The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 1

by Unknown

  TWENTY-THREE

  Tripitaka does not forget his origin;

  The Four Sages test the priestly mind.

  A long journey westward is his decree,

  As frosted blooms fall in autumn’s mild breeze.

  Tie up the sly ape, don’t loosen the ropes!

  Hold back the mean horse, and don’t use the whip!

  Wood Mother was once fused with Metal Squire;

  Yellow Dame and Naked Son ne’er did differ.1

  Bite open the iron ball—there’s mystery true:

  Perfection of wisdom will come to you.

  The principal aim of this chapter is to make clear that the way to acquire scriptures is no different from the way of attending to the fundamentals in one’s life.

  We now tell you about master and disciples, the four of them, who, having awakened to the suchness of all things, broke free from the fetters of dust. Leaping clear from the sea of nature’s flowing sand, they were completely rid of any hindrance and proceeded westward on the main road. They passed through countless green hills and blue waters; they saw wild grass and untended flowers in endless arrays. Time was swift indeed and soon it was autumn again. You see

  Maple leaves redden the mountain;

  Yellow blooms endure the night-wind.

  Old cicada’s song turns languid;

  Sad crickets ever voice their plaint.

  Cracked lotus leaves like green silk fans;

  Fragrant oranges like gold balls.

  Lovely, those rows of wild geese,

  In dots they spread to distant sky.

  As they journeyed, it was getting late again. “Disciples,” said Tripitaka, “it’s getting late. Where shall we go to spend the night?” “Master,” said Pilgrim, “what you said is not quite right. Those who have left home dine on the winds and rest beside the waters; they sleep beneath the moon and lie on the frost; in short, any place can be their home. Why ask where we should spend the night?” “Elder Brother,” said Zhu Eight Rules, “all you seem to care about is making progress on the journey, and you’ve no concern for the burdens of others. Since crossing the Flowing-Sand River, we have been doing nothing but scaling mountains and peaks, and hauling this heavy load is becoming rather hard on me. Wouldn’t it be much more reasonable to look for a house where we can ask for some tea and rice, and try to regain our strength?”

  “Idiot,” said Pilgrim, “your words sound as if you begrudge this whole enterprise. If you think that you are still back in the Gao Village, where you can enjoy the comfort that comes to you without your exerting yourself, then you won’t make it! If you have truly embraced the faith of Buddhism, you must be willing to endure pain and suffering; only then will you be a true disciple.” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “how heavy do you think this load of luggage is?” Pilgrim said, “Brother, since you and Sha Monk joined us, I haven’t had a chance to pole it. How would I know its weight?” “Ah! Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “just count the things here:

  Four yellow rattan mats;

  Long and short, eight ropes in all.

  To guard against dampness and rain,

  There are blankets—three, four layers!

  The flat pole’s too slippery, perhaps?

  You add nails on nails at both ends!

  Cast in iron and copper, the nine-ringed priestly staff.

  Made of bamboo and rattan, the long, large cloak.

  With all this luggage, you should pity old Hog, who has to walk all day carrying it! You only are the disciple of our master: I’ve been made into a long-term laborer!”

  “Idiot!” said Pilgrim with a laugh, “to whom are you protesting?” “To you, Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules. “If you’re protesting to me,” said Pilgrim, “you’ve made a mistake! Old Monkey is solely concerned with Master’s safety, whereas you and Sha Monk have the special responsibility of looking after the luggage and the horse. If you ever slack off, you’ll get a good whipping in the shanks from this huge rod!” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, “don’t mention whipping, for that only means taking advantage of others by brute force. I realize that you have a proud and haughty nature, and you are not about to pole the luggage. But look how fat and strong the horse is that Master is riding: he’s only carrying one old monk. Make him take a few pieces of luggage, for the sake of fraternal sentiment!” “So you think he’s a horse!” said Pilgrim. “He’s no earthly horse, for he is originally the son of Aorun, the Dragon King of the Western Ocean. Because he set fire to the palace and destroyed some of its pearls, his father charged him with disobedience and he was condemned by Heaven. He was fortunate to have the Bodhisattva Guanyin save his life, and he was placed in the Eagle Grief Stream to await Master’s arrival. At the appropriate time, the Bodhisattva also appeared personally to take off his scales and horns and to remove the pearls around his neck. It was then that he changed into this horse to carry Master to worship Buddha in the Western Heaven. This is a matter of achieving merit for each one of us individually, and you shouldn’t bother him.”

  When Sha Monk heard these words, he asked, “Elder Brother, is he really a dragon?” “Yes,” replied Pilgrim. Eight Rules said, “Elder Brother, I have heard an ancient saying that a dragon can breathe out clouds and mists, kick up dust and dirt, and he even has the ability to leap over mountains and peaks, the divine power to stir up rivers and seas. How is it that he is walking so slowly at the moment?” “You want him to move swiftly?” said Pilgrim. “I’ll make him do that. Look!” Dear Great Sage! He shook his golden-hooped rod once, and there were ten thousand shafts of colorful lights! When that horse saw the rod, he was so afraid that he might be struck by it that he moved his four legs like lightning and darted away. As his hands were weak, the master could not restrain the horse from this display of its mean nature. The horse ran all the way up a mountain cliff before slowing down to a trot. The master finally caught his breath, and that was when he discovered in the distance several stately buildings beneath some pine trees. He saw

  Doors draped by hanging cedars:

  Houses beside a green hill;

  Pine trees fresh and straight.

  And some poles of mottled bamboo.

  By the fence wild chrysanthemums glow with the frost:

  By the bridge orchid reflections redden the stream.

  Walls of white plaster;

  And fences brick-laid.

  A great hall, how noble and august:

  A tall house, so peaceful and clean.

  No oxen or sheep are seen, nor hens or dogs.

  After autumn’s harvest farm chores must be light.

  As the master held on to the saddle and slowly surveyed the scenery, Wukong and his brothers arrived. “Master,” said Wukong, “you didn’t fall off the horse?” “You brazen ape!” scolded the elder. “You were the one who frightened the horse! It’s a good thing I managed to stay on him!” Attempting to placate him with a smile, Pilgrim said, “Master, please don’t scold me. It all began when Zhu Eight Rules said that the horse was moving too slowly: so I made him hurry a little.” Because he tried to catch up with the horse, Idiot ran till he was all out of breath, mumbling to himself, “I’m done, done! Look at this belly of mine, and the slack torso! Already the pole is so heavy that I can hardly carry it. Now I’m given the additional bustle and toil of running after this horse!” “Disciples,” said the elder, “look over there. There’s a small village where we may perhaps ask for lodging.” When Pilgrim heard these words, he looked up and saw that it was covered by auspicious clouds and hallowed mists. He knew then that this place had to be a creation of buddhas or immortals, but he dared not reveal the Heavenly secret. He only said, “Fine! Fine! Let’s go ask for shelter.”

  Quickly dismounting, the elder discovered that the towered entrance gate was decorated with carved lotus designs and looped slits in the woodwork; its pillars were carved and its beams gilded. Sha Monk put down the luggage, while Eight Rules led the horse, saying, “This must
be a family of considerable wealth!” Pilgrim would have gone in at once, but Tripitaka said, “No, you and I are priests, and we should behave with circumspection. Don’t ever enter a house without permission. Let’s wait until someone comes out, and then we may request lodging politely.” Eight Rules tied up the horse and sat down, leaning against the wall. Tripitaka sat on one of the stone drums while Pilgrim and Sha Monk seated themselves at the foot of the gate. They waited for a long time, but no one came out. Impatient by nature, Pilgrim leaped up after a while and ran inside the gate to have a look. There were, in fact, three large halls facing south, each with its curtains drawn up highly. Above the door screen hung a horizontal scroll painting with motifs of long life and rich blessings. And pasted on the gold lacquered pillars on either side was this new year couplet written on bright red paper:

  Frail willows float like gossamer, the low bridge at dusk:

  Snow dots the fragrant plums, a small yard in the spring.

  In the center hall, there was a small black lacquered table, its luster half gone, bearing an old bronze urn in the shape of a beast. There were six straight-backed chairs in the main hall, while hanging screens were mounted on the walls east and west just below the roof.

  As Pilgrim was glancing at all this furtively, the sound of footsteps suddenly came from behind the door to the rear, and out walked a middle-aged woman who asked in a seductive voice, “Who are you, that you dare enter a widow’s home without permission?” The Great Sage was so taken aback that he could only murmur his reply: “This humble monk came from the Great Tang in the Land of the East, having received the royal decree to seek scriptures from Buddha in the West. There are four of us altogether. As we reached your noble region, it became late, and we therefore approached the sacred abode of the old Bodhisattva to seek shelter for the night.” Smiling amiably, the woman said, “Elder, where are your other three companions? Please invite them to come in.” “Master,” shouted Pilgrim in a loud voice, “you are invited to come in.” Only then did Tripitaka enter with Eight Rules and Sha Monk, who was leading the horse and carrying the luggage as well. The woman walked out of the hall to greet them, where she was met by the furtive, wanton glances of Eight Rules. “How did she look?” you ask.

  She wore a gown of mandarin green and silk brocade,

  Topped by a light pink vest,

  To which was fastened a light yellow embroidered skirt;

  Her high-heeled, patterned shoes glinted beneath.

  A black lace covered her stylish coiffure,

  Nicely matching the twin-colored braids like dragons coiled.

  Her ivory palace-comb, gleaming red and halcyon-blue,

  Supported two gold hair-pins set aslant.

  Her half-grey tresses swept up like phoenix wings;

  Her dangling earrings had rows of precious pearls.

  Still lovely even without powder or rouge,

  She had charm and beauty like one fair youth.

  When the woman saw the three of them, she became even more amiable and invited them with great politeness into the main hall. After they had exchanged greetings one after the other, the pilgrims were told to be seated for tea to be served. From behind the screen a young maid with two tufts of flowing locks appeared, holding a golden tray with several white-jade cups. There were

  Fragrant tea wafting warm air,

  Strange fruits spreading fine aroma.

  That lady rolled up her colorful sleeves and revealed long, delicate fingers like the stalks of spring onions; holding high the jade cups, she passed the tea to each one of them, bowing as she made the presentation. After the tea, she gave instructions for vegetarian food to be prepared. “Old Bodhisattva,” said Tripitaka bowing, “what is your noble surname? And what is the name of your esteemed region?” The woman said, “This belongs to the West Aparagodānīya Continent. My maiden surname is Jia (Unreal), and the surname of my husband’s family is Mo (Nonexisting). Unfortunately, my in-laws died prematurely, and my husband and I inherited our ancestral fortune, which amounted to more than ten thousand taels of silver and over fifteen thousand acres of prime land. It was fated, however, that we should have no son, having given birth only to three daughters. The year before last, it was my great misfortune to lose my husband also, and I was left a widow. This year my mourning period is completed, but we have no other relatives beside mother and daughters to inherit our vast property and land. I would have liked to marry again, but I find it difficult to give up such wealth. We are delighted, therefore, that the four of you have arrived, for we four, mother and daughters, would like very much to ask you to become our spouses. I do not know what you will think of this proposal.”

  When Tripitaka heard these words, he turned deaf and dumb; shutting his eyes to quiet his mind, he fell silent and gave no reply. The woman said, “We own over three hundred acres of paddies, over four hundred and sixty acres of dried fields, and over four hundred and sixty acres of orchards and forests. We have over a thousand head of yellow water buffalo, herds of mules and horses, countless pigs and sheep. In all four quarters, there are over seventy barns and haystacks. In this household there is grain enough to feed you for more than eight or nine years, silk that you could not wear out in a decade, gold and silver that you might spend for a lifetime. What could be more delightful than our silk sheets and curtains, which can render spring eternal? Not to mention those who wear golden hairpins standing in rows! If all of you, master and disciples, are willing to change your minds and enter the family of your wives, you will be most comfortable, having all these riches to enjoy. Will that not be better than the toil of the journey to the West?” Like a mute and stupid person, Tripitaka refused to utter a word.

  The woman said, “I was born in the hour of the Cock, on the third day of the third month, in the year Dinghai. As my deceased husband was three years my senior, I am now forty-five years old. My eldest daughter, named Zhenzhen, is twenty; my second daughter, Aiai, is eighteen; and my youngest daughter, Lianlian, is sixteen.2 None of them has been betrothed to anyone. Though I am rather homely, my daughters fortunately are rather good-looking. Moreover, each of them is well trained in needlework and the feminine arts. And because we had no son, my late husband brought them up as if they were boys, teaching them some of the Confucian classics when they were young as well as the art of writing verse and couplets. So, although they reside in a mountain home, they are not vulgar or uncouth persons; they would make suitable matches, I dare say, for all of you. If you elders can put away your inhibitions and let your hair grow again, you can at once become masters of this household. Are not the silk and brocade that you will wear infinitely better than the porcelain almsbowl and black robes, the straw sandals and grass hats?”

  Sitting aloft in the seat of honor, Tripitaka was like a child struck by lightning, a frog smitten by rain. With eyes bulging and rolling upward, he could barely keep himself from keeling over in his chair. But Eight Rules, hearing of such wealth and such beauty, could hardly quell the unbearable itch in his heart! Sitting on his chair, he kept turning and twisting as if a needle were pricking him in the ass. Finally he could restrain himself no longer. Walking forward, he tugged at his master, saying, “Master! How can you completely ignore what the lady has been saying to you? You must try to pay some attention.” Jerking back his head, the priest gave such a hostile shout that Eight Rules backed away hurriedly. “You cursed beast!” he bellowed. “We are people who have left home. How can we possibly allow ourselves anymore to be moved by riches and tempted by beauty?”

  Giggling, the woman said, “Oh dear, dear! Tell me, what’s so good about those who leave home?” “Lady Bodhisattva,” said Tripitaka, “tell me what is so good about those of you who remain at home?” “Please take a seat, elder,” said the woman, “and let me tell you the benefits in the life of those of us who remain at home. If you ask what they are, this poem will make them abundantly clear.

  When spring fashions appear I wear new silk;

  Plea
sed to watch summer lilies I change to lace.

  Autumn brings fragrant rice-wine newly brewed.

  In winter’s heated rooms my face glows with wine.

  I may enjoy the fruits of all four climes

  And every dainty of eight seasons, too.

  The silk sheets and quilts of the bridal eve

  Best the mendicant’s life of Buddhist chants.”

  Tripitaka said, “Lady Bodhisattva, you who remain in the home can enjoy riches and glory; you have things to eat, clothes to wear, and children by your side. That is undeniably a good life, but you do not know that there are some benefits in the life of those of us who have left home. If you ask what they are, this poem will make them abundantly clear.

  The will to leave home is no common thing:

  You must tear down the old stronghold of love!

  No cares without, tongue and mouth are at peace;

  Your body within has good yin and yang.

  When merit’s done, you face the Golden Arch

  And go hack, mind enlightened, to your Home.

  It beats the life of lust for household meat:

  You rot with age, one stinking bag of flesh!”