The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 1

by Unknown

  We tell you now about Lady Yin, who, having wept for some time for her husband, would have killed herself again by plunging into the water if Xuanzang had not desperately held on to her. They were struggling pitifully when they saw a dead body floating toward the river bank. The lady hurriedly went forward to look at it. Recognizing it as her husband’s body, she burst into even louder wailing. As the other people gathered around to look, they suddenly saw Guangrui unclasping his fists and stretching his legs. The entire body began to stir, and in a moment he clambered up to the bank and sat down, to the infinite amazement of everyone. Guangrui opened his eyes and saw Lady Yin, the chief minister Yin, his father-in-law, and a youthful monk, all weeping around him. “Why are you all here?” said Guangrui.

  “It all began,” said Lady Yin, “when you were beaten to death by bandits. Afterwards your unworthy wife gave birth to this son, who is fortunate enough to have been brought up by the abbot of the Gold Mountain Temple. The abbot sent him to meet me, and I told him to go seek his maternal grandfather. When father heard this, he made it known to the court and led troops here to arrest the bandits. Just now we took out the culprit’s liver and heart live to offer to you as libations, but I would like to know how my husband’s soul is able to return to give him life.” Guangrui said, “That’s all on account of our buying the golden carp, when you and I were staying at the Inn of Ten Thousand Flowers. I released that carp, not knowing that it was none other than the Dragon King of this place. When the bandits pushed me into the river afterward, he was the one who came to my rescue. Just now he was also the one who gave me back my soul as well as many precious gifts, which I have here with me. I never even knew that you had given birth to this boy, and I am grateful that my father-in-law has avenged me. Indeed, bitterness has passed and sweetness has come! What unsurpassable joy!”

  When the various officials heard about this, they all came to tender their congratulations. The chief minister then ordered a great banquet to thank his subordinates, after which the troops and horses on the very same day began their march homeward. When they came to the Inn of Ten Thousand Flowers, the chief minister gave order to pitch camp. Guangrui went with Xuanzang to the Inn of Liu to seek the grandmother, who happened to have dreamed the night before that a withered tree had blossomed. Magpies behind her house were chattering incessantly as well. She thought to herself, “Could it be that my grandson is coming?” Before she had finished talking to herself, father and son arrived together. The youthful monk pointed to her and said, “Isn’t this my grandmother?” When Guangrui saw his aged mother, he bowed in haste; mother and son embraced and wept without restraint for a while. After recounting to each other what had happened, they paid the innkeeper his bill and set out again for the capital. When they reached the chief minister’s residence, Guangrui, his wife, and his mother all went to greet the chief minister’s wife, who was overjoyed. She ordered her servants to prepare a huge banquet to celebrate the occasion. The chief minister said, “This banquet today may be named the Festival of Reunion, for truly our whole family is rejoicing.”

  Early the next morning, the Tang emperor held court, during which time the chief minister Yin left the ranks to give a careful report on what had taken place. He also recommended that a talent like Guangrui’s be used in some important capacity. The Tang emperor approved the memorial, and ordered that Chen E be promoted to Subchancellor of the Grand Secretariat so that he could accompany the court and carry out its policies. Xuanzang, determined to follow the way of Zen, was sent to practice austerities at the Temple of Infinite Blessing. Some time after this, Lady Yin calmly committed suicide after all, and Xuanzang went back to the Gold Mountain Temple to repay the kindness of abbot Faming. We do not know how things went thereafter; let’s listen to the explanation in the next chapter.

  TEN

  The Old Dragon King’s foolish schemes transgress Heaven’s decrees;

  Prime Minister Wei’s letter seeks help from an official of the dead.

  For the time being, we shall make no mention of Guangrui serving in his post and Xuanzang practicing austerities. We tell you now about two worthies who lived on the banks of the river Jing outside the city of Chang’an: a fisherman by the name of Zhang Shao and a woodman by the name of Li Ding.1 The two of them were scholars who had passed no official examination, mountain folks who knew how to read. One day in the city of Chang’an, after they had sold the wood on the one’s back and the carp in the other’s basket, they went into a small inn and drank until they were slightly tipsy. Each carrying a bottle, they followed the bank of the Jing River and walked slowly back.

  “Brother Li,” said Zhang Shao, “in my opinion those who strive for fame will lose their lives on account of fame; those who live in quest of fortune will perish because of riches; those who have titles sleep embracing a tiger; and those who receive official favors walk with snakes in their sleeves. When you think of it, their lives cannot compare with our carefree existence, close to the blue mountains and fair waters. We cherish poverty and pass our days without having to quarrel with fate.”

  “Brother Zhang,” said Li Ding, “there’s a great deal of truth in what you say. But your fair waters cannot match my blue mountains.” “On the contrary,” said Zhang Shao, “your blue mountains cannot match my fair waters, in testimony of which I offer a lyric2 to the tune of ‘Butterflies Enamored of Flowers’ that says:

  In a small boat o’er ten thousand miles of misty waves

  I lean to the silent, single sail,

  Circled by sounds of the mermaid-fish.

  My mind cleansed, my care purged, here lacks wealth or fame;

  Leisurely I pick stems of bulrushes and reeds.

  Counting the seagulls is pleasure to be told!

  At willowed banks and reeded bays

  My wife and son join my joyous laugh.

  I sleep most soundly as wind and wave recede;

  No shame, no glory, nor any misery.”

  Li Ding said, “Your fair waters are not as good as my blue mountains. I also have as testimony a lyric poem to the tune of ‘Butterflies Enamored of Flowers’ that says:

  At a dense forest’s pine-seeded corner

  I hear, wordless, the oriole—

  Its deft tongue’s a tuneful pipe.

  Pale reds and bright greens announce the warmth of spring;

  Summer comes abruptly; so passes time.

  Then autumn arrives (for it’s an easy change)

  With fragrant golden flowers

  Most worthy of our joy;

  And cold winter descends, swift as a finger snaps.

  Ruled by no one, I’m free in all four climes.”

  The fisherman said, “Your blue mountains are not as good as my fair waters, which offer me some fine things to enjoy. As testimony I have here a lyric to the tune of ‘The Partridge Sky’”:

  The fairy land cloud and water do suffice:

  Boat adrift, oars accumbent—this is my home.

  I split fishes live and cook green turtles;

  I steam purple crabs and boil red shrimps.

  Green reed-shoots,

  Water-plant sprouts;

  Better still the ‘chicken heads,’3 the walter caltrops,

  Lotus roots, old or young, the tender celery leaves,

  Arrowheads, white caltrops, and niaoying flowers.”

  The woodman said, “Your fair waters are not as good as my blue mountains, which offer me some fine things to enjoy. As testimony I too have a lyric to the tune of ‘The Partridge Sky’:

  On tall, craggy peaks that touch heaven’s edge

  A grass house, a straw hut would make up my home.

  Cured fowls, smoked geese surpass turles or crabs;

  Hares, antelopes, and deer best fishes or shrimps.

  The scented chun leaves;

  The yellow lian sprouts;4

  Bamboo shoots and mountain tea are even better!

  Purple plums, red peaches, prunes and apricots ripe,

&nbs
p; Sweet pears, sour dates, and cassia flowers.”

  The fisherman said, “Your blue mountains are truly not as good as my fair waters. I have another lyric to the tune of ‘The Heavenly Immortal’:

  One leaflike skiff goes where’er I choose to stay.

  I fear not ten thousand folds of wave or mist.

  I drop hooks and cast nets to catch fresh fish:

  With no sauce or fat,

  It’s tastier yet.

  Old wife and young son complete my home.

  When fishes are plenty, I leave for Chang’an marts

  And barter them for wine I drink till drunk.

  A coir coat shrouds me, on autumnal stream I lie;

  Snoring, asleep,

  No fret or care—

  I love not the glory or the pomp of man.”

  The woodman said, “Your fair waters are still not as good as my blue mountains. I too have a poem to the tune of ‘The Heavenly Immortal’:

  A few straw houses built beneath a hill.

  Pines, orchids, plums, bamboos—lovable all!

  Passing groves, climbing mountains, I seek dried woods.

  With none to chide,

  I sell as I wish:

  How much, how little, depends on my yield.

  I use the cash to buy wine as I please.

  Earthen crocks, clay flagons—both put me at ease.

  Sodden with wine, in the pine shade I lie:

  No anxious thoughts;

  No gain or loss;

  No care for this world’s failure or success.”

  The fisherman said, “Brother Li, your moutain life is not as pleasing as my livelihood on the waters. As testimony, I have a lyric to the tune of ‘Moon Over West River’:

  Red smartweeds’s thick blooms glow in moonlight;5

  Yellow rush-leaves tousled, wind-shaken.

  The blue sky, clean and distant, in empty Chu River:

  Drawing my lines, I stir a deep pool of stars.

  In rank and file big fishes enter the net;

  Teams of tiny perches swallow the hooks.

  Their taste is special when they’re caught and cooked.

  My laughter presides over rivers and lakes.”

  The woodman says, “Brother Zhang, your life on the waters is not as pleasing as my livelihood in the mountains. As testimony, I also have a lyric to the tune of ‘Moon Over West River’:

  Dead leaves, parched creepers choking the road;

  Snapped poles, aged bamboos crowding the hill;

  Dried tendrils and sedges in disheveled growth

  I break and take; my ropes truss the load.

  Willow trunks hollowed by insects,

  Pine branches clipped off by wind,

  I gather and stockpile, ready for winter’s cold.

  Change them for wine or cash as I wish.”

  The fisherman said, “Though your life in the mountains is not bad, it is still not as charming and graceful as mine is on the fair waters. As testimony, I have a lyric to the tune of ‘Immortal by the River’:

  Falling tide moves my one boat away;

  I rest my oars, my song comes with the night.

  The coir coat, the waning moon—how charming they are!

  No seagull darts up from fright

  As rosy clouds spread through the sky.

  I sleep without care at reeded isles,

  Still snoozing when the sun is high.

  I work after my own plans and desires.

  Vassals in cold nights tending court,

  Could theirs match my pleasure and peace?”

  The woodman said, “The charm and grace of your fair waters cannot be compared with those of my blue mountains. I too have a testimony to the tune of ‘Immortal by the River’:

  I walk autumn’s frosty paths dragging my ax;

  In night’s cool I pole back my load,

  Stranger still with temples stuck with flowers.

  I push clouds to find my way out;

  Moon-stuck I call open my gate.

  Rustic wife and young son greet me with smiles;

  On straw bed and wooden pillow I lie.

  Steamed pears and cooked millet are soon prepared.

  The urn’s brew newly mellowed

  Will add to my secret joys.”

  The fisherman said, “All these things in our poems have to do with our livelihood, the occupations with which we support ourselves. But your life not as good as those leisurely moments of mine, for which I have as testimony a regulated poem. The poem says:

  Idly I watch the blue sky’s white cranes fly.

  My boat stops stream-side, my door’s half-closed.

  By the sail my son’s taught to knot fishing threads;

  Rowing stops, I join my wife to dry the nets.

  My mind is still: thus I know the water’s calm.

  My self’s secure: hence I feel the wind is light.

  I freely don my green coir and bamboo hat:

  That beats wearing a robe with purple sash.

  The woodman said, “Your leisurely moments are not as good as mine, for which I also have a regulated poem as a testimony. The poem says:

  Idly I watch billows of white clouds fly,

  Or sit in my thatched hut’s closed bamboo gates.

  I open leisurely books to teach my son;

  At times I face guests to play circling chess.6

  My cane strolls with my songs through floral paths;

  Aroused, I climb green mountains, lute in hand.

  Straw sandals, hemp sashes, and coarse cloth quilts

  All beat silk garments when your heart is free!”

  Zhang Shao said, “Li Ding, the two of us indeed are

  Lucky to have light songs to amuse us.

  We don’t need castanets or flasks of gold.7

  But the poems we have recited thus far are occasional pieces, hardly anything unusual. Why don’t we attempt a long poem in the linking-verse manner,8 and see how fares the conversation between the fisherman and the woodman?”

  Li Ding said, “That’s a marvelous proposal, Brother Zhang! Please begin.”

  My boat rests on the green water’s mist and wave.9

  My home’s deep in mountains and open plains.

  I love the streams and bridges as spring tide swells;

  I care for ridges veiled by the clouds of dawn.

  My fresh carps from Longmen are often cooked;10

  My dried woods, worm-rotted, are daily burnt.

  Nets of many kinds will support my age.

  Both pole and rope will see me to the end.

  I lie in a skiff and watch wild geese fly;

  I sprawl on grassy paths when wild swans cry.

  I have no stake in fields of mouth and tongue;

  Through seas of scandal I’ve not made my way.

  Hung-dried by the stream my net’s like brocade;

  Polished new on rocks, my ax shows a fine blade.

  Beneath autumn’s moon I oft fish alone;

  In spring hills all quiet I meet no one.

  Fishes are changed for wine for me and wife to drink;

  Firewood is used to buy a bottle for my son.

  I sing and freely pour on my heart’s desire;

  In songs and sighs there’s none to restrain me.

  I call fellow boatmen to come as brothers;

  With friends we join the codgers of the wilds.

  We make rules, play games, and exchange the cups;

  We break words, remake them, when we pass the mugs.

  Cooked shrimps, boiled crabs are my daily feasts;

  I’m daily fed by smoked fowls and fried ducks.

  My unlettered wife makes tea languidly;

  My mountain wife cooks rice most leisurely.

  When dawn comes, I lift my staff to stir the waves;

  At sunrise I pole my wood to cross big roads.

  I don coir coat after rain to catch live carps;

  Wind-blown I wield my ax to cut dried pines.

  Hiding
tracks to flee the world, I’m like a fool;

  Blotting name and surname, I play deaf and dumb.

  Zhang Shao said, “Brother Li, just now I presumed to take the lead and began with the first line of the poem. Why don’t you begin this time and I shall follow you.”

  A rustic who feigns to be romantic;

  An oldie taking pride in streams and lakes.

  My lot is leisure, I seek laxity and ease.

  Shunning talk and gossip, I love my peace.

  In moonlit nights I sleep in safe straw huts;

  When sky dims I’m draped with light coir cape.

  I befriend with ardor both pines and plums;

  I’m pleased to mingle with egrets and gulls.

  My mind has no plans for fortune or fame;

  My ears are deaf to the din of spear and drum.

  At any time I’d pour my fragrant wine;

  My day’s three meals are soups of leafy greens.

  My living rests on two bundles of wood;

  My trade is my pole fit with hooks and lines.

  I call our young son to sharpen my ax;

  I tell my small rogue he should mend our nets.

  Spring comes, I love to watch the willows green;

  Warm days gladden the sight of rushes and reeds.

  To flee summer’s heat I plant new bamboos;

  I pick young lotus to cool myself in June.

  When Frost Descends the fatted fowls are slain;

  By Double Ninth11 I’d cook the roe-filled crabs.

  I sleep deep in winter though the sun is high;

  When the sky’s tall and hazy, I’d not fry!

  Throughout the year I roam free in the hills;

  In all four climes I sail the lakes at will.