the road a little thatched hut in which you can live for at least a year. Why are you so anxious?” “Oh, Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “a place like this is not fit to be lived in! The whole mountain is full of tigers and wolves, and there are spirits and goblins everywhere. Even in daylight it’s difficult enough to get through. How dare you rest here at night?”

  “Idiot,” said Pilgrim, “you’re regressing more and more! Old Monkey isn’t bragging, but this rod I hold in my hands can even hold up the sky—if it collapses!” As master and disciples were conversing like that, they suddenly caught sight of a mountain village not far away. “Marvelous!” said Pilgrim. “We’ve a place for the night.” “Where?” asked the elder. Pointing with his finger, Pilgrim replied, “Isn’t that a household over there beneath the trees? We can go over there to ask for one night’s lodging. Tomorrow we’ll leave.”

  Delighted, the elder urged on his horse and went up to the entrance of the village before he dismounted. As the wooden gates were tightly shut, the elder knocked on them, saying, “Open the door! Open the door!” From within a house an old man emerged: he had a staff in his hands, rush sandals on his feet, a black cloth wrap on his head, and a plain white robe on his body. As he opened the door, he asked immediately, “Who’s making all these noises here?”

  Folding his hands before his chest, Tripitaka bowed deeply and said, “Old patron, this humble priest is one sent from the Land of the East to seek scriptures in the Western Heaven. It was getting late when we arrived at your honored region. We have come, therefore, especially to ask you for one night’s lodging. I beg you to grant us this boon.”

  “Monk,” said the old man, “you may want to go to the West, but you can’t get there. This is only the Little Western Heaven. If you want to go to the Great Western Heaven, the distance is exceedingly great, not to mention all the difficulties ahead of you. Even this region here will be hard for you to pass through.” “What do you mean by hard to pass through?” asked Tripitaka. Pointing with his hand, the old man said, “Approximately thirty miles west of our village there is a Pulpy Persimmon Alley, located in a mountain by the name of Seven Extremes.” “Why do you call it Seven Extremes?” asked Tripitaka again.

  The old man said, “The mountain is about eight hundred miles across, and the whole mountain is full of persimmon fruit. According to the ancients, ‘There are seven types of extreme characteristics of the persimmon tree. They are: long-lasting, shady, without birds’ nests, wormless, lovely leaves when frosted, hardy fruits, and large, luxuriant branches.’1 Hence it is called the Mountain of Seven Extremes. Our humble region here, however, is large but sparsely inhabited, and since the time of antiquity, hardly anyone has ever journeyed deep into the mountain. Every year the persimmons, ripened and rotted, would fall on the ground and completely fill up the mountain path, which is shaped like an alley flanked by boulders on both sides. After the frost and snow of the winter and the heat of the summer, the road would become one of such horrid filth that the families of this region nicknamed it Slimy Shit Alley. Whenever the west wind rises, a terrible stench would drift here, fouler than any privy you may want to clean. Right now it happens to be late spring and we have this brisk southeast wind. That’s why you can’t smell it yet.” On hearing this, Tripitaka fell silent, utterly dejected.

  Unable to contain himself, Pilgrim shouted, “Oldie, you’re rather block-headed! We’ve come from great distance to ask you for lodging, and you have to tell us all these things to frighten us! If your house is so crowded that there’s no room for us to sleep in, we can just squat here beneath the trees to spend the night. Why must you be so windy?”

  Greatly startled by the hideous figure before him, the old man stopped talking for a moment. Then he gathered up enough courage to point his staff at Pilgrim and say in a loud voice, “You! Look at your skeleton face, flattened brow, collapsed nose, jutting jowl, and hairy eyes. A consumptive ghost, no doubt, and yet, without any manners at all, you dare use your pointed mouth to offend an elderly person like me!” Trying to placate him with a smile, Pilgrim said, “Venerable Sir, so you have eyes but no pupils, and thus you can’t recognize the worth of this consumptive ghost! As the books on physiognomy would say, ‘The features may be strange and bizarre, but it is a piece of fine jade hidden in the stone.’ If you judge people only by their looks, you’re completely wrong. I may be ugly, but I have some abilities!”

  “Where are you from?” asked the old man. “What are your name and surname? What sort of abilities do you have?” With a smile, Pilgrim said

  Pūrvavideha was my ancestral home,

  I did cultivation on Mount Flower-Fruit.

  I bowed to the Patriarch of Heart and Mind

  And perfected with him the martial arts.

  I can tame dragons, stirring up the seas;

  I can tote mountains to chase down the sun.

  In binding fiends and demons I’m the best;

  Moving stars and planets, I scare ghosts and gods.

  Stealing from Heav’n and Earth gives me great fame,

  Of boundless change, Handsome Stone Monkey’s my name.

  On hearing these words, the old man’s displeasure turned to delight. He bowed, saying, “Please, please come inside to rest in our humble dwelling.” The four pilgrims thus led the horse and toted their luggage inside, where they saw thorny bushes on both sides of the yard. The second-level door was flanked by stone walls, which were covered also by briars and thistles. Finally, they reached three tiled houses in the center. The old man at once pulled some chairs over for them to be seated and asked for tea to be served. He also gave an order for rice to be prepared. In a little while, some tables were brought out on which were placed dishes of fried wheat gluten, bean curds, taro sprouts, white radishes, mustard greens, green turnips, fragrant rice, and mallow soup made with vinegar. Master and disciples thus enjoyed a full meal.

  After they finished eating, Eight Rules tugged at Pilgrim and whispered to him, “Elder Brother, this oldi
e at first didn’t want to give us lodging. Now he gives a sumptuous feast. Why?” “How much could a meal like this be worth?” replied Pilgrim. “Just wait till tomorrow. He’s going to send us off with ten kinds of fruit and ten different dishes!”

  “Don’t you have any shame?” said Eight Rules. “So, you managed to wangle a meal from him with those few big words of yours. Tomorrow you’ll be leaving. Why should he entertain you some more?” “Don’t worry,” replied Pilgrim, “I’ll take care of this.”

  In a little while, it was almost completely dark, and the old man asked for lamps to be brought out. “Gonggong,” said Pilgrim, bowing, “what is your noble surname?” “It is Li,” replied the old man. “I suppose this must be Li Village then,” said Pilgrim.

  “No,” replied the old man, “for this is called the Tuoluo Village. There are over five hundred families living here, with many other surnames. Only I go by the name of Li.” “Patron Li,” said Pilgrim, “what particular good intention has moved you and your family to bestow on us this rich vegetarian feast?” Rising from his seat, the old man said, “I heard you say just now that you are an expert in catching fiends. We have one here, and I’d like to ask you to catch him for us. You shall have a handsome reward.”

  Bowing immediately to him, Pilgrim said, “Thanks for giving me some business!” “Look how he causes trouble!” exclaimed Eight Rules. “When someone asks him to catch fiends, that person is dearer to him than his maternal grandpa! Without further ado, he bows already.” “Worthy Brother,” said Pilgrim, “you don’t know about this. My bow is actually like a down payment. He isn’t going to ask anyone else.”

  On hearing this, Tripitaka said, “This little monkey is so egocentric in everything. Suppose that monster-spirit has such vast magic powers that you can’t succeed in catching him. Wouldn’t that make you, someone who has left the family, guilty of falsehood?” “Master, don’t be offended,” said Pilgrim, laughing. “Let me question him further.” “On what?” asked the old man. Pilgrim said, “Your noble region here seems to be a clean and peaceful piece of land. There are, moreover, many families living together, hardly a remote area. What sort of monster-spirit is there who dares approach your high and noble gates?”

  “To tell you the truth,” said the old man, “our region has enjoyed peace and prosperity for a long time. But three years ago, a violent gust of wind arose during the time of the sixth month. At the time, all the people of our village were out in the fields busily planting rice or beating grain. Quite alarmed by the wind, they thought that the weather had changed. Little did they expect that after the wind a monster-spirit would descend on us and devour all the cattle and livestock left grazing outside. He ate chickens and geese whole, and he swallowed men and women alive. Since that time, he has returned frequently during these past three years to harass us. O elder! If you indeed have the abilities to catch this fiend and cleanse our land, all of us will most surely give you a big reward. We won’t treat you lightly!”

  “This kind of monster,” Pilgrim said, “is quite difficult to catch.” “Difficult indeed!” exclaimed Eight Rules. “We’re only mendicants—we want a night’s lodging from you, and tomorrow we’ll leave. Why should we catch any monster-spirit?” “So, you’re actually priests out to swindle a meal!” said the old man. “When we first met, you were boasting of how you could move planets and stars, how you could bind fiends and monsters. But when I tell you now about the matter, you pass it off as something very difficult.”

  “Oldie,” said Pilgrim, “the monster-spirit is not hard to catch. It is hard only because the families in this region are not of one mind in their efforts.” “In what way are they not of one mind?” asked the old man.

  “For three years,” Pilgrim replied, “this monster-spirit has been a menace, taking the lives of countless creatures. If each family here were to donate an ounce of silver, I should think that five hundred families would yield at least five hundred ounces. With that amount of money, you could hire an exorcist anywhere who would be able to catch the fiend for you. Why did you permit him to torture you for these three years?”

  “If you bring up the subject of spending money,” said the old man, “I’m embarrassed to death! Which one of our families did not indeed disburse three or four ounces of silver? The year before last we found a monk from the south side of this mountain and invited him to come. But he didn’t succeed.” “How did that monk go about catching the fiend?” asked Pilgrim. The old man said,

  That man of the Saṅgha,

  He had on a kasāya.

  He first quoted the Peacock;

  He then chanted the Lotus;

  Burned incense in his urn;

  Grasped with his hand a bell.

  As he thus sang and chanted,

  He aroused the very fiend.

  Astride the clouds and wind,

  He came to this village.

  The monk fought with the fiend,

  In truth some tall tale to tell!

  One stroke delivered a punch,

  One stroke delivered a scratch.

  The monk tried to respond:2

  In response his hair was gone!

  In a while the fiend triumphed

  And went back to mist and smoke.

  (Mere dried scabs being sunned!)

  We draw near to take a look:

  The bald head was beaten like a rotten watermelon!

  “When you put it like that,” said Pilgrim, laughing, “he really lost out!” The old man said, “He only paid with his life; we were the true victims. We had to buy the coffin for his funeral, and we had to give some money to his disciple. That disciple, however, has yet to be satisfied, and wants to bring litigation against us even now. What a mess!”

  “Did you try to find someone else to catch the monster?” asked Pilgrim again. The old man replied, “We found a Daoist last year.” “How did that Daoist go about catching him?” asked Pilgrim. “That Daoist,” said the old man,

  Wore on his head a gold cap,

  And on himself, a ritual robe.

  He banged aloud his placard;

  He waved his charms and water.

  He sent for gods and spirits

  But summoned only the ogre.

  A violent gale blew and churned,

  And black fog dimmed every where.

  The monster and the Daoist,

  The two went forth to battle.

  They fought till dusk had set in

  When the fiend left with the clouds.

  The cosmos was bright and fair,

  And we were all assembled.

  Going to search for the Daoist,

  We found him drowned in a brook.

  We fished him out for a better look:

  He seemed like a chicken poached in soup!

  “The way you put it,” said Pilgrim, laughing, “he, too, lost out!” “He, too, only paid with his life,” said the old man, “but we again had to spend all sorts of unnecessary money.” “Don’t worry! Don’t worry!” said Pilgrim. “Let me catch him for you.” “If you really have the ability to seize him,” said the old man, “I will ask several elders of our village to sign a contract with you. If you win, you may ask whatever amount of money you wish, and we won’t withhold from you even half a penny. But if you get hurt, don’t accuse us of anything. Let all of us obey the will of Heaven.” “This oldie is weary of being wrongly accused!” said Pilgrim, laughing. “I’m not that kind of person. Go and fetch the elders quickly.”

  Filled with delight, the old man immediately asked a few houseboys to go and invite eight or nine elders to his house—all neighbors, cousins, and in-laws of his. After they met the Tang Monk and had been told of the matter of catching the fiend, they were all very pleased. “Which noble disciple will go forth to catch him?” one elder asked.

  With his hands folded before his chest to salute them, Pilgrim said, “This little priest will.” Astonished, the elder said, “That won’t do! That won’t do! The monster-spirit ha
s vast magic powers and a hulking body. A lean and tiny priest like you probably won’t even fill the cracks of his teeth!”

  “Venerable Sir,” said Pilgrim, laughing, “you haven’t guessed correctly about me! I may be tiny, but I’m quite hardy. ‘Having drunk a few drops off the whetstone, I’ve been sharpened up!’” On hearing this, those elders had no alternative but to give their consent. “Elder,” they said, “how much reward do you want after you’ve caught the monster-spirit?”

  “Why mention reward?” replied Pilgrim. “As the saying goes,

  Gold dazzles your eyes;

  Silver is not shiny;

  Copper pennies are stinky!

  We’re priests trying to accumulate merit, and we certainly do not desire cash rewards.”

  “The way you speak,” said one of the elders, “indicates that you’re all noble priests who take your commandments seriously. You may not want cash rewards, but we can’t allow you to work for us for free. Now, all of us either farm or fish for our livelihood. If you truly can rid us of this cursed fiend and purify our region, each family will donate two acres of the finest land—a thousand acres in all—which will be set aside at one place. All of you, master and disciples, can then build on the land a nice temple or monastery, in which you can meditate and practice Chan. That’s much better than wandering with the clouds all over the world.”

  Laughing again, Pilgrim said, “That’s even messier! If you give us land, we’ll have to graze and groom horses, to find feed and make hay. At dusk, we can’t go to bed, and by dawn, we still cannot rest. That sort of a life will kill us!” “If you don’t want all these,” said the elder, “just what do you want as your reward?” “We’re people who have left the family,” replied Pilgrim. “Give us some tea and rice, and that’s sufficient reward.”