by Unknown
As he was thus speaking to himself, a worker emerged from the third gate. When he saw the uncommon and handsome features of Tripitaka, he hurried forward and bowed, saying, “Where did the master come from?” “This disciple,” said Tripitaka, “was sent by the Throne of the Great Tang in the Land of the East to go to the Western Heaven and seek scriptures from Buddha. It was getting late when we arrived at your honored region, and I came to ask for lodging for one night.” “Please do not be offended, Master,” said the worker, “but I can’t assume responsibility here. I’m just a manual laborer in charge of sweeping the grounds and tolling the bell. There’s an old master inside who is the head of the household. Let me go in and report to him; if he wishes to ask you to stay, I’ll come out to give you the invitation; if not, I dare not detain you.” Tripitaka said, “Sorry for all that inconvenience.”
The worker hurried to the abbot chamber and reported, “Venerable Father, there’s someone outside.” The monk-official arose immediately, changed his clothes, adjusted his Vairocana hat, and put on a cassock before he went to open the door to receive his visitor. “What man has arrived?” he asked the worker, who pointed with his finger and replied, “Isn’t that a man there behind the main hall?” Bald-headed, wearing a Bodhidharma gown that was in shreds and a pair of sandals muddy and wet, Tripitaka was reclining by the door. When the monk-official saw him, he became enraged, saying, “Worker, you deserve to be flogged! Don’t you know that a monk-official like me would come out and receive only the gentlemen from the cities who come here to offer incense? For this sort of a monk, why did you give me a phony report and ask me to receive him? Just look at his face! He can’t be an honest man! He has to be some kind of mendicant who wants to sleep here now that it’s getting late. You think I’m going to permit him to mess up our abbot chamber? Tell him to squat in the corridor. Why bother me?” He turned around and left immediately.
When the elder heard these words, tears filled his eyes and he said, “How pitiful! How pitiful! Truly ‘a man away from home is cheap!’ This disciple left home from his youth to become a monk. I did not
Do penance while eating meat with wicked glee,
Or read scriptures in wrath to soil the mind of Chan.
Nor did I
Cast tiles and stones to damage Buddha’s hall,
Or rip down the gold from an arhat’s face.
Alas, how pitiful! I don’t know which incarnation it was that I had offended Heaven and Earth, so that I have to meet unkind people so frequently in this life. Monk, if you don’t want to give us lodging, that’s all right. But why must you say such nasty things, telling us to go and squat in the corridors? I’d better not repeat these words to Pilgrim, for if I did, that monkey would come in and a few blows of his iron rod would break all your shanks. All right! All right! The proverb says, ‘Man must put propriety and music first.’ Let me go inside and ask him once more and see what he really intends to do with us.”
Following the tracks of the monk-official, the master went up to the door of the abbot chamber, where he found the monk-official who, having taken off his outer garments, was sitting inside, still panting with rage. He was not reciting the sūtras, nor was he drawing up any service for a family; all the Tang Monk could see was a pile of papers on a table beside him. Not daring to walk inside abruptly but standing instead in the courtyard, Tripitaka bowed and cried out, “Old Abbot, this disciple salutes you.” Somewhat annoyed by the fact that Tripitaka followed him inside, the monk only pretended to return the greeting, saying, “Where did you come from?”
“This disciple,” replied Tripitaka, “has been sent by the Throne of the Great Tang in the Land of the East to go to the Western Heaven and seek scriptures from the Living Buddha. I passed through your honored region, it was getting late, and I came to ask for lodging for one night. Tomorrow, I’ll leave before daybreak. I beseech the Old Abbot to grant me this request.” Only then did the monk-official get up from his seat and say, “Are you that Tripitaka Tang?” Tripitaka said, “Yes.” “If you are going to the Western Heaven to acquire scriptures,” said the monk-official, “how is it that you don’t even know your way?” Tripitaka said, “Your disciple has never passed through your honored region and that’s why he doesn’t know the way here.” “Due west of here,” he said, “about four or five miles is a Thirty-Mile Inn, in which there is also someone selling food. It will be convenient for you to stay there, whereas it’s not convenient here for me to entertain a monk like yourself who has come from a great distance.”
“Abbot,” said Tripitaka with hands folded, “the ancients declared that ‘A Daoist abbey or a Buddhist monastery all may be considered a lodge for a priest, who has a claim for three percent of the food the moment he sees the temple gate.’ Why do you refuse me?” “You mendicant monk!” shouted the monk-official angrily. “All you know is how to cajole and wheedle!” Tripitaka said, “What do you mean by cajole and wheedle?” The monk-official said, “Remember what the ancients said?
A tiger comes to town;
Each house will shut the door.
Though no one is bitten,
Its name’s already poor!”
“What do you mean by ‘Its name’s already poor’?” asked Tripitaka.
“A few years ago,” said the monk-official, “there was a group of mendicants who arrived and sat in front of our monastery gate. I took pity on their hardship when I saw how destitute they were, every one of them bald-headed and barefooted, shoeless and in rags. So I invited them into the abbot chamber, gave them honored seats, and fed them a vegetarian meal. Moreover, I even gave each of them an old suit of clothes to wear and asked them to stay for a few days. How would I know that they could become so greedy for easy food and clothing that they would remain for seven or eight years, never giving a thought to leaving again? I didn’t mind even their staying, but they indulged in all sorts of shabby activities.”
“What kind of shabby activities?” asked Tripitaka. The monk-official said, “Just listen to my tale:
Idle, they threw tiles by the pale;
Bored, they pulled nails off the wall.
In winter they fed fires with ripped window panes,
Leaving torn doors, when hot, on the road.
They pulled banners to make leggings;
Gluttonous, they stole our turnips.
From glass vases they often poured our oil,
Gaming by grabbing bowls and dishes!”12
When Tripitaka heard these words, he said to himself, “How pitiful! Is this disciple that kind of spineless monk?” He was about to cry, but he feared also that the old monk in the monastery would laugh at him. Swallowing his pride and his annoyance while wiping away his tears secretly with his robe, he walked out quickly and met his three disciples. When Pilgrim saw how angry his master looked, he went forward to ask, “Master, did the monks in the monastery strike you?” “They didn’t,” said the Tang Monk. “They must have done so,” said Eight Rules, “for if they haven’t, why is your voice cracking?” “Have they scolded you?” asked Pilgrim. The Tang Monk said, “They haven’t either.” “If they haven’t struck you,” said Pilgrim, “or scolded you, why are you upset? You must be getting homesick.” “Disciples,” said the Tang Monk, “they say that it’s not convenient here.” “They must be Daoists here, then?” said Pilgrim, laughing. “Only a Daoist abbey has Daoists,” said the Tang Monk, raging. “There are only monks in a monastery.” Pilgrim said, “You are useless! If there are monks here, they are the same as we. The proverb says,
Gathered in Buddha’s assembly
Are all men of affinity.
You sit here, and let me go inside to look around.”
Dear Pilgrim! Giving the fillet on his head a squeeze and tightening the skirt around his waist, he went straight up to the Precious Hall of the Great Hero, holding his iron rod. There he pointed at the statues of the three Buddhas and said, “You are actually idols molded with clay and adorned with gold. You don’t possess o
ne whit of efficacy inside! Or do you? Old Monkey, who is accompanying the Tang Monk to go to the Western Heaven and seek the true scriptures from Buddha, has come here tonight specially to ask for lodging. You’d better hurry and announce my arrival. If you don’t put us up, my rod will smash the golden bodies and reveal your original forms of mud!”
As the Great Sage was making his threats and intimidations, a worker in charge of vespers arrived with several sticks of lighted incense to be placed in the urn before the images of Buddha. One snarl of Pilgrim sent him tumbling; when he scrambled up and saw the face, he fell down again. Stumbling all over, he fled into the abbot chamber and made the report, saying, “Holy Father, there’s a monk outside.”
“All of you workers deserve to be flogged!” said the monk-official. “I told you people before that they should be sent to squat in the corridors up front. Why make another announcement? One more word and I’ll give you twenty lashes!” “Holy Father,” said the worker, “this monk is not the same as the other one; he’s mean and fierce looking.” “How does he look?” asked the monk-official. The worker replied, “He’s someone with round eyes, forked ears, a face full of hairs, and a beak like the thunder god’s. He has a rod in his hands, furiously grinding his teeth to find someone to beat.” “Let me go out and have a look,” said the monk-official.
The moment he opened the door, he saw Pilgrim barging in. It was a hideous sight indeed! A bumpy, scabrous face, a pair of yellow eyeballs, a sunken forehead, and long, protruding fangs—he seemed virtually an overcooked crab with meat inside and cartilage outside! So panic-stricken was the old monk that he slammed shut the door of the abbot chamber at once. Pilgrim, however, rushed up to it and smashed it to pieces, crying, “Hurry up and clean out one thousand rooms! Old Monkey wants to take a nap!”
As he attempted to hide in the room, the monk-official said to the worker, “No wonder he’s so ugly! Talking big has caused him to end up with a face like that! Our place here, including abbot chambers, Buddha halls, bell-and-drum towers, and the two corridors, has barely three hundred rooms. He wants a thousand for him to take a nap. Where are we going to get these rooms?” “Master,” said the worker, “I’m a man whose gall has been busted by fear. I’ll let you answer him any way you please.” Trembling all over, the monk-official said in a loud voice, “The elder who wants lodging, please hear me. It’s truly inconvenient for this small, humble monastery of ours to entertain you. Please go somewhere to stay.”
Pilgrim transformed his rod until it had the circumference of a basin’s; then he stuck it straight up in the courtyard. “Monk,” he said, “if it’s inconvenient, you move out.” The monk-official said, “We have lived here since our youth; our grand-masters passed the place on to our masters, and they in turn to us. We want to give it to our heirs. What sort of a person is he that he would so rashly ask us to move?” “Venerable Father,” said the worker, “we can’t muddle through like this. Why not move out? That pole of his is going to come smashing in!” “Stop babbling!” said the monk-official. “We have altogether five hundred monks here, old and young. Where are we going to move to? Even if we do move out, we have no other place to stay.” Hearing this, Pilgrim said, “Monk, if you have no place to move, one of you must come out and be caned.”
The old monk said to the worker, “You go out and take the caning for me.” Horrified, the worker said, “O Father! With that huge pole, and you ask me to take the caning!” The old monk said, “As the proverb says, ‘It may take a thousand days to feed an army, but only one day to use it.’ Why don’t you go out?” “Don’t speak of being caned by that huge pole,” said the worker. “Even if it just falls on you, you’ll be reduced to a meat patty.” “Yes,” said the old monk, “let’s not speak of falling on someone. If it remains standing in the courtyard, one can crack his head bumping into it at night if one forgets it’s there.” “Master,” said the worker, “if you know that’s how heavy it is, why do you ask me to go out and take the caning for you?” After he asked this question, the two of them began to quarrel between themselves.
Hearing all that noise, Pilgrim said to himself, “They really can’t take it. If I kill each of them with one blow of my rod, Master will accuse me again of working violence. Let me find something to strike at and show them what I can do.” He lifted his head and discovered a stone lion outside the door of the abbot chamber. Raising up the rod, he slammed it on the lion and reduced it to powder. The monk caught sight of the blow through a tiny hole in the window and, almost paralyzed with fear, began crawling under the bed while the worker tried desperately to creep into the opening of the kitchen range, yelling all the time: “Father! The rod’s too heavy! The rod’s too heavy! I can’t take it! It’s convenient! It’s convenient!” Pilgrim said, “Monk, I won’t hit you now. I’m asking you, how many monks are there in this monastery?” Shaking all over, the monk-official said, “There are two hundred and eighty-five chambers back and front, and we have altogether five hundred certified monks.” “Go quickly and call up every one of those five hundred monks,” said Pilgrim. “Tell them to put on their long robes and receive my master in here. Then I won’t hit you.” “Father,” said the monk-official, “if you won’t hit us, we’ll be glad even to carry him inside.” “Go now!” said Pilgrim. The monk-official said to the worker, “Don’t tell me that your gall has been busted by fear. Even if your heart is busted, you still have to go and call up these people to welcome the Holy Father Tang.”
With no alternative at all, the worker had to risk his life. He dared not, however, walk out the door, but crawled out instead in the back through the dog hole from where he went to the main hall in front. He began striking the bell on the west and beating the drum on the east. The sounds of these two instruments soon aroused all the monks living in their quarters along the two corridors. They arrived at the main hall and asked, “It’s still early. Why do you beat the drum and strike the bell?” “Change your clothes quickly,” said the worker, “and line yourselves up to follow Old Master to go out of the gate in order to welcome a Holy Father from the Tang court.” The various monks indeed arranged themselves in order to go out of the gate for the reception; some of them put on their cassocks, while others put on their togas. Those who had neither wore long, bell-shaped gowns, while the poorest ones folded up their skirts and draped them over both their shoulders. When Pilgrim saw them, he asked, “Monks, what kind of clothes do you have on?” When the monks saw how fierce and ugly he looked, they said, “Father, don’t hit us. Let us tell you what we have on. The cloth was donated to us by the families in the city. As we don’t have any tailor around here, we have to make our own clothes. The style is called A Wrap of Woe.”
Smiling silently to himself when he heard these words, Pilgrim guarded the monks and saw to it that each one of them walked out of the gate and kneeled down. After he kowtowed, the monk-official cried out: “Venerable Father Tang, please go to the abbot chamber and take a seat.” When Eight Rules saw what was happening, he said, “Master is so incompetent! When you walked inside just now, you returned not only with tears, but you were pouting so much that you looked as if two flasks of oil had been hung on your lips. Now, what sort of cunning does Elder Brother have that makes them kowtow to receive us?” “You Idiot!” said Tripitaka. “You don’t know what’s going on! As the proverb says, ‘Even ghosts are afraid of nasty people.’”
When the Tang Monk saw them kowtowing, he was very embarrassed and he approached them, saying, “Please rise, all of you.” The various monks continued to kowtow, saying, “If the Venerable Father could speak on our behalf to your disciple and ask him not to hit us with that pole, we would be willing to kneel here for a whole month.” “Wukong,” cried the Tang Monk, “don’t hit them.” “I haven’t,” said Pilgrim, “for if I did, they would have been exterminated.” Only then did those monks get up; some went to lead the horse while others took up the pole of luggage. They lifted up the Tang Monk, carried Eight Rules, and took hold of
Sha Monk—all crowded inside the monastery gate and headed for the abbot chamber in the back.
After the pilgrims took their seats, the monks came again to do obeisance. “Abbot, please rise,” said Tripitaka. “There’s no need for you to go through such ceremony anymore, or your poor monk will find it much too burdensome. You and I, after all, are all disciples within the gate of Buddha.” “The Venerable Father,” said the monk-official, “is an imperial envoy of a noble nation, and this humble monk has not properly welcomed you when you reached our desolate mountain. Our vulgar eyes could not recognize your esteemed countenance, though it was our good fortune that we should meet. Permit me to ask the Venerable Father to tell me whether he was eating meat or vegetarian food on the way. We can then prepare your meal.” “Vegetarian food,” said Tripitaka. “Disciples,” said the monk-official, “this Holy Father prefers vegetarian food.” Pilgrim said, “We, too, have been eating vegetarian food. We have maintained such a diet, in fact, even before we were born.”
“O Father!” exclaimed that monk. “Such violent men would eat vegetarian food, too?” Another monk, who was slightly more courageous, drew near and asked again, “If the Venerable Fathers prefer vegetarian food, how much rice should we cook?” “You cheapskates!” said Eight Rules. “Why ask? For our family, cook a picul of rice.” The monks all became frightened; they went at once to scrub and wash the pots and pans and to prepare the meal. Bright lamps were brought in as they set the table to entertain the Tang Monk.
After master and disciples had eaten the vegetarian dinner, the monks took away the dishes and the furniture. “Old Abbot,” said Tripitaka, thanking him, “we are greatly indebted to you and your hospitality.” “Not at all, not at all,” said the monk-official, “we haven’t done anything for you.” Tripitaka asked, “Where should we sleep?” “Don’t be impatient, Venerable Father,” said the monk-official. “This humble cleric has everything planned.” He then asked, “Worker, do you have some people there who are free to work?” “Yes, Master,” said the worker. The monk-official instructed them, saying, “Two of you should go and get some hay to feed the horse of Venerable Father Tang. The rest can go to the front and clean up three of the Chan halls; set up bedding and mosquito nets so that the Venerable Fathers can take their rest.”
