Chapter 14

The Ape of the Mind Returns to the Right; the Six Thieves Are Gone Without a Trace

The poem says:

Buddha is the mind, and the mind is Buddha; mind and Buddha have ever been the things that matter.If you know there is no thing and no mind, that is the true mind, the dharma-body Buddha.The dharma-body Buddha has no shape or form: one orb of perfect light holds the ten thousand images.The body without body is the true body; the mark without mark is the real mark.Neither form nor emptiness, nor not-emptiness; neither coming nor going, nor turning back.Neither other nor same, neither being nor nothing; hard to leave, hard to take, hard to hear or behold.The living light within and without is the same everywhere; a whole Buddha-land lies in a single grain of sand.One grain of sand holds the great chiliocosm; one body and one mind are one with the ten thousand laws.To know it you must have the knack of no-mind: unstained, unobstructed—that is pure work.Good and evil, a thousand threads, and nothing done: that is homage to Shakya himself.

Now Liu Boqin and Tang Tripitaka stood in a fright, and again came the shout: “The master is coming!” The serving lads said: “It must be the old ape in the stone coffer at the foot of the mountain that is shouting.” The guardian said: “It is he, it is he.” Tripitaka asked: “What old ape is this?” The guardian said: “This mountain was once named Five Elements Mountain; because our sovereign of the Tang campaigned west and settled the realm, it was renamed the Mountain of the Two Bounds. Years ago I heard the old folks say: when Wang Mang usurped the Han, this mountain fell down from heaven and pressed beneath it a spirit monkey. He feels no cold nor heat, eats no food or drink; the local earth god was set over him in custody, and he was fed iron pills when hungry and copper broth when thirsty. From that day to this he has not died of cold and hunger. This shout must be him. Elder, do not be afraid; let us go down the mountain and look.” Tripitaka could only comply, and led the horse down. They had gone not many li when they saw, within the stone coffer, an ape indeed, head thrust out, hands stretched forth, waving them wildly: “Master, why have you come only now? Good that you have come, good! Free me from this place, and I will guard you on your way to the Western Heaven.” The elder came near and looked closely—and what do you suppose he looked like?

A pointed mouth and drawn cheeks; eyes of gold and fire. Mosses heaped upon his head; creepers growing out of his ears. At his temples little hair and much green grass; under his chin no whiskers, but green sedge. Earth between the brows, mud in the hollow of the nose—a sorry sight; fingers thick and palms hard, caked with grime past counting. Happily the eyes could still roll, and throat and tongue made friendly sounds. His speech was quick enough; his body could not stir. Truly it is the Great Sage Sun of five hundred years ago; today his term is full and he slips heaven's net.

Liu the guardian was bold indeed: he stepped up, plucked away the grass at the ape's temples and the sedge beneath his chin, and asked: “Have you something to say?” The ape said: “Nothing to say. Let that master come up; I will ask him a question.” Tripitaka said: “What would you ask me?” The ape said: “Are you the one the sovereign of the Land of the East sent to the Western Heaven to fetch the scriptures?” Tripitaka said: “I am he. Why do you ask?” The ape said: “I am the Great Sage Equal to Heaven who five hundred years ago made havoc in the Heavenly Palace; only because I committed the crime of defying those above me was I pressed here by the Buddha. A while back there came the Bodhisattva Guanyin, bearing the Buddha's command, to the Land of the East to seek the one who would fetch the scriptures. I begged her to save me; she counseled me to do violence no more, to take refuge in the Buddha's law, and to devote myself wholly to guarding the scripture-seeker, to bow before the Buddha in the West, promising that when the work was done there would be good things for me. So I have kept my heart on edge day and night and hung my gall from dawn to dusk, waiting only for the master to come and free me. I will guard you on the quest and be your disciple.” Tripitaka heard, and rejoiced with all his heart: “You have this good heart, and the Bodhisattva's instruction, and you wish to enter the gate of the monkhood; but I have neither ax nor chisel—how am I to free you?” The ape said: “No ax or chisel is needed. If you will but free me, I will come out myself.” Tripitaka said: “I will free you—then how will you get out?” The ape said: “On the mountain top there is the golden-lettered seal of our Tathagata Buddha pressed upon it. Go up, lift the seal away, and I shall come out.” Tripitaka did as he was told, turned, and begged Liu Boqin: “Guardian, come up the mountain with me.” Boqin said: “How do we know whether it is true or false?” The ape called out loudly: “It is true. I would never deceive you.”

Boqin could only call the serving lads to hold the horses, and support Tripitaka up the high mountain again. Climbing vines and grasping creepers, they went to the very summit, and there indeed were ten thousand beams of golden light and a thousand streams of auspicious vapor, and a great four-square stone, and on the stone a sealed slip pasted down, bearing the six golden characters OM MANI PADME HUM. Tripitaka came near, knelt, and looked at the golden letters on the stone, and bowed several times, and prayed toward the west: “Your disciple Chen Xuanzang, specially commissioned, seeks the scriptures. If I am truly to have a disciple, let me lift the golden letters and free the spirit monkey, and let us together attest Vulture Peak; but if I am not to have a disciple, this fellow is a vicious, stubborn monster who cheats your disciple, and nothing lucky will come of it—then I shall not be able to lift it.” He prayed and bowed again. The bows done, he stepped forward and gently lifted off the six golden characters. At once a waft of fragrant wind snatched the seal out of his hand and up into the sky, crying: “We are the guardians set over the Great Sage. His term of distress is full today; we return to see the Tathagata and hand in this seal.” Tripitaka and Boqin and all their company bowed toward the empty sky in their fright. They came straight down the mountain, back to the stone coffer, and said to the ape: “The pressing seal is lifted. Come out.” The ape rejoiced, calling: “Master, stand back a little, so I may come out without frightening you.”

Boqin heard, and led Tripitaka and the company hurrying back east. They had gone five or seven li when again they heard the ape call loudly: “Farther! Farther!” Tripitaka went a good way more and came down off the mountain, and then heard one great crack—truly the earth split and the mountain fell in. Every one of them was stricken. The ape was already at Tripitaka's horse's head, kneeling naked and raw, crying: “Master, I am out!” He bowed four times to Tripitaka, sprang up, and made a great salutation to Boqin: “You have taken trouble, elder brother, to see my master along the way; and thanks to you, elder brother, for weeding my face.” Thanks done, he went to pack the baggage and saddle the horse. The horse, at the sight of him, went weak in the loins and buckled at the knees, trembling so that it could hardly stand. It was because the ape had once been Bimawen, Keeper of the Heavenly Horses, tending the dragon horses in heaven, and had his arts over them; hence all horses fear him.

Tripitaka, watching his manner, saw that his heart was truly good and that he was truly a man for the monkhood, and asked: “Disciple, what is your surname?” The Monkey King said: “My surname is Sun.” Tripitaka said: “Let me give you a dharma name, that we may call you.” The Monkey King said: “Trouble not your grace, master; I have a dharma name already: Sun Wukong.” Tripitaka rejoiced: “It fits our school well. And your look is just like a little friar's; let me give you a byname and call you Pilgrim—how would that be?” Wukong said: “Good, good, good.” From then on he was also called Pilgrim Sun.

Seeing Pilgrim Sun wholly intent on setting out, Boqin turned to Tripitaka, saluted, and said: “Elder, you have had the good fortune to take a fine disciple here—glad I am, very glad. This man can truly go the road. I must ask leave to turn back.” Tripitaka bowed low in thanks: “You have come far with me; I am more grateful than words can say. When you are home, give my humble greetings many times over to your honored mother, the old lady, and to your good wife. Your poor monk has been much beholden to your house; when I come back I will call to give proper thanks.” Boqin returned the courtesy, and so the two parties parted.

Now Pilgrim Sun asked Tripitaka to mount, and he himself walked ahead carrying the baggage, bare and striding. Before long they had crossed the Mountain of the Two Bounds when suddenly a fierce tiger came roaring down the road, switching its tail. Tripitaka's heart leapt in the saddle. Pilgrim rejoiced by the roadside: “Master, do not fear it; it is bringing me clothes.” He set down the baggage, drew a needle from his ear, waved it at the wind—and it was an iron staff as thick as a bowl. He took it in hand, laughing: “This treasure has not been used in five hundred years and more; today I bring it out to earn myself clothes to wear.” Look at him: he stretched his stride, met the tiger head on, and cried: “Wicked beast! Where are you going!” The tiger crouched and flattened itself in the dust, not daring to stir. He brought the staff down on its head: the brains burst out in ten thousand specks of peach-blossom red, and the teeth flew like strings of jade. Chen Xuanzang tumbled from the saddle, bit his finger, and cried: “Heavens! Heavens! The striped tiger Liu the guardian slew the other day gave him half a day's fight; today Sun Wukong, without a struggle, has pounded this tiger to a pulp with one blow. Truly: within the strong there is still a stronger hand!”

Pilgrim dragged the tiger over and said: “Master, sit a moment while I strip off its clothes, and we will go dressed.” Tripitaka said: “What clothes has it?” Pilgrim said: “Never mind me, master; I have my way.” The good Monkey King plucked out one hair, blew on it a mouthful of immortal breath, cried “Change!”—and it became an ox-ear pointed knife. He slit the skin along the tiger's belly and stripped it downward, flaying off the hide whole. He chopped away the claws, cut off the head, and cut out a four-square piece of tiger skin. He held it up and measured it: “A trifle wide—one skin will make two.” He took up the knife and cut it in two. He put one piece away and wound the other about his waist, twisted a vine from the roadside and bound it fast, and covered his lower body: “Master, let us go, let us go. At some house we will borrow needle and thread and sew it properly.” He rolled the iron staff between his fingers until it was a needle again, and stowed it in his ear. Shouldering the baggage, he asked the master to mount.

The two went forward, and the elder asked from horseback: “Wukong, that iron staff you beat the tiger with—where is it now?” Pilgrim laughed: “Master, you do not know. This staff of mine came out of the dragon palace of the Eastern Ocean: it is called the God-Pillar Iron of the Sky River's bed, and also the As-You-Will Gold-Banded Staff. In the old days, when I turned against the Heavenly Palace, I owed much to it. It changes with its bearer: as big as you want, as small as you want. Just now it took the shape of an embroidery needle and is stowed in my ear; when it is needed, then I take it out.” Tripitaka heard and was secretly delighted. He asked again: “And that tiger just now, when it saw you, why did it not stir, but let you beat it at your ease? How was that?” Wukong said: “I will not hide it from you, master: never mind a tiger—if it were a dragon, it would not dare be uncivil to me. This old Sun has some skill at taming dragons and subduing tigers, some power to overturn rivers and churn the seas; I read men by their faces and hear the reason in their voices; made large, I fill the universe; made small, I gather into a single hair; endless my changes, hidden or shown past all guessing. Skinning a tiger hide—what is rare in that? If we come to some hard pass, then you shall see my mettle.” Hearing this, Tripitaka's heart grew easier and freer of care, and he whipped the horse forward.

Master and disciple walked along and talked, and the sun sank westward unawares. Behold:

Blazing the slant light turns back for one last look; to the ends of earth and sea the clouds go home. In a thousand hills the birds clamor thick and fast, seeking their roosts, trooping into the woods. Wild beasts in pairs and couples troop back to their dens, family by family. A hook of new moon breaks the dusk; ten thousand bright stars halo and glow.

Pilgrim said: “Master, bestir yourself; the sky is darkening. Those thick woods over there must be some farmstead; let us hurry and lodge there.” Tripitaka whipped up and made for the house, dismounting before the farm. Pilgrim dropped the baggage, went up, and called: “Open the door! Open the door!” An old man within came out leaning on a bamboo staff and flung the door wide—and at the sight of Pilgrim's savage face, a tiger skin about his waist, like a thunder god to look at, his legs went soft and his body numb, and he babbled: “A ghost! A ghost!” Tripitaka came near and held him: “Old donor, do not fear. He is my poor disciple, not a ghost or goblin.” The old man lifted his head, saw that Tripitaka's face was clear and fine, and steadied himself, asking: “From what temple are you come, monk, that you bring such a savage to my door?” Tripitaka said: “Your poor monk comes from the land of the Tang, bound for the Western Heaven to bow before the Buddha and fetch the scriptures. We were passing this way, and the sky is dark; we have come specially to your house to beg a night's lodging, and will start before dawn. I beg you grant us this small favor.” The old man said: “Though you are a man of the Tang, that savage is no man of the Tang.” Wukong cried out loud and harsh: “You old fellow, you have no eyes at all! The man of the Tang is my master, and I am his disciple. And I am no sugar-man, no honey-man: I am the Great Sage Equal to Heaven! There are folk hereabouts who know me well. I have seen you before.” The old man said: “Where have you seen me?” Wukong said: “Did you not gather firewood before me when you were a boy? Did you not pick vegetables on my face?” The old man said: “The rogue lies! Where do you live and where do I live, that I should gather firewood and pick vegetables before you?” Wukong said: “It is my child who lies. You have failed to know me: I am the Great Sage from the stone coffer in this Mountain of the Two Bounds. Look again, and know me.” Only then did the old man come to himself: “You are somewhat like him. But how did you get out?” Wukong told the old man in full how the Bodhisattva had urged him to goodness and bidden him wait for the Tang monk to lift the seal and free him.

The old man then bowed, asked the Tang monk within, called his old wife and his children out to meet them, told over the story, and every one rejoiced. He ordered tea. Tea done, he asked Wukong: “Great Sage, you must be of a great age?” Wukong said: “And how old are you this year?” The old man said: “I have foolishly lived to a hundred and thirty.” Pilgrim said: “Then you are my great-great-grandson. As for the age I was born to, I do not remember when it was; but under the foot of this mountain I have lain more than five hundred years.” The old man said: “It is so, it is so. I remember my grandfather saying that this mountain fell from heaven and pressed down a spirit monkey, and that only now have you come out of it. When I saw you as a boy you had grass on your head and mud on your face, and I did not fear you; now the mud is gone from your face and the grass from your head, you look somewhat thinner, and you have a great tiger skin wrapped about your waist—how far are you now from any goblin?” The whole household heard this and roared with laughter.

The old man, a worthy soul, ordered the vegetarian meal made ready. After it Wukong asked: “What is your family's surname?” The old man said: “Our house is Chen.” Tripitaka heard, came down, and raised his hands: “Old donor, your poor monk and you are of one clan.” Pilgrim said: “Master, your surname is Tang—how are you of one clan with him?” Tripitaka said: “My secular surname is also Chen; my family are of Gathering-Worthy Farm in Hongnong commandery, Haizhou, in the land of the Tang. My dharma name is Chen Xuanzang. Only because Taizong, Emperor of the Tang, made me his royal brother Tripitaka, taking Tang for my surname, am I called the Tang monk.” The old man, hearing they were of one surname, rejoiced mightily.

Pilgrim said: “Old Chen, since we trouble your house in any case—I have not bathed in five hundred years. Go boil some water, and let me and my master bathe; and I will thank you before we go.” The old man ordered water heated, the tub brought in, the lamps lit. Master and disciple bathed, and sat before the lamp. Pilgrim said: “Old Chen, there is one thing more I must trouble you for: lend me needle and thread.” The old man said: “Yes, yes, yes.” He told his wife to fetch needle and thread and hand them to Pilgrim. Pilgrim had a good eye too: seeing the master had bathed and left off a little white-cotton jacket without putting it on again, he pulled it over and draped it on himself. Then he took off the tiger skin and joined its pieces into one, pleated it in the likeness of a horse's face, wrapped it at his waist, and buckled it with the vine, and came before the master: “How does old Sun look today, beside yesterday?” Tripitaka said: “Good, good, good. Dressed like this, you look a pilgrim indeed.” And he said: “Disciple, if you do not scorn its shabbiness, keep that jacket and wear it.” Wukong bowed: “I am grateful, grateful.” Then he went and fetched some fodder and fed the horse. All being done, master and disciple and the old man went each to his rest.

Early the next morning Wukong rose and asked the master to travel. Tripitaka dressed and told Pilgrim to pack the bedding and baggage. They were on the point of taking leave when the old man had face-water made ready, and the meal besides. Breakfast done, they started. Tripitaka mounted; Pilgrim led the way. Hungry they ate and thirsty they drank, lodging at night and walking from dawn; and now it was the beginning of winter, and behold:

Frost has withered the red leaves, and a thousand woods grow gaunt; on the ridge a few pines and cypresses keep their green. Unopened plum buds breathe their hidden fragrance; the warm hours are short—it is the season of little spring. The chrysanthemums are ragged, the lotus gone, the camellias lush; cold bridge and ancient tree vie in bough and branch. In winding ravines the spring water slips and trickles; pale clouds, promising snow, float across the whole sky. The north wind rises sudden, tugging at sleeves—at evening, this bite of cold, how shall a man bear it?

Master and disciples had gone along some while when suddenly a whistle sounded by the road and six men burst out, each with long spear or short sword, keen blade or stiff bow, and they bawled: “Hey, monk, where are you off to! Leave the horse and set down the baggage quickly, and we will let you go with your life.” Tripitaka's souls flew and his spirits scattered; he fell from his horse and could not speak. Pilgrim raised him with his hand: “Master, be at ease. There is nothing in it: these are men bringing us clothes and travel money.” Tripitaka said: “Wukong, you must be a little deaf. They tell us to leave the horse and the baggage, and you ask them for clothes and travel money.” Pilgrim said: “You look after the clothes, the baggage, and the horse; let old Sun have a round with them, and we shall see.” Tripitaka said: “A good hand cannot face two fists, and two fists are no match for four hands. They are six great fellows, and you are one small body—how dare you fight them?”

Pilgrim's courage was great by nature; he would hear no delay, but stepped up, folded his hands at his breast, and made his bow to the six: “Gentlemen, what cause have you to bar a poor monk's road?” One said: “We are the great kings of the highway, mountain lords who do good. Our great names have long been famous—though I suppose you do not know them. Leave your goods quickly, and we let you pass; say but half a word of 'no,' and we will break your bones and scatter your corpse.” Pilgrim said: “I too am a great king by inheritance, a mountain lord of long standing, yet I have never heard of your great names.” The man said: “You do not know them, so I will tell you: one is called Eye-That-Sees Delight; one is called Ear-That-Hears Anger; one is called Nose-That-Smells Love; one is called Tongue-That-Tastes Thought; one is called Mind-That-Sees Desire; one is called Body-That-Is Sorrow.” Wukong laughed: “So you are six petty thieves. You do not know that I, a man of religion, am your rightful lord—and you bar my road. Bring out the treasure you have robbed, and I will divide it with you into seven shares and let you off.” At this the thieves were delighted, furious, loving, pensive, lusting, sorrowful, and rushed up together shouting: “This monk is insolent! He has nothing at all of his own, and he comes demanding a share of our goods!” They brandished spears and swung swords and came on in a rush, hacking at Pilgrim's head, kling and klang, seventy or eighty blows. Wukong stood his ground amid them as though he knew nothing of it. The thieves said: “Fine monk—a hard head, and no lie.” Pilgrim laughed: “It will pass. Your arms must be tired with the beating; now it is old Sun's turn to take out a needle and have a little play.” The thieves said: “This monk is some needle-doctor changed into a man. We have no sickness: what talk is this of setting needles?”

Pilgrim reached into his ear and drew out an embroidery needle, waved it at the wind—and it was an iron staff as thick as a bowl. He held it in his hand: “Do not run; let old Sun have one stroke to try my hand.” The six thieves scattered and fled. He stretched his stride and ran them down in a ring, and beat them dead, every one. He stripped off their clothes and took their travel money, and came back smiling: “Master, come along; those thieves old Sun has rooted out.” Tripitaka said: “You have brought a great calamity on us. Thieves of the highway though they were, taken before a magistrate they would not have deserved death. Even granting your skill, you might have driven them off; why kill every one of them? This is taking life without cause—how can you be a monk? The man of religion sweeps the floor for fear of hurting the ants; he pities the moth and shades the lamp with gauze. How could you, black and white alike, beat them dead at a stroke? Not one grain of mercy or love of goodness in you! It is well that we were in the wilds where no one asks; but if we come to a city, and someone should jostle you by chance, would you do violence too, swing your staff about and wound people? Then how could I stand clear, and how should we escape?” Wukong said: “Master, if I had not killed them, they would have killed you.” Tripitaka said: “A man of religion such as I would rather die than do violence. If I die, it is but this one body; but you killed six men—how is that to be answered for? If this were carried to court, though your own father were the magistrate, it could not be excused.” Pilgrim said: “I will not hide it from you, master: five hundred years ago, when old Sun held Flower-Fruit Mountain as king and monster, I do not know how many men I killed. Had you carried such suits to court then and won your judgments, I should never have been the Great Sage Equal to Heaven.” Tripitaka said: “It was because you were wild and ungoverned, violent among men, defying heaven and those above you, that you bore the calamity of five hundred years. Now you have entered the gate of the monkhood: if you still do as you did then, and do nothing but take life, you will never reach the Western Heaven, never be a monk. Too wicked! Too wicked!”

Now this monkey could not bear an insult all his life. Seeing Tripitaka go on and on at him, he could not hold the fire in his breast: “Since you hold me no true monk, and one who will not reach the Western Heaven, do not keep up this clatter to vex me. I will go home.” Tripitaka did not answer. He flared into his temper, leapt into the air, crying: “Old Sun is off!” Tripitaka looked up in haste, and he was gone; there was only a whish of wind, and he was away east. The elder was left forlorn; he nodded and sighed, grieving and complaining: “Such a fellow, past all teaching! I said a few words to him, and he has vanished without shape or shadow, gone straight home. Enough, enough, enough. It was not fated me to take a disciple, to add a mouth to my journey. Now I cannot find him if I search, cannot reach him if I call. On then, on then.” Truly: he gives up his body and stakes his life, going west; lean not on others, but hold your own course.

The elder could only pack the baggage and sling it on the horse, and—not riding—with one hand lean on the tin staff and with the other hold the rein, and go on westward, desolate. He had not gone long when, ahead on the mountain road, he saw an aged old mother holding a wadded jacket, and on the jacket a flowered cap. Tripitaka, seeing her come near, made haste to lead his horse and stand to the right to let her pass. The old mother asked: “Elder, from what land do you come, so lonely and forlorn, traveling here alone?” Tripitaka said: “Your disciple is of the Land of the East, the Great Tang, sent under seal to the Western Heaven to bow before the living Buddha and fetch the true scriptures.” The old mother said: “The Buddha of the West is in the Thunderclap Monastery, within the borders of India; from here it is a hundred and eight thousand li. Alone with a single horse, without companion, without disciple—how will you get there?” Tripitaka said: “Your disciple took a disciple the other day; his nature is violent and stubborn. I spoke a few words to him; he would not be taught, and has gone off, no one knows where.” The old mother said: “I have here a wadded-cotton gown and a flowered cap set with gold: they belonged to my son. He was a monk only three days when, his fate being short, unhappily he died. I went to his monastery and wept, took leave of his master, and brought these jacket and cap away for remembrance. Elder, since you have a disciple, let me give you the jacket and cap.” Tripitaka said: “I thank the mother's great bounty; but my disciple is gone, and I dare not take them.” The old mother said: “Which way did he go?” Tripitaka said: “I heard a whish of wind; he went back east.” The old mother said: “Not far east is my house; doubtless he has gone home with me. I have there a spell called the True Words for Settling the Heart, also called the Tight-Fillet Spell. Learn it by heart in secret, fasten it in your breast, and let not one living soul know of it. I will go and catch him and send him back to you, and you shall dress him in this jacket and cap. If he will not do your bidding, then silently recite this spell, and he will dare no violence again, nor dare to go.” Tripitaka bowed his head in thanks. The old mother turned into a streak of gold light and went east. Tripitaka knew well that it was the Bodhisattva Guanyin who had given him the true words; hastily he pinched up earth for incense, and bowed toward the east with all earnestness. The bows done, he stowed jacket and cap in the middle of his bundle, sat down by the road, and recited the True Words for Settling the Heart, over and back, several times, till he had them by heart, fast in his breast—no more of that.

Now Wukong, having parted from his master, rode one somersault cloud straight back to the Eastern Ocean. He checked the cloud's head, parted the waters, and came straight to the Crystal Palace. The Dragon King, startled, came out to meet him, led him into the palace, and they sat down. Courtesies done, the Dragon King said: “I heard lately that the Great Sage's term was full. My congratulations came late! No doubt you are restoring the immortal mountain and returning to your old cave?” Wukong said: “Such was my thought; only now I have become a monk.” The Dragon King said: “What kind of monk?” Pilgrim said: “Thanks to the Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea, who urged me to goodness and set me on the path of right fruition, I follow the Tang monk of the East to the West to bow before the Buddha; I have taken refuge in the monkhood, and am now called Pilgrim.” The Dragon King said: “Then indeed congratulations, congratulations! This is what is called leaving evil and returning to right, carving the heart toward goodness. If so, why are you not going west—why come back east?” Pilgrim laughed: “That Tang monk knows no human feeling. There were a few highway thieves; I knocked them on the head, and he went on and on at me, counting my faults by the dozen. Do you think old Sun is one to stomach sullen wrongs? So I left him, meaning to go back to my own mountain, and looked in on you first to beg a cup of tea.” The Dragon King said: “We are honored, honored.” Then dragon sons and dragon grandsons brought fragrant tea in their hands.

Tea done, Pilgrim turned and looked about, and saw on the back wall a picture: Presenting the Shoe at the Round Bridge. Pilgrim said: “What scene is this?” The Dragon King said: “You, Great Sage, came before this tale was done; that is why you do not know it. It is called Thrice Presenting the Shoe at the Round Bridge.” Pilgrim said: “What is thrice presenting the shoe?” The Dragon King said: “That immortal is the Yellow Stone Lord; that youth is Zhang Liang of the Han. The Stone Lord sat upon the Round Bridge and suddenly dropped his shoe beneath it, and called Zhang Liang to fetch it. The youth made haste, fetched it, and knelt to present it. Three times so, and Zhang Liang showed not one grain of arrogance or slackness. The Stone Lord, loving his diligence, gave him by night the book of heaven, and charged him to uphold the Han. And afterward he indeed devised strategies within the tent and won victories a thousand li beyond. When peace came he quit his office, returned to the mountains, and wandered with the Red Pine Youth, waking to the way of the immortals. Great Sage, if you do not guard the Tang monk, do not give your labor, do not accept teaching, you remain a goblin-immortal to the end: give up all thought of right fruition.” Wukong heard, and pondered a long while without a word. The Dragon King said: “You must judge it, Great Sage. Do not seek your own ease and mar what lies before you.” Wukong said: “Say no more; old Sun will go back and guard him.” The Dragon King rejoiced: “Then I will not keep you. Go quickly in your mercy, Great Sage, and do not let your master grow strange to you.”

Seeing him urging him onward, Pilgrim sprang up, left the treasury of the sea, mounted the cloud, and parted from the Dragon King. Going along he met the Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea. The Bodhisattva said: “Sun Wukong, why have you not accepted instruction, why not guard the Tang monk? What do you here?” In a fluster Pilgrim saluted from the clouds: “Once I was favored with your good words, Bodhisattva; and truly a monk of the Tang came, lifted the pressing seal, and saved my life, and I became his disciple. But he scolded me for violence; I dodged him for a moment, and now I am going back to guard him.” The Bodhisattva said: “Go quickly, and do not miss the thought.” So they parted.

In a moment Pilgrim saw the Tang monk sitting sorrowful by the road. He came up: “Master, why are you not walking? What are you doing here still?” Tripitaka lifted his head: “Where have you been? You left me not daring to walk, not daring to stir, waiting here for you.” Pilgrim said: “I went to the old Dragon King's house in the Eastern Ocean to beg a cup of tea.” Tripitaka said: “Disciple, a man of religion must not lie. You have not been gone one watch, and you talk of tea at the Dragon King's?” Pilgrim laughed: “I will not hide it from you, master: I can ride the somersault cloud—one somersault is a hundred and eight thousand li; hence I can go and come in an instant.” Tripitaka said: “I spoke but a little sharply, and you took offense, flared into your temper, and left me. You, with your powers, can go beg tea; such as I, who cannot go, sit here and bear the hunger. And you do not feel for me at all.” Pilgrim said: “Master, if you are hungry, I will go and beg some food for you.” Tripitaka said: “No need to beg. In my bundle there is some dry ration, given by Liu the guardian's mother. Go take the bowl and find some water, and let me eat a little, and we will go on.”

Pilgrim untied the bundle, and in it found several coarse-flour bakes; he brought them out and handed them to his master. Then he saw the shining wadded-cotton gown and the flowered cap set with gold. Pilgrim said: “Are these clothes and cap brought from the Land of the East?” Tripitaka answered glibly: “I wore them in my boyhood. That cap, once on, teaches no sutra—it recites the sutra of itself; that gown, once on, needs no drill—it makes the bows of itself.” Pilgrim said: “Good master, let me wear them.” Tripitaka said: “Only I fear they will not fit. If they fit you, wear them.” So Pilgrim took off his old white-cotton jacket and put on the wadded gown—it might have been cut to his very body—and set the cap on his head. Seeing the cap on his head, Tripitaka did not eat his dry ration, but silently recited the Tight-Fillet Spell once. Pilgrim cried: “My head! My head!” The master went on reciting without pause, several times over, until Pilgrim rolled on the ground in agony, clawing the gold-set flowered cap to pieces. Tripitaka, fearing he would tear away the gold fillet, stopped reciting; and once he stopped, the pain stopped. Pilgrim felt about his head: like a gold wire it gripped him tight, to be taken off by no hand, broken by no tug—it had taken root there. He drew the needle from his ear and poked it into the fillet, prying outward. Tripitaka, fearing he would pry it apart, began reciting again; the pain came again, so that Pilgrim stood on his head and turned somersaults, ears red, face scarlet, eyes swollen, body numb. The master, seeing him so, could not bear it, and stopped again; and the head did not hurt again. Pilgrim said: “So my head aches because master curses me?” Tripitaka said: “What I recite is the Tight-Fillet Sutra; when did I curse you?” Pilgrim said: “Recite it once more and see.” Tripitaka truly recited again, and Pilgrim truly hurt again, crying only: “Do not recite! Do not recite! At the reciting I hurt. What is the meaning of this?” Tripitaka said: “Will you accept my teaching now?” Pilgrim said: “I accept it.” “Will you be insolent again?” Pilgrim said: “Never again.”

Though his mouth agreed, his heart still harbored mischief: he waved the needle to its bowl-thick width and made at the Tang monk. The elder, in terror, recited two or three times more. The monkey fell to the ground, dropped the iron staff, could not lift a hand, crying only: “Master, I understand! Do not recite, do not recite.” Tripitaka said: “How dare you harbor treason and raise your hand against me?” Pilgrim said: “I dared not strike you. Let me ask master: who taught you this art?” Tripitaka said: “An old mother who came to me just now.” Pilgrim flew into a rage: “No more need be said: that old mother was certainly that Guanyin herself. How could she use me so? Let me go to the Southern Sea and pay her out!” Tripitaka said: “Since she gave the art to me, she surely knew of it beforehand. If you go after her, and she recites, will you not be a dead man?” Seeing the reason in it, Pilgrim truly dared not stir, but turned his heart, knelt down, and begged in sorrow: “Master, it is her device to bind me to go west with you. I will not go provoke her; but do not take it for everyday words and recite it at every turn. I will guard you, and never again think of turning back.” Tripitaka said: “Then attend me to my horse.” Then at last Pilgrim was whole-hearted; bracing his spirit, he tightened the wadded gown, saddled the horse, packed the baggage, and pressed on toward the west.

But what befell upon that going—listen to the next chapter to find out.

The Mind-Monkey Returns to the Right; the Six Thieves Leave No Trace

The poem says:

Buddha is heart, and heart is Buddha; heart and Buddha have always been the one thing needed.If you know there is no thing and no heart, that is the true heart, the Buddha of the Dharma body.The Buddha of the Dharma body has no shape: one ball of perfect light holds ten thousand forms.The body without body is the true body; the mark without mark is the real mark.It is not form, not emptiness, and not what is not empty; it neither comes nor goes nor turns back.No other, no same, no being, no non-being; hard to give up, hard to take, hard to hear or see.Within and without, the holy light is the same everywhere: a Buddha land lies in every grain of sand.One grain of sand holds the great thousand worlds; one body and heart is one with the ten thousand laws.To know it you must master the secret of no-heart: unstained and unblocked, that is pure work.Good and evil, a thousand kinds, and no doing at all: that is homage to Shakyamuni.

Now Liu Boqin and the Tang monk Tripitaka stood there in terror, and heard the cry of "Master, come!" One of the servants said, "That call must come from the old ape in the stone box at the foot of the mountain." The Guardian said, "It is he, it is he." Tripitaka asked, "What old ape is this?" The Guardian said, "This mountain was once called Five Elements Mountain. When the king of our Great Tang marched west and settled the land, it was renamed Two-Boundary Mountain. Years ago I heard the old people say: in the time when Wang Mang stole the Han throne, this mountain fell from heaven, and under it was pinned a spirit monkey. He feels no cold or heat and eats no food. An earth god guards him and makes him eat iron pellets when hungry and drink copper juice when thirsty. From that day to this he has not died of cold or hunger. The call must be his. Do not be afraid, elder. Let us go down the mountain and look." Tripitaka could only agree, and led the horse down. They had not gone a few li when they saw, between the stone walls, an ape with his head out and his hands stretched, waving and waving: "Master, why have you come only now? You have come well, come well! Free me, and I will guard you on your way to the western heaven." The elder came near and looked closely, and what do you think he looked like?

A pointed mouth and drawn cheeks; golden eyes and fire pupils. Moss was heaped on his head; vines grew out of his ears. His temples had little hair and much green grass; under his chin, instead of a beard, grew green rushes. Earth between the brows, mud in the hollow of the nose — a wretched sight; coarse fingers, thick palms, covered in grime. Luckily his eyes could still move, and his throat and tongue still made sounds. His speech was quick enough, but his body could not stir. It was Sun the Great Sage of five hundred years ago, whose hard time was full today and who slipped out of heaven's net.

Liu the Guardian was truly bold. He stepped up, pulled the grass from the ape's temples and the rushes from his chin, and asked, "What have you to say?" The monkey said, "I have nothing to say. Let that master come up, and I will ask him a question." Tripitaka said, "What do you want to ask me?" The monkey said, "Are you the one the king of the Land of the East sent to the western heaven to fetch the scriptures?" Tripitaka said, "I am he. Why do you ask?" The monkey said, "I am the Great Sage Equal to Heaven who wrecked the Heavenly Palace five hundred years ago. Because I sinned against heaven, the Buddha pinned me here. A while ago the Bodhisattva Guanyin came to the Land of the East, by the Buddha's order, to look for a man to fetch the scriptures. I begged her to save me. She told me to do violence no more, to take refuge in the law of the Buddha, and to guard the scripture-seeker with all my heart on the way to the western heaven to bow to the Buddha; when the work was done, good would come of it. So I have kept my heart on edge day and night, waiting for the master to come and free me. I will guard you on your journey for the scriptures and be your disciple." When Tripitaka heard this, his heart was full of joy. He said, "Though you have this good heart, and the bodhisattva has taught you, and you are willing to enter the Buddhist gate, I have no axe or chisel. How can I free you?" The monkey said, "No axe or chisel is needed. If you are willing to free me, I can come out by myself." Tripitaka said, "I do wish to free you. How will you get out?" The monkey said, "On the top of this mountain is the Buddha Tathagata's gold-lettered seal that pins me. Go up and lift off the seal, and I will come out." Tripitaka did as he said, turned, and begged Liu Boqin: "Guardian, come up the mountain with me." Boqin said, "But how do we know if it is true?" The monkey called out, "It is true! I would never lie."

Boqin called the servants to hold the horse, and he helped Tripitaka up the high mountain again. Climbing by vines, they went right to the very top. There indeed were ten thousand rays of gold light and a thousand threads of holy air. On a great square stone a strip of paper was pasted, bearing the six gold letters "Om ma ni pad me hum". Tripitaka came near, knelt, looked at the gold letters on the stone, bowed several times, and prayed toward the west: "Your disciple Chen Xuanzang has come by royal order to seek the scriptures. If it is my lot to have a disciple, may I lift the gold letters and free the spirit monkey, and together we shall reach Vulture Peak. If it is not my lot, then this is a fierce and stubborn monster who mocks your disciple; no good will come of it, and the seal will not lift." When the prayer was done he bowed again. Then he came forward and gently lifted off the six gold letters. A breath of fragrant wind came, snatched the strip of paper out of his hand, and whirled it into the sky, crying, "We are the guardians set over the Great Sage. His hard time is full today. We return to see the Tathagata and hand in this strip of paper." Tripitaka, Boqin, and the whole party bowed toward the sky in terror. They came down the mountain and back to the stone box, and said to the monkey, "The seal is lifted. Come out." The monkey was delighted and cried, "Master, please stand back a little, so that I may come out without frightening you."

Boqin heard this, led Tripitaka, and the whole party hurried back east. When they had gone five or seven li they heard the monkey call again, "Farther, farther!" Tripitaka went a long way more, down off the mountain, and then heard a crash that truly split the earth and broke the mountain. Everyone shook with fear. The monkey was already at Tripitaka's horse's head. He knelt, red and bare, and said, "Master, I am out!" He bowed to Tripitaka four times, jumped up quickly, and made a deep bow to Boqin: "Thank you, elder brother, for seeing my master this far, and for pulling the grass off my face." When the thanks were done, he gathered the baggage and saddled the horse. But when the horse saw him, its back went weak and its legs bent, and it trembled so that it could hardly stand. The reason was that the monkey had been Bimawen, Keeper of the Heavenly Horses, in heaven, and had power over horses; so any mortal horse fears him.

Tripitaka saw that his heart was truly good, and that he truly looked like a man of the Buddhist gate, and asked, "Disciple, what is your name?" The Monkey King said, "My name is Sun." Tripitaka said, "Let me give you a Dharma name, so that I can call you." The Monkey King said, "Do not trouble yourself, Master. I already have a Dharma name: Sun Wukong." Tripitaka was glad and said, "That fits our school exactly. You look like a little wandering monk. Let me give you a nickname too, and call you Pilgrim. How is that?" Wukong said, "Good, good, good." From then on he was also called Pilgrim Sun.

Boqin saw that Pilgrim Sun was all for packing up and going. He turned to Tripitaka, bowed, and said, "Elder, you have been lucky enough to find a good disciple here. I am very glad. This man can truly make the journey. I must turn back." Tripitaka bowed in thanks and said, "You have come all this way for me; I cannot thank you enough. When you are home, give my respects to your mother, the old lady, and to your wife. I have troubled your house; when I return I will come and thank you in person." Boqin returned the courtesy, and the two parties parted.

Pilgrim Sun asked Tripitaka to mount, and carried the baggage himself in front, striding along bare-legged. Before long they had crossed Two-Boundary Mountain, when suddenly a fierce tiger came roaring toward them, slashing its tail. Tripitaka's heart quaked in the saddle. Pilgrim, delighted, said from the roadside, "Do not fear him, Master. He is bringing me a set of clothes." He put down the baggage, pulled a needle from his ear, waved it at the wind, and it was a rod of iron as thick as a bowl. Holding it, he laughed: "This treasure has not been used for more than five hundred years. Today I will bring it out and win myself some clothes to wear." Look at him swing out his legs and face the tiger, crying, "Wicked beast! Where are you going?" The tiger crouched and flattened itself in the dust, not daring to move. Pilgrim struck it one blow on the head: its brains burst out in ten thousand dots of peach red, and its teeth sprayed out like bits of jade. Chen Xuanzang tumbled from the horse in terror and bit his finger, crying, "Heavens! Heavens! The tiger Liu the Guardian killed the other day put up a fight for half a day. Today Sun Wukong needed no contest at all: one blow and this tiger was smashed to pieces. Truly, stronger hands keep appearing!"

Pilgrim dragged the tiger over and said, "Master, sit a moment while I take off his clothes and put them on for the road." Tripitaka said, "Where would a tiger keep clothes?" Pilgrim said, "Never mind me, Master. I have my ways." A fine Monkey King: he plucked one hair, blew a breath of immortal air, cried "Change!", and it became a sharp knife with an ox-ear blade. He slit the skin along the tiger's belly and peeled it off whole. He cut away the claws, cut off the head, and cut out a square piece of tiger skin. He held it up and measured it: "A little too wide. One piece would make two." He took the knife and cut it into two pieces, put one away, and tied the other around his waist. He pulled a vine by the road, bound it tight to cover his lower body, and said, "Master, let us go, let us go. When we reach a house we can borrow needle and thread and sew it later." He rolled the iron rod between his fingers, and it was a needle again, and he put it back in his ear. Shouldering the baggage, he asked the master to mount.

As the two went on, the elder asked from the saddle, "Wukong, that iron rod you killed the tiger with — where is it now?" Pilgrim laughed: "Master, you do not know. This staff of mine came from the Dragon Palace of the Eastern Ocean. It is called the Divine Iron That Pins the Bottom of the Milky Way, and also the As-You-Will Gold-Banded Staff. In the old days, when I turned against heaven, I owed much to it. It changes as I wish: big when I want it big, small when I want it small. Just now it became a tiny embroidery needle and is stored in my ear. Only when it is needed do I take it out." Tripitaka was secretly pleased, and asked again, "Why did that tiger freeze when it saw you, and let you beat it at your leisure?" Wukong said, "I will not hide it from you, Master: say nothing of a tiger. Even a dragon would not dare be rude to me. I have the arts to tame dragons and subdue tigers, and the power to churn rivers and boil seas. I read faces and colors, I hear a sound and grasp its meaning. Made large, I fill the universe; made small, I hide in a hair. My changes have no end; no one can tell when I am hidden or shown. Peeling a tiger skin — what is so rare in that? Wait till we come to real trouble, and you shall see my skill." Hearing this, Tripitaka grew easier and rode on without worry.

Master and disciple walked and talked, and the sun sank in the west before they knew it. Look:

The slanting rays blaze back from the west; at sky's edge and sea's corner the clouds go home. In a thousand hills the birds cry again and again, seeking their roosts and dropping into the woods in flocks.Beasts go by in pairs; families of them troop back to their dens. A hook of the new moon breaks the dusk; ten thousand bright stars spread their halos.

Pilgrim said, "Master, walk faster; it is getting late. Those thick trees over there must be some farmstead. Let us hurry and ask for a night's lodging." Tripitaka rode on and made straight for the house, and got down before the gate. Pilgrim dropped the baggage, came up, and called, "Open the door! Open the door!" An old man came out leaning on a bamboo staff and pulled the door open with a rattle. When he saw Pilgrim's fierce face, with a tiger skin tied at his waist like a thunder god, his legs went soft and his body numb, and he babbled, "A devil! A devil!" Tripitaka came up, held him, and said, "Do not be afraid, old patron. He is my disciple, a poor monk's disciple, not a devil." The old man looked up, saw that Tripitaka's face was fine and striking, and stood firm. He asked, "What temple do you come from, that you bring such a wicked one to my door?" Tripitaka said, "I am a monk from the land of Tang, going to the western heaven to bow to the Buddha and fetch the scriptures. We were passing this way just now. It is late; I have come especially to beg a night's lodging at your house, and I will leave early tomorrow, before the light. I beg your kindness." The old man said, "You may be a man of Tang, but that wicked one is no Tang man." Wukong called out in a loud voice, "Old man, you have no eye at all! The Tang man is my master, and I am his disciple. And I am no sugar-man or honey-man either: I am the Great Sage Equal to Heaven! Some of your households here know me. I have seen you before." The old man said, "Where have you seen me?" Wukong said, "When you were small, did you not gather firewood at my feet? Did you not pick greens from my face?" The old man said, "Fellow, you talk nonsense! Where did you live, and where did I live, that I should gather firewood at your feet and pick greens from your face?" Wukong said, "My child, you talk nonsense. You have just failed to know me. I am the Great Sage from the stone box in this Two-Boundary Mountain. Look again." Then the old man understood: "You do look something like him. But how did you get out?" Wukong told the old man the whole story of how the bodhisattva had urged him to do good and told him to wait for the Tang monk to lift the seal and free him.

Then the old man bowed, asked the Tang monk inside, called his old wife and his children to meet them, told them the whole story, and all rejoiced. He ordered tea. When the tea was done he asked Wukong, "Great Sage, are you old now?" Wukong said, "How old are you this year?" The old man said, "I have foolishly lived to one hundred and thirty." Pilgrim said, "Then you are my great-great-grandson. I do not remember the year of my birth; but I have been at the foot of this mountain for more than five hundred years." The old man said, "So it is, so it is! I remember my grandfather telling me that this mountain fell from heaven and pinned a spirit monkey, and that only now have you won free of it. When I saw you as a boy you had grass on your head and mud on your face, and I was not afraid of you. Now the mud is gone from your face and the grass from your head, you look a little thinner, and you have a great tiger skin wrapped at your waist. How are you different from a devil?" The whole family laughed aloud at this.

The old man was a good soul, and at once ordered a meal. After the meal Wukong asked, "What is your family name?" The old man said, "Our house is named Chen." When Tripitaka heard this he rose at once and raised his hands: "Old patron, you and I are of one clan." Pilgrim said, "Master, your name is Tang. How are you of one clan with him?" Tripitaka said, "My lay family name is also Chen. I am a native of Juxian Village, in Hongnong Commandery, Haizhou, of Tang. My Dharma name is Chen Xuanzang. Because the Emperor Taizong of Great Tang made me his sworn brother, Tripitaka, and gave me his own surname of Tang, I am called the Tang monk." When the old man heard they had the same surname, he was doubly delighted.

Pilgrim said, "Old Chen, since we are troubling your house anyway: I have not bathed in more than five hundred years. Go and heat some water, so that my master and I may wash, and we will thank you before we go." The old man ordered water heated and a basin brought, and lamps lit. When master and disciple had bathed, they sat before the lamp. Pilgrim said, "Old Chen, there is one more thing to trouble you: lend me needle and thread." The old man said, "Yes, yes, yes," and had his wife fetch them for Pilgrim. Pilgrim had a quick eye too. He saw that his master, after bathing, had taken off a short white cloth gown and left it, so he pulled it over and put it on. Then he took off the tiger skin and joined its pieces, folded it into a pleat like a horse's face, tied it at his waist, and cinched it with the vine. He came before his master and said, "Old Sun in this outfit today — how does it look, compared with yesterday?" Tripitaka said, "Good, good, good! Now you look like a pilgrim." He added, "Disciple, if you do not mind that it is worn and old, keep the gown." Wukong bowed: "I accept your gift, I accept your gift." Then he fetched some fodder and fed the horse. When everything was done, master and disciple and the old man each went to bed.

Early the next morning Wukong got up and asked the master to start. Tripitaka dressed, and told Pilgrim to pack the bedding and baggage. Just as they were about to say goodbye, the old man brought out water for washing and a meal. After the meal they set out. Tripitaka mounted, and Pilgrim led the way. They ate when hungry, drank when thirsty, slept at night, and walked at dawn. It was early winter, and look:

Frost has thinned the red leaves, and a thousand woods grow bare; on the ridge a few pines and cypresses keep their green. Unopened plum buds spread their hidden scent; the warm hours are short, in the first promise of spring. The chrysanthemums are ragged, the lotus gone, the camellias thick; by the cold bridge old trees fight for their branches. In winding gullies the spring water trickles; thin clouds that want for snow drift over the whole sky. The north wind blows hard and tugs at your sleeves; toward evening, who can bear this cold majesty?

Master and disciple had not gone far when, with a whistle by the roadside, six men burst out, each with a long spear or a short sword, sharp blades and strong bows. They shouted, "Where are you going, monk? Leave the horse and put down the baggage early, and we will let you keep your life and pass." Tripitaka's soul fled and his spirit scattered; he fell from the horse and could not speak. Pilgrim helped him up with his hand and said, "Master, be at ease. It is nothing. These men are bringing us clothes and traveling money." Tripitaka said, "Wukong, you must be hard of hearing. They say we must leave the horse and the baggage, and you ask them for clothes and money!" Pilgrim said, "You just mind the clothes, the baggage, and the horse. Let old Sun have it out with them and see what happens." Tripitaka said, "A good hand cannot stand against two fists, and two fists are no match for four hands. There are six big men there. You are one small man. How dare you fight them?"

Pilgrim's courage was great by nature. He would hear no more, but stepped forward, folded his hands at his chest, and bowed to the six: "Gentlemen, why do you block a poor monk's road?" One of them said, "We are the great kings of the highroads, the good-hearted lords of this mountain. Our great names are known far and wide; no doubt you have not heard them. Leave your things early and we let you pass. Say half a word of 'no,' and we will break your bones and scatter your corpse." Pilgrim said, "I too am a great king by inheritance, a mountain lord of long standing, and I have never heard your great names." The man said, "Then you do not know. I will tell you. One is called Eye-Sees-Joy, one Ear-Hears-Anger, one Nose-Smells-Love, one Tongue-Tastes-Thought, one Mind-Runs-After-Desire, and one Body-Is-Sorrow." Wukong laughed: "So you are six common thieves! And you do not know that I, a man who has left home, am your rightful master, and you block my road. Hand over the treasure you have robbed, I will divide it in seven parts among us, and let you off." At this the thieves were pleased or angry, loving or brooding, desiring or sorrowing, and all rushed up shouting, "This monk has no manners! He has nothing at all, and comes to divide our things!" They swung spears and danced swords and charged, hacking at Pilgrim's head, clash and clatter, seventy or eighty blows. Wukong stood still in their midst as if he felt nothing. The thieves said, "Fine monk! A hard head indeed." Pilgrim laughed: "It will do. Your hands must be tired. It is old Sun's turn to bring out a needle and play." The thieves said, "This monk must be an acupuncturing doctor changed into a man. We have no illness; why talk of needles?"

Pilgrim reached into his ear and drew out an embroidery needle, waved it at the wind, and it was an iron rod as thick as a bowl. Holding it, he said, "Do not run. Let old Sun land one blow, to try my hand." The six thieves fled in all directions. He swung out his legs, caught them in a ring, and beat every one of them dead. He stripped off their clothes, took their traveling money, and came up smiling: "Master, let us go. I have wiped out the thieves." Tripitaka said, "You have brought terrible trouble. They were indeed robbers of the road, but even taken to court they did not deserve death. However great your skill, you need only have driven them away. Why did you beat them all dead? This is taking life without cause. How can you be a monk? A man who has left home sweeps the ground for fear of hurting ants, and shields the lamp with gauze for love of the moths. How could you kill them out of hand, with no right and no wrong? You have not one grain of mercy or goodness. It is lucky this is empty mountain country, where no one will look into it. But if we reach a city, and someone bumps into you by chance and you turn violent and swing that rod about hurting people — how could I keep my hands clean, and how would we get away?" Wukong said, "Master, if I had not killed them, they would have killed you." Tripitaka said, "A man who has left home would rather die than do violence. If I die, I die alone; but you killed six of them. How can that be explained? If this went to court, even if your own father were the judge, it could not be excused." Pilgrim said, "I will not hide it from you, Master: five hundred years ago, when I was king and monster on Mount Flower-Fruit, I do not know how many people I killed. If it were as you say, and they took me to court, they would need a writ to catch me — I should never have been the Great Sage Equal to Heaven." Tripitaka said, "It is just because you had no rule and no check, and were violent among men, cheating heaven and defying the throne, that you suffered those five hundred years. Now that you have entered the Buddhist gate, if you still do violence and take life as before, you cannot reach the western heaven and cannot be a monk. Too wicked! Too wicked!"

Now this monkey could never bear to be scolded. He saw that Tripitaka went on and on nagging, and he could not hold down the fire in his chest: "If that is how it is — if I cannot be a monk and cannot go to the western heaven — then do not go on dinning at me and abusing me. I will go home." Tripitaka had no answer ready. Pilgrim flew into a temper, sprang into the air, cried, "Old Sun is off!", and was gone before Tripitaka could look up. There was only a whoosh as he went back east. The poor elder was left all alone. He nodded and sighed to himself, grieving and complaining: "Such a fellow, to take no teaching! I only said a few words to him — how could he vanish and go straight back? Enough, enough, enough. It must be that my fate does not allow me to take a disciple, to add a mouth. Now I cannot find him if I search, and he will not answer if I call. On, then, on." Truly: he stakes body and life to push west; he will not lean on another, but chooses for himself.

The elder could only pack the baggage, sling it on the horse, and go on west on foot, leading it — one hand on the tin staff, the other on the reins, sad and lonely. He had not gone far when an aged mother came along the mountain road, holding a padded gown with a flowered cap on top of it. Tripitaka, seeing how close she was, hurriedly led the horse to the right side to let her pass. The old mother asked, "Elder, where do you come from, walking this lonely road all alone?" Tripitaka said, "Your disciple is from Great Tang in the Land of the East, sent by order to the western heaven to bow to the living Buddha and seek the true scriptures." The old mother said, "The Buddha of the west is at the Thunderclap Monastery, within the land of India. It is a hundred and eight thousand li from here. A single man with a single horse, no companion and no disciple — how can you get there?" Tripitaka said, "I took a disciple a few days ago, but he was wild and stubborn. I said a few words to him; he would not take the teaching, and went off into the distance." The old mother said, "Here is a padded cloth gown and a gold-set flowered cap that belonged to my son. He was a monk for only three days, and unluckily his life was short and he died. I went to his monastery and wept, took leave of his master, and brought these gown and cap back to remember him by. Elder, since you have a disciple, let me give you the gown and cap." Tripitaka said, "I thank you for your great gift, old mother; but my disciple is gone, and I dare not take them." The old mother said, "Which way did he go?" Tripitaka said, "I heard a whoosh, and he went back east." The old mother said, "Not far east is my house. No doubt he has gone there. I also have a spell, called the True Words for Fixing the Heart, also called the Tight-Fillet Spell. Learn it secretly by heart and hold it fast in your mind, and never let one living soul know it. I will catch up with him and send him back to follow you; then give him the gown and cap to wear. If he will not obey you, say the spell silently, and he will never dare do violence again, nor run away again." Tripitaka bowed his head and thanked her. The old mother turned into a streak of gold light and went back east. Tripitaka knew well that it was the Bodhisattva Guanyin giving him these true words. He hastily pinched up a mound of earth, burned incense, and bowed again and again toward the east. When the bows were done he put the gown and cap in the middle of his bundle, sat by the road, and practiced the True Words for Fixing the Heart, saying them over and over until he knew them perfectly, holding them fast. Of this no more.

Now Wukong, having left his master, rode one somersault cloud straight back to the great Eastern Ocean. He checked the cloud, pushed through the water, and came to the Crystal Palace. The Dragon King, startled, came out to meet him and brought him into the palace and they sat down. When the courtesies were done, the Dragon King said, "I hear the Great Sage's hard time is full. I missed my chance to congratulate you! No doubt you will rebuild your immortal mountain and return to your old cave?" Wukong said, "That was my mind too, but I have become a monk." The Dragon King said, "What kind of monk?" Pilgrim said, "Thanks to the bodhisattva of the Southern Sea, who urged me to goodness, I am to win the true fruit. I follow the Tang monk of the Land of the East westward to bow to the Buddha. I have taken refuge in the Buddhist gate, and am now called Pilgrim." The Dragon King said, "Then truly, congratulations, congratulations! This is what is called turning from evil back to the right, and schooling the heart in goodness. If so, why do you not go west? Why come back east?" Pilgrim laughed: "That Tang monk does not understand men's hearts. Some common thieves stopped the road, and I beat them dead, and the Tang monk went on and on listing my faults. Do you think old Sun can swallow such insult? I left him, meaning to go back to my own mountain, and so I looked in on you first, to beg a cup of tea." The Dragon King said, "We are honored, honored." Then the dragon sons and grandsons brought fragrant tea.

When the tea was done, Pilgrim glanced back and saw a picture on the back wall, called "Presenting the Shoe at the Bridge." Pilgrim said, "What scene is this?" The Dragon King said, "The Great Sage came after these events, so you do not know it. It is called 'Three Times Presenting the Shoe at the Bridge.'" Pilgrim said, "What does 'three times presenting the shoe' mean?" The Dragon King said, "The immortal here is the Yellow Stone Lord; the young man is Zhang Liang of the Han. The Stone Lord sat on the bridge and dropped his shoe under it, and called Zhang Liang to fetch it. The young man hurried to fetch it and knelt to present it. This happened three times, and Zhang Liang showed not a grain of pride or rudeness. The Stone Lord loved his diligence, gave him a book from heaven by night, and charged him to uphold the Han. Later he truly planned in the command tent and won victories a thousand li away. When peace came he gave up his post, returned to the mountains, and wandered with the Red Pine Youth, and woke to the way of the immortals. Great Sage, if you do not guard the Tang monk, do not give your labor, do not take teaching, you will in the end be only an immortal devil. Do not dream of winning the true fruit." Wukong heard this and was silent, thinking for a long while. The Dragon King said, "The Great Sage must decide for himself. Do not chase after ease and spoil your future." Wukong said, "Say no more. Old Sun will go back and guard him." The Dragon King was delighted: "In that case I dare not keep you. Please, Great Sage, show mercy soon, and do not let your master grow a stranger to you."

Pilgrim, pressed to go, jumped up, left the sea treasury, rode the cloud, and parted from the Dragon King. On the way he met the Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea. She said, "Sun Wukong, why do you not take teaching and guard the Tang monk? What are you doing here?" Pilgrim hurriedly bowed from the cloud: "Thanks to your good words, bodhisattva, the Tang monk truly came, lifted the seal, and saved my life, and I became his disciple. But he blamed me for my violence, and I dodged away for a moment. I am on my way to guard him now." The bodhisattva said, "Go quickly, and do not let the moment slip." With that they parted.

In a moment Pilgrim saw the Tang monk sitting sadly by the road. He came up and said, "Master, why are you not walking? Why do you sit here?" Tripitaka looked up: "Where have you been? You left me afraid to walk and afraid to move, waiting here for you." Pilgrim said, "I went to old Dragon King's house in the Eastern Ocean for a cup of tea." Tripitaka said, "Disciple, a man who has left home must not lie. You were gone hardly a watch, and you talk of tea at the Dragon King's?" Pilgrim laughed: "I will not hide it from you, Master. I can ride the somersault cloud: one somersault is a hundred and eight thousand li, so I can go and come at once." Tripitaka said, "I spoke to you a little sharply, and you took offense and threw a temper and left me. A man of your powers can go fetch tea; a man like me, who cannot go, just sits here bearing hunger. Do you not feel for me?" Pilgrim said, "Master, if you are hungry, I will go and beg some food for you." Tripitaka said, "No need to beg. There is some dry food in my bundle, given me by Liu the Guardian's mother. Go and fetch the bowl and find some water, and after I have eaten a little we will go on."

Pilgrim untied the bundle and found among the things a few coarse-flour bakes, which he brought out and handed to his master. He also saw the shining padded cloth gown and the gold-set flowered cap. Pilgrim said, "Did this gown and cap come from the Land of the East?" Tripitaka answered offhand, "I wore them when I was young. Whoever wears this cap can chant the scriptures without being taught, and whoever wears this gown can perform the rites without training." Pilgrim said, "Good master, give them to me to wear." Tripitaka said, "I fear they are the wrong size. But if they fit you, wear them." So Pilgrim took off his old white cloth gown and put on the padded gown; it fit as if it had been cut for his body. He put the cap on his head. When Tripitaka saw the cap on him, he set down the dry food and silently said the Tight-Fillet Spell once. Pilgrim cried, "My head! My head!" The master went on and said it several times more, and Pilgrim rolled on the ground in pain, clawing the gold-set flowered cap to pieces. Tripitaka, fearing the gold band would tear, stopped saying the spell — and the moment he stopped, the pain stopped. Pilgrim felt his head: like a thin gold wire it gripped him tightly, sunk into the flesh. It could not be pulled off or broken off; it had taken root. He took the needle from his ear and poked it into the band to pry it off. Tripitaka, fearing he would snap it, began the spell again. The pain came back, and Pilgrim turned cartwheels and somersaults, ears red, face flushed, eyes swelling, body numb. The master saw this and could not bear it, and stopped again — and the pain stopped again. Pilgrim said, "So this head of mine — you were casting a spell on me, Master?" Tripitaka said, "I was chanting the Tight-Fillet Scripture. When did I cast a spell on you?" Pilgrim said, "Say it again, then." Tripitaka truly said it again, and Pilgrim truly hurt again, crying, "Do not say it! Do not say it! The moment you say it I hurt. What is the meaning of this?" Tripitaka said, "Will you take my teaching now?" Pilgrim said, "I will take it." "Will you be rude again?" Pilgrim said, "Never again."

Though he answered so, an ill thought still sat in his heart. He waved the needle into its bowl-thick iron rod and moved toward the Tang monk to strike. The elder hurriedly said the spell two or three times more. The monkey fell to the ground, dropped the iron rod, could not lift a hand, and only cried, "Master, I understand! Say it no more, say it no more." Tripitaka said, "How could you cheat in your heart and dare to strike me?" Pilgrim said, "I never dared to strike. Let me ask you, Master: who taught you this magic?" Tripitaka said, "An old mother gave it to me just now." Pilgrim raged: "No need to say more. That old mother was surely that Guanyin herself. How can she torment me so? Wait till I go to the Southern Sea and beat her!" Tripitaka said, "If it was she who gave it to me, she surely knew beforehand. If you go looking for her, she will only say the spell. Would you not be dead?" Pilgrim saw the reason in it, and truly dared not go. He turned his heart, knelt, and begged: "Master, this is her way of binding me, to make me go west with you. I will not go looking for her, and you must not treat it as everyday words and keep chanting. I will guard you, and never mean to turn back again." Tripitaka said, "If so, help me onto my horse, and let us go." Only then did Pilgrim settle his heart for good. He braced his spirit, tightened the padded gown, saddled the horse, gathered the baggage, and pushed west.

But what was said after this journey went on? Listen to the next chapter to find out.