The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 2

by Unknown

  All that legerdemain of Pilgrim, you see, was aimed at eliciting from the elder these few words. He wiped away his tears, saying, “Master, if you want to cross this mountain, Zhu Eight Rules has to agree to do two things for me. Only then will we have about a third of a chance to get by. If he doesn’t agree to help me, you might as well forget about the whole matter.” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “if we can’t do it, let’s scatter. Don’t drag me down.” “Disciple,” said the elder, “let’s ask your Elder Brother first and see what he wants you to do.” Idiot indeed said to Pilgrim, “Elder Brother, what do you want me to do?”

  “The first thing is to look after Master,” said Pilgrim, “and the second is to go patrol the mountain.” Eight Rules said, “Looking after Master means sitting right here, whereas to patrol the mountain means taking a walk somewhere. Do you want me to sit awhile and walk awhile? How can I do two things at once?”

  “I’m not telling you to do two things at once,” said Pilgrim, “but to select one only.” “That’s easier to decide,” said Eight Rules, chuckling, “but I don’t know what’s involved in looking after Master or in patrolling the mountain. Tell me something of my duties and I can then carry them out accordingly.”

  “To look after Master,” said Pilgrim, “means that if he wants to move his bowels, you wait on him; if he wants to journey, you assist him; if he wants to eat, you go to beg for vegetarian food. If he suffers from hunger even slightly, you’ll be beaten; if he pales a little, you’ll be beaten; if he loses some weight, you’ll be beaten.”

  Horrified, Eight Rules said, “This is terribly difficult! Terribly difficult! To wait on him or to help him to walk—that’s nothing, and even if I have to carry him bodily, it’s still an easy matter. But if he wants to send me to beg for food, I fear that there might be those on this road to the West who won’t recognize that I’m a monk seeking scriptures. They might think that I’m a healthy hog just reaching maturity and then have me surrounded by many people with brooms, rakes, pitchforks, and all. I’ll be taken to their homes, slaughtered, and cured for the new year. Wouldn’t that be like meeting the plague?”

  “Then go and patrol the mountain,” said Pilgrim.

  “What does that involve?” asked Eight Rules.

  Pilgrim replied, “Go into the mountain and find out how many monsters there are, what kind of mountain this is, and what kind of cave there is. We can then make plans to pass through.” “This is a small thing,” said Eight Rules. “Old Hog will go patrol the mountain.” Hitching up his garment at once, Idiot held high his muckrake and strode energetically up the road leading into the mountain.

  As he watched Eight Rules leave, Pilgrim could not suppress his giggles. “You impudent ape!” scolded the elder. “As a brother, you haven’t shown the least bit of sympathy or kindness. You are constantly envious of one another. With all that base cunning, all those ‘clever words and an ingratiating appearance,’9 you have managed to trick him already into the so-called patrolling the mountain. Now you are even mocking him with your laugh!”

  “I’m not mocking him,” said Pilgrim, “because there’s another meaning in my laughter. You see that Eight Rules has left, but he will not go to patrol the mountain, nor will he dare to face the monsters. He will go instead somewhere to hide for awhile and then come back to deceive us with some story that he has made up.”

  “How do you know that about him?” asked the elder. Pilgrim replied, “I suspect that’s how he will behave. If you don’t believe me, let me follow him and find out. I can also lend him some assistance in subduing the monsters, and see at the same time whether he is earnest in seeking the Buddha.” “Fine! Fine! Fine!” said the elder, “but you must not play tricks on him.”

  Pilgrim agreed and ran up the slope of the mountain. Shaking his body once, he changed into a tiny mole cricket, indeed a delicate and lightsome transformation. You see

  Thin wings dance in the wind without effort;

  A small waist sharp as a pin.

  He darts through rushes and the floral shades

  Faster than even a comet.

  Eyes that are shining bright;

  A voice that’s soft and faint.

  Of insects he’s one of the smallest:

  Slender, shapely, and sly.

  A few times he rests idle in the secluded woods—

  His whole body out of sight,

  Lost to a thousand eyes.10

  Spreading his wings, he flew with a buzz up there, caught up with Eight Rules, and alighted on his neck beneath the bristles behind his ear. Idiot was intent on traveling; how could he know that someone had landed on his body? After walking for seven or eight miles, he dropped his muckrake, turned around, and faced the direction of the Tang Monk. Gesturing vehemently with hands and feet, he began to let loose a string of abuses. “You doddering old priest!” he said. “You unscrupulous BanHorsePlague! You sissy Sha Monk! All of you are enjoying yourselves, but you trick old Hog into stumping the road. All of us seeking the scriptures hope to attain the right fruit, but you have to make me do this so-called patrolling the mountain. Ha, ha, ha! If there are monsters known to be in this place, we should have taken cover and tried to get by undetected. But that’s not sufficient for you; you have to make me go find them instead! Well, that’s your bad luck! I’m going to find some place and take a nap. When I am through sleeping, I’ll go back and give you a vague story about having patrolled the mountain, and that will be that!” It was the good fortune of the moment for Idiot. As he walked further along, carrying his muckrake, he discovered a clump of red grass in the fold of the mountain. He crawled inside at once and used his muckrake to create for himself some sort of floor mat. Lying down and stretching himself, he said, “O joy! Even that BanHorsePlague is not as comfortable as I am now!” But Pilgrim, you see, who had stationed himself behind his ear, heard every word. No longer able to contain himself, Pilgrim flew up and decided to badger him a little. With one shake of his body he changed again into a small woodpecker. You see

  A fine bill iron hard and glossy red

  And bright, gleaming patterned plumage.

  Owning a pair of steel claws sharp as nails,

  Famished he fears not quiet woods.

  He loves best the dried trunks worm-rotted;

  He cares, too, for the lonely old tree.

  Round-eyed, fan-tailed, he’s very perky—

  His pecking sounds are worth hearing!11

  This creature was neither too big nor too small, weighing perhaps only several ounces. Armed with a red bronze-hard bill and black iron claws, he hurtled straight down from the air. Eight Rules was just sleeping soundly with head upturned when his snout received a terrific bite. So startled was Idiot that he scampered up at once, madly shouting, “A monster! A monster! He stabbed me with the lance! Oh, my mouth is sore!” He rubbed it with his hands and blood spurted out. “That’s weird!” he said, “I’m not involved in any happy event. Why has my mouth been painted red?” He stared at his bloody hands, muttering to himself confusedly, but he could not detect the least trace of movement around him. He said, “There’s no monster. Then why was I stabbed by a lance?” He raised his head to look upward and suddenly discovered a small woodpecker flying in the air. Gritting his teeth, Idiot shouted, “You wretched outcast! Isn’t it enough that BanHorsePlague should oppress me? Why must you, too, oppress me? Ah, I know! He must not have recognized that I’m a human, thinking instead that my snout is a charred, rotted tree trunk with worms inside. He’s looking for worms to eat and that’s why he gives me a bite. Let me hide my snout in my chest.”

  Tumbling on the ground, Idiot again lay down to sleep. Pilgrim flew down once more and gave the base of his ear another bite. Alarmed, Idiot jumped up, saying, “This wretched outcast! He’s really harassing me! This must be where his nest is located, and he’s worried that I have taken his eggs or offspring. That’s why he’s harassing me. All right! All right! All right! I’m not going to sleep anymore.”
Poling his rake, he left the red grass meadow and started up the road again. Meanwhile, Pilgrim Sun nearly broke up with amusement, the Handsome Monkey King almost collapsed with laughter. “This coolie!” he said. “Even those wide open eyes couldn’t recognize one of his own!”

  Dear Great Sage! Shaking his body and changing again into a mole cricket, he attached himself firmly to Idiot’s ear once more. After walking four or five miles deep into the mountain, Idiot came upon in a valley three square slabs of green rock, each about the size of a table. Putting down his rake, Idiot bowed deeply to the rocks. Laughing silently to himself, Pilgrim said, “This Idiot! The rocks are no humans; they know neither how to talk nor how to return his greeting. Why bow to them? That’s truly blind homage!” But Idiot, you see, pretended that the rocks were the Tang Monk, Sha Monk, and Pilgrim. Facing the three of them, Idiot was rehearsing what he would say. Said he, “This time when I go back to see Master, I’ll say that there are monsters, should they ask me. And if they ask me what kind of mountain this is, I’ll say that it’s molded of clay, made of mud, wrought of tin, forged by copper, steamed with flour, plastered with paper, and painted with the brush. If they claim that I’m speaking idiotic words, I’m going to say some more. I’ll say that this is a rocky mountain. If they ask me what sort of a cave there is, I’ll say there is a rocky cave. If they ask me what kind of doors there are, I’ll say there are sheet-iron doors studded with nails. If they ask me how deep is the cave inside, I’ll say that there are some three sections in the dwelling. If they persist in trying to learn everything, such as how many nails there are on the door, I’ll only say that old Hog is too preoccupied to remember the exact number. Well, now that I have everything all made up, I’m going to go back to hoodwink that BanHorsePlague.” Having fabricated his story, Idiot dragged his rake along to retrace his steps. He did not know, however, that Pilgrim heard everything behind his ear. When Pilgrim saw him turning back, he stretched his wings and flew back first, changing back to his original form to see his master. “Wukong, so you have come back,” said the master. “Why don’t we see Wuneng also?”

  “He’s just making up some lies,” said Pilgrim, chuckling. “He’ll be here soon.”

  The elder said, “A person like him who has his eyes covered by his ears has to be a stupid fellow. What sort of lies can he make up? It’s got to be some hum-buggery of yours again, trying to put the blame on him.”

  “Master,” said Pilgrim, “you are always covering up his faults. What I have to tell you, however, is based on evidence.” He thereupon gave a complete account of how Idiot crawled into the clump of grass to sleep and was bitten by the woodpecker, and how he bowed to the rocks and made up the story on monster-spirits in the rocky mountain, in the rocky cave with the sheet-iron doors. After he finished, Idiot came walking back in a little while. As he was afraid that he might forget what he had made up, he was still rehearsing with head bowed when Pilgrim shouted at him, “Idiot, what are you reciting?” Sticking up his ears so that he could glance around, Eight Rules said, “I’m back at the old homestead!” He went forward and knelt down, but the elder raised him up, saying, “Disciple, you must be tired!” “Yes,” said Eight Rules, “the person who walks or climbs mountains is the one most tired.”

  “Are there any monsters?” asked the elder. Eight Rules said, “Yes, yes! There is a whole bunch of them!” “How did they treat you?” asked the elder. Eight Rules said, “They called me Ancestor Hog and Grandfather Hog; they also prepared some vegetarian food and soup noodles for me to eat, saying that they would put on a big parade to take us across this mountain.” “Could this be your talking in your dreams, after you have fallen asleep in the grass?” asked Pilgrim. When Idiot heard the question, he was so astounded that he almost lost two inches of his height, saying, “O Father! How could he know about my sleeping?”

  Pilgrim went forward and caught hold of him, saying, “You come over here! Let me ask you!” Idiot became even more alarmed; trembling all over, he said, “You can ask me anything. Why do you have to grab me like that?” “What kind of a mountain is there?” asked Pilgrim. Eight Rules said, “It’s a rocky mountain.” “What kind of a cave?” “It’s a rocky cave,” he said. “What kind of doors are there?” Pilgrim asked. “There are sheet-iron doors studded with nails,” he said. “How deep is the cave inside?” “There are three sections inside,” he said. “No need for you to say any more,” said Pilgrim. “I can remember the last part quite clearly, but because I fear that Master still won’t believe me, I’ll say that for you.” “You sneak!” said Eight Rules. “You didn’t even go with me! What do you know that you can say for me?” “How many nails are there on the doors?” said Pilgrim, laughing, “Just say that old Hog is too preoccupied to remember clearly. Isn’t that about right?” Idiot was so frightened that he fell on his knees at once. Pilgrim said, “You bowed to the rocks and began speaking to them as if they were the three of us. Isn’t that right? You also said, ‘Let me make up this story so that I can go hoodwink that BanHorsePlague.’ Isn’t that right also?” “Elder Brother,” said Idiot, kowtowing unceasingly, “could it be that you accompanied me when I went to patrol the mountain?” “You overstuffed coolie!” scolded Pilgrim. “This is an important area. We asked you to go patrol the mountain, and you went to sleep instead. If the woodpecker hadn’t jabbed you up, you would still be sleeping there. After you were roused, you even made up such a big lie. You could completely ruin our important enterprise, couldn’t you? Stick out your shanks at once, and you’ll receive five strokes of the rod as a keepsake.”

  Horrified, Eight Rules said, “That funeral staff is very heavy: a little touch and my skin will collapse, a little brush and my tendons will snap. Five strokes mean certain death for me.” Pilgrim said, “If you are afraid of being beaten, why do you lie?” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “it’s just this once. I’ll never dare do that again.” “All right,” said Pilgrim, “I’ll give you just three strokes this time.” “O Father!” said Eight Rules. “I can’t even bear half a stroke!” Without any alternative, Idiot caught hold of the master and said, “You must speak for me.”

  The elder said, “When Wukong told me that you were making up this lie, I would not believe him. Now that it is really so, you certainly deserve to be beaten. But we are trying to cross this mountain at the moment, and we need everyone we can use. So Wukong, you may as well spare him now. Let’s cross the mountain first, and then you can beat him.” Pilgrim said, “The ancients said, ‘To obey the sentiments of one’s parents is to perform a great filial act.’ If Master tells me not to beat you, I’ll spare you for the moment. You must go to patrol the mountain again. If you start lying and botch things up once more, I’ll not spare you from even one stroke!”

  Idiot had no choice but to scamper up and leave on the main road. Look at him! As he walked along this time, he was haunted by suspicion, supposing with every step of the way that the transformed Pilgrim was following him. As soon as he came upon an object or thing, he would immediately suspect that it was Pilgrim. After he had gone for about seven or eight miles, he saw a tiger running across the slope. Undaunted, he lifted up his muckrake and said, “Elder Brother, did you come again to listen to my fibs? I told you I wouldn’t do that anymore.” As he walked further, a violent mountain gust toppled a dead tree, which rolled up to him. Pounding his chest and stamping his feet, he cried, “Elder Brother! Why did you do this? I told you I would not try to deceive you anymore. Why did you have to change into a tree to strike at me?” He proceeded still further and saw in the air a white-necked old crow, which squawked several times overhead. He said again, “Elder Brother, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I told you I wouldn’t lie anymore. Why did you still change into an old crow? Are you trying to eavesdrop on me again?” But this time Pilgrim, you see, did not follow him; he was simply ridden with suspicion and surmise, and we shall speak no more of him for the moment.

  We now tell you about the mountain, which was
named Level-Top Mountain, in which there was a cave called the Lotus-Flower Cave. There were two fiends in the cave: one had the name of the Great King Golden Horn and the other, the Great King Silver Horn. As they sat in the cave that day, Golden Horn said to Silver Horn, “Brother, how long has it been since we patrolled the mountain?” Silver Horn said, “It’s been half a month.” “Brother,” said Golden Horn, “go and patrol it today.” Silver Horn said, “Why today?” “You don’t know what I heard recently,” said Golden Horn, “that the Tang emperor in the Land of the East had sent his royal brother, the Tang Monk, to worship Buddha in the West. He has three other companions by the names of Pilgrim Sun, Zhu Eight Rules, and Sha Monk; including the horse, there are five of them altogether. Go see where they are and capture them for me.” Silver Horn said, “If we want to eat people, we can catch a few anywhere. Where can these monks be? Let them pass.” Golden Horn said, “You don’t know about this. The year when I left the Heavenly Region, I heard people say that the Tang Monk is the incarnation of the Elder Gold Cicada, a man who has practiced religion for ten existences, and one who has not allowed any of his yang energy to be dissipated. If anyone can have a taste of his flesh, his age will be vastly lengthened.” “If eating his flesh,” said Silver Horn, “can lengthen our age and prolong our lives, what need we to practice sedentary meditation, to arrive at certain attainment, to cultivate the dragon and the tiger, or to achieve the union of the male and the female?12 We should just eat him. Let me go and catch him at once.”

  Golden Horn said, “Brother, you are rather impulsive. Let’s not hurry. If you walk out this door and grab any monk that comes along, you would be breaking the law unnecessarily if he were not the Tang Monk. I still recall how the real Tang Monk looks. Let’s have portraits made of the master and his disciples that you can take along with you. When you see some monks, you can check whether they are the real ones.” He thereupon had portraits drawn up, and the name of each person was written beside the picture. Taking the sketches with him, Silver Horn left the cave after calling up thirty little fiends to follow him to patrol the mountain.