The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 1

by Unknown

  Tripitaka bowed again and asked about the distance to the Great Thunderclap Temple of the Western Heaven. “It’s very far away! Very far away!” said the Chan Master. “What’s more, the road is a difficult one, filled with tigers and leopards.” With great earnestness, Tripitaka asked again, “Just how far is it?” “Though it may be very far,” answered the Chan Master, “you will arrive there one day. But all those māra hindrances along the way are hard to dispel. I have a Heart Sūtra here in this scroll; it has fifty-four sentences containing two hundred and seventy characters. When you meet these māra hindrances, recite the sūtra and you will not suffer any injury or harm.” Tripitaka prostrated himself on the ground and begged to receive it, whereupon the Chan Master imparted the sūtra by reciting it orally. The sūtra said:

  HEART SŪTRA OF THE GREAT PERFECTION OF WISDOM

  When the Bodhisattva Guanzizai26 was moving in the deep course of the Perfection of Wisdom, she saw that the five heaps27 were but emptiness, and she transcended all sufferings. Śārīputra, form is no different from emptiness, emptiness no different from form; form is emptiness, and emptiness is form. Of sensations, perceptions, volition, and consciousness, the same is also true. Śārīputra, it is thus that all dharmas are but empty appearances, neither produced nor destroyed, neither defiled nor pure, neither increasing nor decreasing. This is why in emptiness there are no forms and no sensations, perceptions, volition, or consciousness; no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, or mind; no form, sound, smell, taste, touch, or object of mind. There is no realm of sight [and so forth], until we reach the realm of no mind-consciousness; there is no ignorance, nor is there extinction of ignorance [and so forth], until we reach the stage where there is no old age and death, nor is there the extinction of old age and death; there is no suffering, annihilation, or way; there is no cognition or attainment. Because there is nothing to be attained, the mind of the Bodhisattva, by virtue of reliance upon the Perfection of Wisdom, has no hindrances: no hindrances, and therefore, no terror or fear; he is far removed from error and delusion, and finally reaches Nirvāṇa. All the Buddhas of the three worlds28 rely on the Perfection of Wisdom, and that is why they attain the ultimate and complete enlightenment. Know, therefore, that the Perfection of Wisdom is a great divine spell, a spell of great illumination, a spell without superior, and a spell without equal. It can do away with all sufferings—such is the unvarnished truth. Therefore, when the Spell of the Perfection of Wisdom is to be spoken, say this spell: “Gate! Gate! Pāragate! Pārasaṃgate! Bodhisvāhā!”29

  Now because that master of the law from the Tang court was spiritually prepared, he could remember the Heart Sūtra after hearing it only once. Through him, it has come down to us this day. It is the comprehensive classic for the cultivation of Perfection, the very gateway to becoming a Buddha.

  After the transmission of the sūtra, the Chan Master trod on the cloudy luminosity and was about to return to his crow’s nest. Tripitaka, however, held him back and earnestly questioned him again about the condition of the road to the West. The Chan Master laughed and said:

  “The way is not too hard to walk;

  Try listening to what I say.

  A thousand hills and waters deep;

  Places full of goblins and snags;

  When you reach those sky-touching cliffs,

  Fear not and put your mind at rest.

  Crossing the Rub Ear Precipice,

  You must walk with steps placed sideways.

  Take care in the Black Pine Forest;

  Fox-spirits will likely bar your way.

  Griffins will fill the capitals;

  Monsters all mountains populate;

  Old tigers sit as magistrates;

  Graying wolves act as registrars.

  Lions, elephants—all called kings!

  Leopards, tigers are coachmen all!

  A wild pig totes a hauling pole;

  You’ll meet ahead a water sprite.

  An old stone ape of many years

  Now nurses over there his spite!

  Just ask that acquaintance of yours:

  Well he knows the way to the West.”

  Hearing this, Pilgrim laughed with scorn and said, “Let’s go. Don’t ask him, ask me! That’s enough!” Tripitaka did not perceive what he meant. The Chan Master, changing into a beam of golden light, went straight up to his crow’s nest, while the priest bowed toward him to express his gratitude. Enraged, Pilgrim lifted his iron rod and thrust it upward violently, but garlands of blooming lotus flowers were seen together with a thousand-layered shield of auspicious clouds. Though Pilgrim might have the strength to overturn rivers and seas, he could not catch hold of even one strand of the crow’s nest. When Tripitaka saw this, he pulled Pilgrim back, saying, “Wukong, why are you jabbing at the nest of a bodhisattva like him?” “For leaving like that after abusing both my brother and me,” said Pilgrim. “He was speaking of the way to the Western Heaven,” said Tripitaka. “Since when did he abuse you?”

  “Didn’t you get it?” asked Pilgrim. “He said, ‘A wild pig totes a hauling pole,’ and insulted Eight Rules. ‘An old stone ape of many years’ ridiculed old Monkey. How else would you explain that?” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “don’t be angry. This Chan Master does know the events of past and future. Let’s see if his statement, ‘You’ll meet ahead a water sprite,’ will be fulfilled or not. Let’s spare him and leave.” Pilgrim saw the lotus flowers and auspicious fog near the nest, and he had little alternative than to ask his master to mount so that they could descend from the mountain and proceed toward the West. Lo, their journey

  Thus shows that in man’s world pure leisure is rare,

  But evils and ogres are rife in the hills!

  We really do not know what took place in the journey ahead; let’s listen to the explanation in the next chapter.

  TWENTY

  At Yellow Wind Ridge the Tang Monk meets adversity;

  In mid-mountain, Eight Rules strives to be first.

  The dharma is born through the mind;

  It’ll be destroyed, too, through the mind.

  By whom it is destroyed or born,

  That you must determine yourself.

  If it is through your own mind,

  Why do others need to tell you?

  All that you need is your hard work

  To draw blood out of iron ore.

  Let a silk cord puncture your nose

  To tie a firm knot on the void;

  Fasten that to the no-work tree,1

  That you’d not be vicious and wild.

  Regard not the thief as your son,

  And forget all dharma and mind.

  Let not the Other deceive me:

  With one big punch strike him out first.

  The manifest mind’s also no mind;

  Manifest Law is law that’s stopped.

  When both Bull2 and Man disappear,

  The jade-green sky is bright and clear.

  Any autumn moon’s just as round:

  You can’t tell one from the other.

  This enigmatic gāthā was composed by Xuanzang, master of the law, after he had thoroughly mastered the Heart Sūtra, which had, in fact, broken through the gate of his understanding. He recited it frequently, and the beam of spiritual light penetrated by itself to his innermost being.

  We turn now to tell you about the three travelers, who dined on the wind and rested by the waters, who clothed themselves with the moon and cloaked themselves with the stars on their journey. Soon, it was the scene of summer again, beneath a torrid sky. They saw

  Flowers gone, and butterflies cared not to linger;

  On tall trees the cicada chirp turned brazen.

  Wild worms made their cocoons, fair pomegranates their fire,

  As new lilies in the ponds appeared.3

  As they were traveling one day, it was growing late again when they saw a hamlet beside the mountain road. “Wukong,” said Tripitaka, “look at that sun setting behind the
mountain, hiding its fiery orb, and the moon rising on the eastern sea, revealing an icy wheel. It’s a good thing that a family lives by the road up there. Let us ask for lodging for the night and proceed tomorrow.” “You are right!” said Eight Rules. “Old Hog is rather hungry, too! Let’s go and beg for some food at the house. Then I can regain my strength to pole the luggage.”

  “This family-hugging devil!” said Pilgrim. “You only left the family a few days ago, and you are already beginning to complain.” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “I’m not like you—I can’t imbibe the wind and exhale the mist. Since I began following our master a few days ago, I’ve been half hungry all the time. Did you know that?” Hearing this, Tripitaka said, “Wuneng, if your heart still clings to the family, you are not the kind of person who wants to leave it. You may as well turn back!” Idiot was so taken aback that he fell on his knees and said, “Master, please do not listen to the words of Elder Brother. He loves to put blame on others: I haven’t made any complaint, but he said that I was complaining. I’m only an honest moron, who said that I was hungry so that we could find some household to beg for food. Immediately he called me a family-hugging devil! Master, I received the commandments from the Bodhisattva and mercy from you, and that was why I was determined to serve you and go to the Western Heaven. I vow that I have no regrets. This is, in fact, what they call the practice of strict austerities. What do you mean, I’m not willing to leave the family?” “In that case,” said Tripitaka, “you may get up.”

  Leaping up with a bound, Idiot was still muttering something as he picked up the pole with the luggage. He had no choice but to follow his companions with complete determination up to the door of the house by the wayside. Tripitaka dismounted, Pilgrim took the reins, and Eight Rules put down the luggage, all standing still beneath the shade of a large tree. Holding his nine-ringed priestly staff and pressing down his rain hat woven of straw and rattan, Tripitaka went to the door first. He saw inside an old man reclining on a bamboo bed and softly reciting the name of Buddha. Tripitaka dared not speak loudly; instead, he said very slowly and quietly, “Patron, salutations!” The old man jumped up and at once began to straighten out his attire. He walked out of the door to return the greeting, saying, “Honored Priest, pardon me for not coming to meet you. Where did you come from? What are you doing at my humble abode?” “This poor monk,” said Tripitaka, “happens to be a priest from the Great Tang in the Land of the East. In obedience to an imperial decree, I am journeying to the Great Thunderclap Temple to seek scriptures from the Buddha. It was getting late when I arrived in your esteemed region, and I would beg for shelter for one night in your fine mansion. I beseech you to grant me this favor.” “You can’t go there,” said the old man, shaking his head and waving his hand, “it’s exceedingly difficult to bring scriptures back from the Western Heaven. If you want to do that, you might as well go the Eastern Heaven!” Tripitaka fell silent, thinking to himself, “The Bodhisattva clearly told me to go to the West. Why does this old man now say that I should head for the East instead? Where in the East would there be any scriptures?” Terribly flustered and embarrassed, he could not make any reply for a long time.

  We now tell you about Pilgrim, who had always been impulsive and mischievous. Unable to restrain himself, he went forward and said in a loud voice, “Old man! Though you are of such great age, you don’t have much common sense. We monks have traveled a great distance to come and ask you for shelter, and here you are trying to intimidate us with discouraging words. If your house is too small and there’s not enough space for us to sleep, we’ll sit beneath the trees for the night and not disturb you.” “Master!” said the old man, taking hold of Tipitaka, “you don’t say anything. But that disciple of yours with a pointed chin, shriveled cheeks, a thunder-god mouth, and blood-red eyes—he looks like a demon with a bad case of consumption—how dare he offend an aged person like me!”

  “An old fellow like you,” said Pilgrim with a laugh, “really has very little discernment! Those who are handsome may be good for their looks only! A person like me, old Monkey, may be small but tough, like the skin around a ball of ligaments!” “I suppose you must have some abilities,” said the old man. “I won’t boast,” said Pilgrim, “but they are passable.” “Where did you used to live?” asked the old man, “and why did you shave your hair to become a monk?” “The ancestral home of old Monkey,” said Pilgrim, “is at the Water-Curtain Cave in the Flower-Fruit Mountain, in the Aolai Country of the East Pūrvavideha Continent. I learned to be a monster-spirit in my youth, assuming the name of Wukong, and with my abilities I finally became the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven. Because I did not receive any acceptable appointment in Heaven, I caused great turmoil in the Celestial Palace, and incurred great calamities for myself. I was, however, delivered from my ordeals and have turned to Buddhism instead to seek the fruits of Truth. As a guardian of my master, who is in the service of the Tang court, I am journeying to the Western Heaven to worship Buddha. Why should I fear tall mountains, treacherous roads, wide waters, and wild waves? I, old Monkey, can apprehend monsters, subdue demons, tame tigers, capture dragons—in sum, I know a little about all the matters that a person needs to know to go up to Heaven or to descend into Earth. If by chance your household is suffering from some such disturbances as flying bricks and dancing tiles, or talking pots and doors opening by themselves, old Monkey can quiet things down for you.”

  When that old man heard this lengthy speech, he roared with laughter and said, “So you are really a garrulous monk who begs for alms from place to place!” “Only your son is garrulous!” said Pilgrim. “I’m not very talkative these days, because following my master on his journey is quite tiring.” “If you were not tired,” said that old man, “and if you were in the mood to chatter, you would probably talk me to death! Since you have such abilities, I suppose you can go to the West successfully. How many of you are there? You may rest in my thatched hut.” “We thank the old patron for not sending us away,” said Tripitaka; “there are three of us altogether.” “Where is the third member of your party?” asked the old man. “Your eyes must be somewhat dim, old man,” said Pilgrim. “Isn’t he over there standing in the shade?” The old man did indeed have poor sight; he raised his head and stared intently. The moment he saw Eight Rules with his strange face and mouth, he became so terrified that he started to rush back into the house, tripping at every step. “Shut the door! Shut the door!” he cried. “A monster is coming!” Pilgrim caught hold of him, saying, “Don’t be afraid, old man! He’s no monster; he’s my younger brother.” “Fine! Fine! Fine!” said the old man, shaking all over. “One monk uglier than another!”

  Eight Rules approached him and said, “You are really mistaken, Aged Sir, if you judge people by their looks. We may be ugly, but we are all useful.” As the old man was speaking with the three monks in front of his house, two young men appeared to the south of the village, leading an old woman and several young children. All of them had their clothes rolled up and were walking barefoot, for they were returning after a day’s planting of young shoots of grain. When they saw the white horse, the luggage, and the goings-on in front of their house, they all ran forward, asking, “What are you people doing here?” Turning his head, Eight Rules flapped his ears a couple of times and stuck out his long snout once, so frightening the people that they fell down right and left, madly scattering in every direction. Tripitaka, alarmed, kept saying, “Don’t be afraid! Don’t be afraid! We are not bad people! We are monks in quest of scriptures.” Coming out of his house, the old man helped the old woman up, saying, “Mama, get up! Calm yourself. This master came from the Tang court. His disciples may look hideous, but they are really good people with ugly faces. Take the boys and girls back into the house.” Clutching at the old man, the old woman walked inside with the two young men and their children.

  Sitting on the bamboo bed in their house, Tripitaka began to protest, saying, “Disciples! The two of you are not only ugly
in appearance, but you are also rude in your language. You have scared this family badly, and you are causing me to sin.” “To tell you the truth, Master,” said Eight Rules, “since I started accompanying you, I have become a lot better behaved. At the time when I was living in Old Gao Village, all I needed to do was to pout and flap my ears once, and scores of people would be frightened to death!” “Stop talking rubbish, Idiot,” said Pilgrim, “and fix your ugliness.” “Look at the way Wukong talks,” said Tripitaka. “Your appearance comes with your birth. How can you tell him to fix it?” “Take that rakelike snout,” said Pilgrim, “put it in your bosom, and don’t take it out. And stick your rush-leaf-fan ears to the back of your head, and don’t shake them. That’s fixing it.” Eight Rules did indeed hide his snout and stick his ears to the back of his head; with his hands folded in front of him to hide his head, he stood on one side of his master. Pilgrim took the luggage inside the main door, and tied the white horse to one of the posts in the courtyard.

  The old man then brought a young man in to present three cups of tea placed on a wooden tray. After the tea, he ordered a vegetarian meal to be prepared. Then the young man took an old, unvarnished table full of holes and several stools with broken legs, and placed them in the courtyard for the three of them to sit where it was cool. Only then did Tripitaka ask, “Old patron, what is your noble surname?” “Your humble servant goes by the surname of Wang,” said the old man. “And how many heirs do you have?” asked Tripitaka. “I have two sons and three grandchildren,” said the old man. “Congratulations! Congratulations!” said Tripitaka. “And what is your age?” “I have foolishly lived till my sixty-first year,” the old man said. “Good! Good! Good!” said Pilgrim. “You have just begun a new sexagenary cycle.” “Old patron,” said Tripitaka again, “you said when we first came that the scriptures in the Western Heaven were difficult to get. Why?” “The scriptures are not hard to get,” said the old man, “but the journey there is filled with hazards and difficulties. Some thirty miles west of us there is a mountain called the Yellow Wind Ridge of Eight Hundred Miles. Monsters infest that mountain, and that’s what I meant by difficulties. Since this little priest claims that he has many abilities, however, you may perhaps proceed after all.” “No fear! No fear!” said Pilgrim. “With old Monkey and his younger brother around, we’ll never be touched, no matter what kind of monster we meet.”