Chapter 16

The Monks of the Guanyin Convent Plot for the Treasure; the Monster of Black Wind Mountain Steals the Kasaya

Now master and disciples whipped up their horses and came to the mountain gate and looked: indeed a monastery. And this is what they saw:

Tier upon tier of halls and pavilions; fold upon fold of cloistered rooms. Beyond the three mountain gates, towering, ten thousand folds of colored cloud shut it in; before the Hall of the Five Blessings, glowing, a thousand streams of red mist wind about. Two avenues of pines and bamboo; one grove of juniper and cypress. Two avenues of pines and bamboo, of no year and no date, serenely still; one grove of juniper and cypress, colored and tinted, proud in their beauty. And there: the bell-and-drum tower high, the pagoda sheer. The Chan monks sit fixed in meditation; the birds crying in the trees are idle of note. Lonely, without dust, truly lonely; clear, void, possessed of the Way, truly clear and void.

The poem says:

The lofty abbey hides in its emerald nest, a Jeta Grove; the monastery's fair scene outdoes Saha.Truly such pure land is rare in the world of men; of the famous mountains of the world the monks hold most.

The elder dismounted, Pilgrim set down the load; they were on the point of entering when a troop of monks came out the gate. See how they looked:

On their heads caps with left-side pins; on their bodies robes without stain.Copper rings hang doubled from their ears; silk cords gird their waists.Straw sandals, steady in their walking; wooden fish clappers carried in hand.Always in their mouths a murmur of prayer; to prajna altogether turned.

Tripitaka saw them, stood by the gate, and made his salutation. The monk returned it in haste and said with a smile: “We failed to see you coming. From what quarter do you come? Pray enter the abbot's quarters and take tea.” Tripitaka said: “Your disciple is an imperial commissioner of the East, bound up to the Thunderclap Monastery to bow before Buddha and fetch the scriptures. Here the sky is darkening; I wish to beg a night of your abbey.” The monk said: “Pray come in and sit, pray come in and sit.” Tripitaka then called Pilgrim to lead the horse in. The monk, catching sight of Pilgrim's face, was rather frightened, and asked: “What manner of thing is that leading the horse?” Tripitaka said: “Softly, softly. He is quick of temper; if he hears you call him a thing, he will take offense. He is my disciple.” The monk shuddered, bit his finger: “Such an ugly goblin-head, and you take him for a disciple?” Tripitaka said: “You cannot see it: ugly he may be, but he is very useful.”

The monk could only bring Tripitaka and Pilgrim in through the mountain gate. Within, over the main hall, were four great characters: Guanyin Chan Convent. Tripitaka rejoiced greatly: “Your disciple has been favored again and again by the Bodhisattva's grace and never yet bowed his thanks. Now, meeting this convent, it is as if I saw the Bodhisattva herself—let me worship and give thanks.” The monk heard, ordered the attendant to open the hall doors, and invited Tripitaka in to bow. Pilgrim tethered the horse, dropped the baggage, and went up into the hall with Tripitaka. Tripitaka stretched his back, spread himself face down, and knocked his head before the golden image. The monk went to beat the drum; Pilgrim went to strike the bell. Tripitaka bowed before the altar, praying with all his heart. The prayer done, the monk stopped the drum—but Pilgrim kept on striking the bell without pause, now fast, now slow, a long while. The attendant said: “The worship is done; why keep striking the bell?” Only then did Pilgrim drop the clapper, laughing: “How should you know! Mine is the rule of 'a monk for a day rings the bell for a day.'” By this the uproar of the bell had roused all the monks of the convent, great and small, and the elders of the upper and lower quarters, who came crowding out: “What savage is this battering our bell and drum?” Pilgrim leapt out and snapped: “It is your grandfather Sun, ringing for the fun of it.” The monks, one look at him, tumbled over in heaps and groveled on the ground: “Grandfather Thunder!” Pilgrim said: “Thunder is my great-great-grandson. Up, up, and do not fear: we are masters from the Great Tang in the Land of the East.” Only then did the monks worship, and seeing Tripitaka they were at ease and afraid no more. Among them the prior of the house invited them: “Masters, come to the abbot's quarters behind, and take tea.” They loosed the rein and led the horse, took up the baggage, passed the main hall, went straight into the rear rooms, and took their seats in order.

The prior presented tea, and made ready the meal besides. The day was still early; Tripitaka's thanks were hardly done when from the back came two small pages supporting an old monk out. See how he was dressed:

On his head a square Pilu cap, its cat's-eye stone crown glittering; on his body a brocade plush gown, its kingfisher gold hem flashing.A pair of monk's shoes set with the eight treasures; a staff inlaid with cloud and star.A face seamed with wrinkles, like the Old Mother of Mount Li; a pair of bleared eyes, like the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea.His mouth cannot hold the wind, his teeth being gone; his back is bent and crooked, his sinews drawn.

The monks said: “The father-master is come.” Tripitaka bowed and greeted him: “Old prior, your disciple salutes you.” The old monk returned the courtesy, and they took their seats in order. The old monk said: “Just now the boys told me that masters had come from the Tang of the Land of the East, so I came out to pay my respects.” Tripitaka said: “I have broken in upon your treasure hill without knowing my place; forgive me, forgive me.” The old monk said: “Not at all, not at all.” And he asked: “Master, how many li from the Land of the East to here?” Tripitaka said: “From the boundary of Chang'an it is more than five thousand li. I passed the Mountain of the Two Bounds and took a disciple; then all along the way through the Habi country of the western tribes, two months and five or six thousand li more, before I came to your place.” The old monk said: “That is a full ten thousand li. I have idled away my life and never once gone out the mountain gate: truly what they call 'watching the sky from the bottom of a well'—a rotten stump of a man.” Tripitaka asked again: “And what great age has my old prior reached?” The old monk said: “I have foolishly lived two hundred and seventy years.” Pilgrim heard and said: “Then he is my ten-thousandth-generation grandson.” Tripitaka glared at him: “Mind your words! Do not be so unmeasured and give offense.” The monk asked: “Master, how old are you?” Pilgrim said: “I dare not say.”

The old monk took it for one more mad word, thought nothing of it, and asked no more; he only called for tea. A young page brought out a plate of mutton-fat jade, with three cloisonné cups rimmed in gold; another page carried a white copper ewer, and poured three cups of fragrant tea. Truly the color outdid pomegranate stamens in their pride, and the fragrance beat cassia blossom. Tripitaka saw and praised without end: “Fine things, fine things! Truly fine food and finer vessels.” The old monk said: “They shame the eye, they shame the eye. You come from the mighty kingdom above, master, and have seen every rare treasure; such vessels as these—why overpraise them? Since you come from that lofty land, master, have you any treasure about you, that your disciple might look?” Tripitaka said: “Alas, we of the Land of the East have no treasures; and if we had, the road is too long to bring them.” Pilgrim put in: “Master, the other day, in the bundle, I saw that kasaya—is it not a treasure? Let us show it him, what do you say?” At the word kasaya the monks sneered, every one. Pilgrim said: “What are you laughing at?” The prior said: “Master, you called the kasaya a treasure—the jest of it! Kasayas such as we wear I have not merely twenty or thirty of; and as for my father-master, a monk here two hundred fifty and sixty years, he has seven or eight hundred.” He called: “Bring them out to look.” The old monk too was in a mood to show off: he ordered the attendant to open the storeroom and the friars to carry out the chests—twelve chests, set in the courtyard, unlocked. Racks were set on either side, cords strung about, and the kasayas shaken out and hung up one by one for Tripitaka to see. Truly the hall was filled with silk and brocade, the four walls draped in gauze and damask.

Pilgrim went over them one by one: all were flower-woven inlaid brocade, embroidered and gold-traced, and he laughed: “Good, good, good. Put them up, put them up. Take ours out and show them.” Tripitaka seized him and whispered: “Disciple, do not vie with men in riches. You and I are travelers alone; I fear some harm.” Pilgrim said: “What harm in showing a kasaya?” Tripitaka said: “You do not understand. The ancients said: 'Things rare and precious, things fine for play, must never be shown to men greedy and false.' Once it enters their eyes it moves their hearts; once their hearts are moved, their schemes are born. You are one who dreads calamity: if they demand it and you grant their demand, well and good; otherwise, body destroyed and life lost, all begins here—and it is no small matter.” Pilgrim said: “Be at ease, be at ease; all lies on old Sun.” See him—without by-your-leave—hurry off and untie the bundle; splendor burst from it in beams, though two layers of oilpaper still wrapped it. The paper off, the kasaya drawn out and shaken open: red light filled the room, colored air brimmed the court. Not a monk but rejoiced in his heart and praised with his mouth: truly a wondrous kasaya. On it were:

A thousand subtle arts, and pearls a-dropping; ten thousand rare devices, the Buddha's jewels clustered.Above and below dragon's-beard silk spreads the painted weave; fine cotton borders the four sides with a brocade hem.Let a goblin hang it on, and it is extinguished; let a sprite drape himself in it, and he goes down to the yellow springs.It was made by the hands of transformed immortals of heaven; not being a true monk, none dares wear it.

At the sight of such a treasure the old monk's false heart was indeed moved. He came forward, knelt to Tripitaka, tears in his eyes: “Your disciple truly has no karma.” Tripitaka raised him: “Old prior, what do you say?” He said: “Your treasure was just unfolded, master, and the sky has darkened; my eyes are bleared and cannot see it plainly—is that not having no karma?” Tripitaka said: “Bring lamps, and let him look again.” The old monk said: “The treasure itself is luminous; light the lamps and it dazzles the more—there will be no seeing it closely.” Pilgrim said: “How would you like to look, then?” The old monk said: “If the master's grace will trust me, let your disciple carry it to the back room and study it the whole night through, and return it early, when you go west. What does the master say?” Tripitaka heard and started, and reproached Pilgrim: “It is all you, all you.” Pilgrim laughed: “What is to fear from him? Let me wrap it up and let him carry it off to look. If anything goes amiss, old Sun answers for all.” Tripitaka could not hold him; he handed the kasaya to the old monk: “Look as you please. Only return it to me in the morning as it is, without the least hurt or soil.” The old monk, glad and gleeful, had the page carry the kasaya in. Then he ordered the monks to sweep the Chan hall in front clean, bring two rattan couches, set out the bedding, and ask the two masters to rest; and on the other hand to prepare the morning meal to send them off. So all dispersed; master and disciples shut the Chan hall and slept—no more of that.

Now the monk, having cozened the kasaya into his hands, took it to the back room and sat under the lamp, and lifted up his voice and wept over it. The monks of the house dared not sleep before him. The little page, not knowing why, went and told the monks: “The old man has wept till the second watch and will not hush.” Two of his favorite grand-disciples came up and asked: “Father-master, why do you weep?” The old monk said: “I weep that I have no karma—I cannot keep the Tang monk's treasure.” The young monk said: “Father-master, you are old and high; it has passed. His kasaya lies before you; you need only unwrap it and look—why weep over it?” The old monk said: “Looking is not for long. I am two hundred and seventy this year, and have toiled for nothing over a few hundred kasayas. How shall I ever have his one? How shall I ever be a Tang monk?” The young monk said: “Father-master, you are wrong. The Tang monk is a traveling monk who has left his village and his well. You, with your years and your ease, have enough; why would you be a traveling monk like him?” The old monk said: “I may sit at home at ease, happy in my evening years, but I cannot have his kasaya to wear. If I might wear it one day, I could shut my eyes content in death; it would be something to have been a monk in this world of light.” The monks said: “This is all beside the mark. You want to wear his—what difficulty is there? Tomorrow we keep him a day, and you wear it a day; keep him ten days, and you wear it ten days; and there it is. Why weep like this?” The old monk said: “Keep him a year, and I wear it but a year; after all I shall not have it long. When he wants to go, go he must; how shall I keep him forever?”

While they spoke, a young monk named Guangzhi put his head out: “Father-master, if you would have it forever, that too is easy.” The old monk rejoiced at once: “My son, what is your clever thought?” Guangzhi said: “These two Tang monks are travelers, wearied to the bone, and asleep by now. Let some of us strong fellows take spears and knives, burst open the Chan hall, kill them, bury the bodies in the back garden—only our own house to know—then take their white horse and their packs, and keep the kasaya for a treasure to hand down in the family: is that not a plan for our sons' sons forever?” The old monk heard, rejoiced with his whole heart, wiped his eyes: “Good, good, good—a perfect scheme.” And he fell to gathering spears and knives.

Among them was another young monk, Guangmou, that Guangzhi's brother-disciple, who came forward: “The plan is not good. If we are to kill them, we must first feel the way. The white-faced one seems easy; the hairy-faced one seems hard. If we fail to kill him, do we not bring ruin on our own heads? I have a way that uses neither knife nor spear; how does it please you?” The old monk said: “My son, what way?” Guangmou said: “In your grandson's opinion: call together all the great and small households of the East Hill, each man to bring a bundle of dry wood; give up those three bays of the Chan hall, set the fire going, and leave them no door to flee by, and burn them, horse and all. If folk before the mountain and behind it see it, they will only say the monks themselves were careless and let the fire out, and burned our Chan hall. Are not those two monks burned to death? And it hides the matter from all eyes. Is not the kasaya then our treasure to hand down?” The monks heard, and there was not one but rejoiced, crying: “Strong, strong, strong! The plan is finer yet, finer yet!” And they told each household to bring wood. Ah! This one plan—truly: it brings the long-lived old monk to his fated end, and turns the Guanyin Convent to dust. For in that convent were seventy or eighty households, more than two hundred souls great and small. That night they came swarming with firewood and ringed the Chan hall round, front and back, all four sides sealed, and made ready the fire—no more of that.

Now Tripitaka and his disciple were settled in their rest. But Pilgrim was a nimble monkey: asleep, he still kept his spirit and refined his breath, dozing with one eye open. Suddenly he heard feet going without pause outside, and firewood crackling, a wind rising. His heart suspected: “The night is still—how comes the sound of footsteps? Can it be thieves plotting against us?” He rolled up in one spring, about to open the door and look, yet fearing to wake his master. See him gather his spirit, shake his body, and change into a bee. Truly:

Mouth honey-sweet, tail venomous; waist slender, body light.Through flowers and past willows it flies like an arrow; to down and fragrance it clings like a falling star.Small its slight body, yet it bears a load; humming on thin wings it knows to ride the wind.From under the eaves' edge it darted out, to see clearly.

He saw the monks carrying wood and hauling grass, already ringed about the Chan hall to fire it. Pilgrim chuckled in secret: “Just as my master said—they want our lives and my kasaya, and so hatched this venomous plot. If I take the staff to them—poor wretches, they cannot bear it; one round of the staff would kill them all, and master would blame me for violence. Enough, enough, enough. I will give them the goat led off by the hand, and turn their own plan upon them: they shall not keep this house!”

Good Pilgrim: one somersault, and he was inside the South Gate of Heaven. The generals Pang, Liu, Gou, and Bi bowed low; Ma, Zhao, Wen, and Guan bent with clasped hands, all crying: “Ill news, ill news! The master of the havoc in heaven is come again!” Pilgrim waved his hands: “Gentlemen, no ceremony; do not be alarmed. I come looking for the Heavenly King of Broad Vision.” He had hardly spoken when the Heavenly King himself arrived, greeting him: “Long parted, long parted! I heard the Bodhisattva Guanyin came before the Jade Emperor and borrowed the Officers of the Four Watches, the Six Dings and Six Jias, and the Revealers to guard the Tang monk westward after the scriptures—and that you had become his disciple. How have you leisure to come here today?” Pilgrim said: “Never mind old acquaintance. The Tang monk has met wicked men on the road, and they have set fire to burn him; the matter is past desperate. I come to borrow your fire-shielding canopy to save him. Bring it out quickly for my use; I return at once.” The Heavenly King said: “You are wrong. If wicked men have set a fire, you should borrow water to put it out—why a fire-shielding canopy?” Pilgrim said: “How should you know the inside of it? Borrow water and the fire will not burn—that serves their turn. Only with this canopy do I shield the Tang monk from harm; for the rest, let it burn. Quickly, quickly—it may be too late already. Do not hinder my work below.” The Heavenly King laughed: “This monkey still has his evil turn of mind: he thinks of himself and lets the rest go hang.” Pilgrim said: “Quickly, quickly—no lip! You will spoil great things.” The Heavenly King dared not refuse, and handed the canopy to Pilgrim.

Pilgrim took it, pressed down his cloud, and came straight to the ridgepole of the Chan hall, and canopied the Tang monk and the white horse and the baggage. Then he went and sat on the roof of the abbot's rooms where the old monk lodged, guarding the kasaya. He watched them set the fire alight, then turned, made his spell, breathed in a mouthful toward the quarter of the wind and blew it out: a wind rose and blew the fire till it roared. A fine fire, a fine fire! Behold:

Black smoke in banks, red flame in leaps. Black smoke in banks—in the whole sky not one star to be seen; red flame in leaps—the great earth shines, a thousand li of red. At first, glinting golden serpents; then after, raging horses of blood. The three vapors of the south play the hero; the great god of fire puts forth his power. Parched firewood burns with a flame's temper—what talk of Suiren boring his wood? Hot oil drifts in painted sheets before the gate—it outdoes the Old Ancestor opening his furnace. Truly it is pitiless fire let loose—how shall it brook this willing wrong? Not to still the calamity, but to abet the wrong. Wind drives the fire's strength, and the flame flies a thousand fathoms high; fire flaunts the wind's might, and sparks fly beyond the ninth heaven. Kling and klang, just like the firecrackers of the year's end; swash and sputter, like cannon in an army. It burns so that the Buddhas in the hall cannot escape, and the Sangharama of the eastern court has nowhere to hide. It beats the night battle of Red Cliff; it outdoes the fire in the palace of Epang.

Truly a spark of fire can burn ten thousand acres of field. In a moment the wind was wild and the fire at full: the Guanyin Convent, every corner of it, red. See the monks—dragging chests and carrying cages, snatching tables and hauling pots—the whole court filled with cries to heaven. Pilgrim Sun guarded the abbot's rooms behind, and the fire-shielding canopy hooded the Chan hall in front; all the rest blazed, before and behind, truly red flame shining to heaven, gold light flooding through the walls.

But the outbreak of the fire startled a mountain beast-demon. Just south of the Guanyin Convent, some twenty li away, stands Black Wind Mountain; in the mountain a Black Wind Cave; in the cave a goblin, who had just waked and turned in his sleep. Light showed through his window, and he took it for daybreak. Rising to look, he saw it was the glare of fire away to the north. The goblin was startled: “Ah! The Guanyin Convent must be afire. Those monks are careless. Let me go look, and lend a hand to put it out.” The good goblin mounted the clouds and was at once beneath the smoke and fire: indeed a sky-scaling blaze; the halls in front all emptied, the glow still burning along both cloisters. He strode in, calling for water—and saw the back room fireless, and on its ridgeline a man raising the wind. He knew then how it stood, and hurried inside to look: in the middle of the abbot's room was a shimmer of rosy light, and on the table a bundle wrapped in black felt. He undid it and looked: a kasaya of patterned brocade, a rare treasure of the Buddha's gate. Truly riches move the hearts of men: he neither fought the fire nor cried for water, but snatched the kasaya, plundered in the tumult, spun his cloud-stride, and made straight back to the eastern hills.

That fire burned until the fifth watch, at daybreak, before it died. See the monks—stripped bare, wailing and weeping—raking the ashes for brass and iron, sorting charred wood, scooping for silver and gold. Some threw up huts of matting by the wall bins; some cooked rice in pots at the foot of the scorched walls, crying wrong and injustice, in an uproar—no more of that.

Now Pilgrim took the fire-shielding canopy and rode one somersault to the South Gate of Heaven, and handed it to the Heavenly King of Broad Vision: “Thanks for the loan, thanks for the loan.” The King took it: “You are scrupulous, Great Sage. I was worrying you would not return my treasure and I should have nowhere to look for it; happily you bring it at once.” Pilgrim said: “Is old Sun one to cheat a man to his face? The saying goes: 'Borrow well and return well, and borrowing again is no trouble.'” The King said: “It is long since we met: come into my palace and sit a while—how would that be?” Pilgrim said: “Old Sun is not as in former days, chattering on a rotten bench; now he guards the Tang monk and has no idle hours. Another time, another time.” He hurried his farewell and dropped his cloud, and the sun was already up. He came straight to the Chan hall, shook himself, changed into a bee, flew in, took his own shape, and looked: the master still slept deep.

Pilgrim called: “Master, it is day; get up.” Tripitaka woke at last and turned over: “So it is.” He dressed, opened the door, came out—and lifting his head, saw only fallen walls and scorched plaster, the halls and pavilions gone. He was startled: “Ah! Why are the buildings all gone, nothing but scorched walls?” Pilgrim said: “You are still dreaming. The fire broke out in the night.” Tripitaka said: “How is it I never knew?” Pilgrim said: “It was old Sun guarding the hall; I saw you slept sound and would not wake you.” Tripitaka said: “You had the power to guard the hall—why did you not put out the fire in the other rooms too?” Pilgrim laughed: “That master may know it: truly as you said yesterday, they coveted our kasaya and plotted to burn and kill us. Had old Sun not been awake, we should all be bones and ashes now.” Tripitaka heard, frightened: “Was it they who set the fire?” Pilgrim said: “If not they, who?” Tripitaka said: “Surely they were not slack with you, and this is your doing?” Pilgrim said: “Is old Sun such a scurvy fellow, to do such wicked work? It was truly their house that set it. Old Sun saw how venomous their hearts were, and truly did not put out their fire; he only gave it a little push with the wind.” Tripitaka said: “Heavens, heavens! When a fire is going you should help with water—how could you help with wind?” Pilgrim said: “Do you not know the old saying: 'Man bears the tiger no ill will, and the tiger bears man none'? If they had not played with fire, would I have played with wind?” Tripitaka said: “Where is the kasaya? Can it be burned?” Pilgrim said: “Nothing to fear, nothing to fear—it cannot burn; the abbot's room where it lay had no fire.” Tripitaka said with wrath: “I have nothing to do with you; but if it is so much as scratched, I need only recite that word of mine, recite it once—and you are a dead man.” Pilgrim was in terror: “Master, do not recite, do not recite! I will find your kasaya and bring it back, that is sure. Let me go fetch it, and we will be on the road.” Tripitaka took the rein, Pilgrim shouldered the load, and out of the Chan hall they went straight toward the abbot's rooms behind.

Now the monks were in the midst of their grief when suddenly they saw master and disciple come, leading the horse and carrying the load—fright knocked the souls out of them, every one: “The ghosts of the wronged are come to claim our lives!” Pilgrim bawled: “What ghosts of the wronged? Give me back my kasaya, quickly!” The monks fell on their knees together, knocking their heads: “Grandfather! Every wrong has its wronger, every debt its debtor. If lives are claimed, it is not our doing: it was Guangmou and the old monk who laid the plot against you—do not ask lives of us.” Pilgrim snapped: “You doomed cattle—who asked you for lives? Bring out the kasaya, that I may go my way!” Among them two bolder monks said: “Master, you were burned to death in the Chan hall; now you come asking for the kasaya. Are you men or ghosts, truly?” Pilgrim laughed: “You sinful beasts—what fire was there? Go look at the Chan hall in front, and then come talk.” The monks crawled up, went and looked: door and window, lattices and leaves of the Chan hall were not singed by so much as a hair. Then all were stricken, and knew that Tripitaka was a spirit monk indeed and Pilgrim a guardian of the law. They came up in a body, knocking their heads: “We had eyes and no pupils; we did not know true men come down among us. Your kasaya is with the old father-master in the abbot's room behind.” Tripitaka went past wall upon wall of ruin, sighing without end. The abbot's room indeed had no fire; the monks rushed inside, calling: “Father, the Tang monk is a spirit man and did not burn; and now we have only ruined our own estate. Bring out the kasaya quickly and give it back to him.”

Now the old monk could not find the kasaya, and his monastery's halls were burned; he stood in the thick of vexation and anguish, and hearing this speech dared not answer. Casting about for a plan and finding none, knowing no way forward or back, he stretched his stride, bent his body, and dashed his head against the wall in earnest. Pitiful: his skull broke, blood streamed, his soul fled; the breath broke in his throat, and he reddened the sand. There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

Alas for the old monk, dull and blind, who lived his long years on earth in vain.He would have kept the kasaya to hand down through ages—who knew the Buddha's jewel is not of the common sort?To take the easy way with precious things is surely the road to ruin and grief.What did Guangzhi and Guangmou avail? To hurt another and profit oneself—and all for nothing.

The monks in terror wept: “The father-master has dashed out his own brains, and the kasaya is gone—what shall we do?” Pilgrim said: “I suppose you have stolen it and hidden it. Come out, all of you, and make out a roll of your names, that old Sun may search you one by one.” The priors of the upper and lower quarters made out two lists of every monk, friar, page, and attendant of the house—two hundred and thirty souls, great and small. Pilgrim seated his master on high and called the names one by one from the top and searched them, making each loosen his garment; he counted them clearly, and there was no kasaya. Then he searched through every chest and cage the households had snatched out, finely and thoroughly—no trace was anywhere. Tripitaka's heart was in a ferment; he rued Pilgrim without end, sat above, and recited the spell. Pilgrim flopped to the ground, hugging his head, past bearing, crying only: “Do not recite, do not recite! I will find the kasaya and return it.” The monks, seeing this, trembled every one, knelt up and begged him to stop; only then did Tripitaka shut his mouth. Pilgrim rolled to his feet, twitched the iron staff from his ear, and made as if to beat the monks; Tripitaka bellowed him still: “You monkey-head—the head-ache does not frighten you, and you will be insolent? Hands off; hurt no one; examine them again with me.” The monks kowtowed and worshiped and begged Tripitaka: “Master, spare our lives. Truly we never saw it. It is all that old dead ghost's fault. Last night he looked on your kasaya and wept till the deep of the night; he dared not even look at it, but schemed to keep it forever, a treasure to hand down, and devised the plot to burn and kill you, masters. From the time the fire rose the wind blew wild, and every man thought only of fighting the fire and snatching his goods; no one knew where the kasaya went.”

Pilgrim was in a great rage. He went into the abbot's room, had the corpse of the self-dashed ghost carried out, stripped and examined it—on the whole body no trace of the treasure. He had the ground of the room dug three feet down—no sign. Pilgrim pondered half a while and asked: “Have you any goblins hereabouts grown into spirits?” The prior said: “Had you not asked, master, you would never have known. East-southeast of here stands Black Wind Mountain; in Black Wind Cave is a Black King. Our old dead ghost used to discourse the Way with him: he is a goblin. There is nothing else.” Pilgrim said: “How far is that mountain from here?” The prior said: “Only twenty li; the one you see on the skyline.” Pilgrim laughed: “Master, set your mind at ease; no more need be said—it is certainly that black monster stole it.” Tripitaka said: “His place is twenty li off; how are you sure it is he?” Pilgrim said: “You did not see the fire in the night: its light flew ten thousand li and shone through the three heavens—never mind twenty li, two hundred li could see it. Beyond doubt he saw the blaze, and took his chance to come secretly here, saw our kasaya was a treasure, and plundered it in the tumult. Let old Sun go find him.” Tripitaka said: “If you go, on whom do I lean?” Pilgrim said: “Set your mind at ease: in the dark the gods will guard you, and in the open I will leave the monks to serve you.” He called the monks to him: “Let some of you bury that old ghost; let some attend my master and look after my white horse.” The monks took the order. Pilgrim said again: “Do not promise me with your mouths, and fail of it when I am gone. Those who look after my master: pleasant faces and gentle words; those who keep the white horse: water and fodder in due measure. If there is the least failure, look at this staff, and learn.” He twitched out the staff and brought it down on the scorched brick wall with a crash, battering it to powder, and shook down seven or eight rows of wall besides. The monks, seeing it, went soft of bone and slack of body, knelt, knocking their heads, tears dropping: “Grandfather, go in peace; we will serve the masters with all our strength and all our hearts, and never fail you by a hair.”

Good Pilgrim: he leapt to the somersault cloud and made straight for Black Wind Mountain to look for the kasaya. Truly:

The golden cicada seeks right fruition and quits the capital's bounds; staff in hand he turns west and climbs the green slopes.Tigers, leopards, wolves, and beasts throng all the way; craftsmen, traders, scholars, and travelers are few to be seen.On the road he meets the dull monks' envy in a strange land—all rests upon the Great Sage Equal to Heaven's might.Fire broke and wind rose, and the convent perished; the black bear by night stole the kasaya of woven brocade.

But whether the kasaya was found on that going, and how fortune fell—listen to the next chapter to find out.

The Monks of the Guanyin Monastery Plot for the Treasure; the Demon of Black Wind Mountain Steals the Cassock

Master and disciple rode on until they came to the mountain gate, and saw that it was truly a monastery. This is what it was like:

Hall upon hall, range upon range of cloisters. Outside the three mountain gates, ten thousand folds of colored cloud hung lofty; before the Hall of Five Blessings, a thousand threads of red mist glowed bright. Double rows of pines and bamboo; a whole wood of junipers and cypresses. The double rows of pines and bamboo were green and quiet, counting no years; the wood of junipers and cypresses was rich and proud in color. Then too the bell tower stood high and the pagoda rose steep. Meditating monks sat settled in stillness; the birds crying in the trees were idle of sound. Lonely and without dust, truly lonely; pure and empty, with the Way, truly pure and empty.

The poem says:

The holy monastery, like the Jeta Grove, hides in a green nest; this choice scene of a sanctuary vies with the world of the living.Truly such pure ground is rare among men: of the famous mountains under heaven, the monks hold the most.

The elder got down, and Pilgrim set down his load. Just as they were going in, a band of monks came out of the gate. Look how they appeared:

On their heads caps with left-turned pins; on their bodies robes without stain.Bronze rings hung double from their ears; silk bands girded their waists.Grass sandals walked steady; wooden fish were carried in hand.Their mouths were ever chanting; to wisdom they had all taken refuge.

Tripitaka, seeing them, stood waiting by the gate and made a salutation. The monks hurried to return it and said, smiling, "We did not see you. Where do you come from? Please come into the abbot's room for tea." Tripitaka said, "I am sent by the throne from the Land of the East, to bow to the Buddha at the Thunderclap Monastery and seek the scriptures. It is late here, and I wish to beg one night of your holy monastery." The monk said, "Please come in and sit, please come in and sit." Then Tripitaka called Pilgrim to lead the horse in. When the monk suddenly saw Pilgrim's face he was somewhat afraid, and asked, "What creature is that leading the horse?" Tripitaka said, "Softly, softly. He is quick-tempered. If he hears you call him a creature he will take offense. He is my disciple." The monk shuddered and bit his finger: "Such an ugly, misshapen thing — and you took him for a disciple?" Tripitaka said, "You do not see it. Ugly he is, but very useful."

So the monk brought Tripitaka and Pilgrim through the mountain gate. Inside, four great characters stood over the main hall: "The Guanyin Chan Monastery." Tripitaka rejoiced greatly and said, "I have felt the bodhisattva's holy grace again and again, and never managed to bow my thanks. Meeting this Chan monastery is like seeing the bodhisattva herself. It is very good to bow and give thanks." The monk ordered a lay brother to open the hall doors and invited Tripitaka to bow before it. Pilgrim tied the horse, dropped the baggage, and went up into the hall with Tripitaka. Tripitaka spread his gown on the ground, stretched out full length, and knocked his head to the golden image. The monk went to beat the drum, and Pilgrim went to strike the bell. Tripitaka lay before the altar, pouring out his prayer. When the prayer and bows were done, the monk stopped the drum; but Pilgrim went on striking the bell without cease, fast and slow, for a long while. The lay brother said, "The worship is done. Why do you keep striking the bell?" Only then did Pilgrim drop the bell-stick, laughing: "How would you know? I am keeping the old rule: 'A monk for a day strikes the bell for a day.'" By this time the bell's wild ringing had woken the monks of the monastery, great and small, and the elders of every court. They crowded out crying, "What savage is banging the bell and drum here?" Pilgrim jumped out and snapped, "It is your grandfather Sun, striking for fun." At one look at him the monks tumbled and rolled, and all groveled on the ground crying, "Lord Thundergod!" Pilgrim said, "The thunder god is my great-great-grandson. Get up, get up, do not be afraid. We are masters from Great Tang in the Land of the East." Only then did the monks bow. When they saw Tripitaka they were at ease and afraid no more. The keeper of the monastery invited them: "Masters, come to the back abbot's room for tea." So they loosened the reins and led the horse, carried the baggage, passed the main hall, went straight into the back rooms, and took their seats in order.

The keeper served tea and then arranged a meal. It was still early. Tripitaka's thanks were not yet done when two young pages came out from the back, helping along an old monk. Look how he was dressed:

On his head a square Pilu cap, its cat's-eye stone crown gleaming; on his body a brocade-wool gown, its kingfisher-feather gold border flashing. A pair of monk's shoes stitched with the eight treasures; a staff set with cloud and star. His face full of wrinkles, like the Old Mother of Mount Li; his eyes bleared, like the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea. His mouth could not keep out the wind, for his teeth had fallen; his back was bent and crooked, for his sinews had drawn tight.

The monks said, "Here is our father in the faith." Tripitaka bowed and went to meet him: "Old keeper, your disciple bows to you." The old monk returned the courtesy, and all sat down in order. The old monk said, "The boys told me just now that a master had come from Great Tang in the Land of the East, so I came out to greet you." Tripitaka said, "I have intruded on your precious mountain without knowing better. Forgive me, forgive me." The old monk said, "Do not say so, do not say so." He asked, "Master, how far is it from the Land of the East to here?" Tripitaka said, "From the border of Chang'an it is more than five thousand li. At Two-Boundary Mountain I took this disciple of mine. Coming on, we crossed the Haba country of the western tribes; after two months and five or six thousand li more, we reached your place." The old monk said, "That is a good ten thousand li. I have wasted my life; I have never once gone out of this mountain gate. Truly I am one who 'watches the sky from the bottom of a well,' a rotten stump of a man." Tripitaka asked again, "Old keeper, how old are you?" The old monk said, "I have foolishly lived to two hundred and seventy." Pilgrim heard and said, "Then you are my ten-thousandth-generation grandson." Tripitaka glared at him: "Watch your words! Do not be so heedless and give offense." The monk asked, "Master, how old are you?" Pilgrim said, "I dare not say."

The old monk took this for one more piece of madness, thought nothing of it, asked no more, and only ordered tea. A young page brought out a tray of mutton-fat jade with three tea cups, gold-rimmed cloisonne; another boy carried a copper pitcher and poured three cups of fragrant tea. Truly their color outshone the pomegranate's blaze, and their scent beat the cassia's. Tripitaka, seeing them, could not praise them enough: "Fine things, fine things! Truly fine food and fine vessels." The old monk said, "They will only soil your eyes, soil your eyes. Master, you come from the great kingdom above, and have seen every rare treasure. Vessels like these are hardly worth your praise. Master, coming from that high country, have you some treasure you would lend your disciple a look at?" Tripitaka said, "Alas, we have no treasures in the Land of the East. And if we had, the road is so long we could not carry them." Pilgrim put in from the side: "Master, the other day I saw that cassock in the bundle. Is it not a treasure? Let us show it to him." When the monks heard the word "cassock," they all sneered. Pilgrim said, "What are you laughing at?" The keeper said, "Master, you say the cassock is a treasure — that is truly laughable. As for cassocks, men like us have not just two or thirty. As for our father in the faith, who has been a monk here for some two hundred and fifty or sixty years, he has a good seven or eight hundred." He called, "Bring them out to look at." The old monk, in a mood to show off, told the lay brother to open the storehouse and the pilgrim-porters to carry out the cabinets. Twelve cabinets were set out in the courtyard, the locks opened, clothes racks set on either side, cords strung around, and the cassocks shaken out and hung up one by one for Tripitaka to see. Truly it was a hall full of silken embroidery, walls of damask on every side.

Pilgrim looked them over: all were flower-woven brocade, embroidery trimmed with gold. He laughed: "Good, good, good. Put them away, put them away. Bring ours out to look at too." Tripitaka grabbed him and whispered, "Disciple, do not compete in riches with others. You and I are alone on the road. I fear some mistake." Pilgrim said, "What harm in looking at a cassock?" Tripitaka said, "You do not understand. The ancients said, 'Do not let things rare and precious be seen by the greedy and false.' Once they are seen, the heart is moved; once the heart is moved, a scheme is born. You are one who dreads trouble. If he demands it and you must grant his wish, well and good; if not, the loss of body and life may all spring from this. It is no small matter." Pilgrim said, "Be at ease, be at ease. It is all on old Sun's shoulders." See him, without leave, hurry away, untie the bundle — bright rays already bursting out through two layers of oiled paper. He took off the paper, brought out the cassock, and shook it open: red light filled the room, colored air filled the court. Not one of the monks who saw it failed to praise it with a glad heart. Truly a fine cassock. Upon it were:

A thousand arts of skill, with pearls hanging; ten thousand rarities, the Buddha's gems gathered.Above and below, dragon-whisker threads spread colored silk; fine cotton borders it on four sides like a hem.Let a devil wear it, and he perishes at once; let a demon drape it, and he sinks to the yellow springs.It was made by the hands of transformed immortals; no true monk would dare to wear it otherwise.

When the old monk saw such a treasure, greed indeed stirred in his heart. He came forward, knelt to Tripitaka, and tears fell from his eyes: "Your disciple is truly without destiny." Tripitaka raised him up: "Old keeper, what do you mean?" He said, "Master, your treasure was just unrolled, and the sky has grown dark. My eyes are dim and cannot see it plainly. Is that not being without destiny?" Tripitaka said, "Light the lamps, and let him look again." The old monk said, "Your treasure shines of itself, elder. Light the lamps besides, and it will dazzle all the more; I could never see it closely." Pilgrim said, "How would you like to look at it, then?" The old monk said, "If the master is gracious and trusts me, let your disciple take it to the back room and look at it closely all night, and return it to the master tomorrow morning as he goes west. Would that suit you?" Tripitaka was startled, and blamed Pilgrim: "This is your doing, all your doing." Pilgrim laughed: "What is there to fear? Let me wrap it up and let him take it away to look at. If anything goes wrong, old Sun answers for all of it." Tripitaka could not stop him. Pilgrim handed the cassock to the old monk: "Look at it as you please. Only return it to me tomorrow morning, just as it is, without the least scratch or stain." The old monk, delighted, had a page carry the cassock in. He told the monks to sweep the Chan hall in front, bring two rattan couches, and make up beds for the two masters, and at the same time to prepare a morning meal and a send-off. Then all dispersed. Master and disciples shut the Chan hall and lay down. Of this no more.

Now the old monk had the cassock in his hands by trickery. He took it to the back room, sat under the lamp, and wept and wailed over it. The monks of the monastery dared not sleep first, and the young pages, not knowing what was wrong, went and reported to the monks: "The old father has been weeping since the second watch and will not stop." Two of his favorite grand-disciples came up and asked, "Father in the faith, why do you weep?" The old monk said, "I weep that I have no destiny: I may not look at the Tang monk's treasure." The young monk said, "Father, you are very old now; you have wept enough. His cassock lies before you. You need only untie it and look. Why weep so bitterly?" The old monk said, "Looking is not enough. I am two hundred and seventy this year, and all my hundreds of cassocks are nothing. How is it I have not one like his? How is it I could not be a Tang monk?" The young monk said, "Father, you are wrong. This Tang monk is a wandering monk who has left his home and his well. You are old and live at ease; that is enough. Why would you be a wandering monk like him?" The old monk said, "Though I sit at home at ease and enjoy my last years, I cannot wear a cassock like his. If I could wear it one day, I could close my eyes in death content; it would make my life as a monk in this world worth while." The monks said, "This is no sane talk. If you want to wear his, what is so hard? Tomorrow we keep him a day, and you wear it a day; we keep him ten days, and you wear it ten days; and that is that. Why weep like this?" The old monk said, "Even if he stayed a year, I should wear it only a year, and in the end my heart would not be at rest. When he wants to go, I must let him go. How could I keep it for long?"

While they talked, a young monk named Guangzhi spoke up: "Father, it is easy to keep it for good." The old monk was delighted: "My child, what is your fine idea?" Guangzhi said, "Those two Tang monks are travelers, worn out with the road, and by now they are asleep. Let a few of the strong ones take spears and knives, break into the Chan hall, kill them, and bury the bodies in the back garden. Let only our own household know. Then we take the white horse and the baggage, and keep the cassock as a family treasure. Would that not be a lasting plan for our sons and grandsons?" The old monk heard it with a full heart of joy, wiped his tears, and said, "Good, good, good! A perfect plan." And he began to get the weapons ready.

Among them was another young monk, Guangmou, a brother-disciple of Guangzhi, who came forward and said, "That plan is not good. If we are to kill them, we must first watch how they lie. The white-faced one looks easy; the hairy-faced one looks hard. If we fail to kill him, do we not bring disaster on our own heads? I have a way that uses no knife or spear. What do you say?" The old monk said, "My child, what is your way?" Guangmou said, "In your grandson's opinion, call together all the houses of the eastern hill, great and small, and let each man bring a bundle of dry wood. Give up those three rooms of the Chan hall, set the fire going, and leave them no door to flee by; burn them, horse and all. If the people on the hills before and behind see it, they will only say the monks themselves were careless with fire and burned their own Chan hall. Would not both monks burn to death? It hides the matter from every eye. Would not the cassock then be our family treasure?" All the monks who heard were delighted, and said, "Strong, strong, strong! This plan is better still, better still." They told every house to bring firewood. Alas! This plan truly: it would bring the long-lived old monk to the end of his days, and turn the Guanyin Monastery to dust. The monastery had some seventy or eighty households, more than two hundred souls in all. That night they swarmed to carry firewood, ringed the Chan hall round about, front and back, all four sides, so that nothing could pass, and made ready to set the fire. Of this no more.

Now Tripitaka and his disciple had settled to sleep. But Pilgrim was a quick-witted monkey: though lying down, he kept his spirit and nurtured his breath, with eyes half open in a doze. Suddenly he heard people walking without pause, and firewood crackling as the wind rose. He wondered: "The night is this quiet. How can anyone be walking about? Can it be thieves plotting against us?" He rolled up in one bound, meaning to open the door and look, but feared to wake his master. See him rouse his spirit, shake himself, and change into a bee. Truly:

A sweet mouth and a poisoned tail; a thin waist and a light body. Through flowers and past willows it flies like an arrow; to down and scent it clings like a falling star. Its tiny frame can carry a load; its restless thin wings can ride the wind. From under the eaves it slipped out to see it all plainly.

He saw the monks carrying wood and hauling brush, already ringed around the Chan hall to set the fire. Pilgrim laughed to himself: "Just as my master said: they mean to take our lives and steal my cassock, and so they nurse this wicked plan. If I take the rod to them — poor things, they cannot stand a beating; one round of the rod would kill them all, and my master would blame me for doing violence. Enough, enough, enough! I will lead off the goat as I pass, and turn their own plan against them: they shall not keep this house!"

A fine Pilgrim: one somersault took him in through the South Heaven Gate. Pang, Liu, Gou, and Bi bowed low; Ma, Zhao, Wen, and Guan bent their backs, all crying, "Bad news, bad news! The lord who wrecked the Heavenly Palace is here again!" Pilgrim waved his hand: "Gentlemen, no ceremony, no alarm. I come looking for the Heavenly King of the Wide-Gazing Eye." Before the words were done the king was already there. He met Pilgrim: "A long time, a long time! I heard that the Bodhisattva Guanyin came to see the Jade Emperor and borrowed the Duty Officers of the Four Hours, the Six Dings and Six Jias, and the guardians, to protect the Tang monk going west for the scriptures, and that you became his disciple. How do you find leisure to come here today?" Pilgrim said, "Spare me the small talk. The Tang monk has met wicked men on the road, and they mean to burn him. It is past urgent. I have come to borrow your fire-shielding cover and save him. Bring it quickly, and I will be back up here at once." The king said, "You are wrong. If wicked men set a fire, you should borrow water to save him. Why a fire-shielding cover?" Pilgrim said, "How would you know the inside of it? Borrow water, and the fire will not burn — which serves their plan. With this cover I guard the Tang monk from harm; as for the rest, let them burn. Quick, quick! By now it may be too late. Do not hold me up from the work below." The king laughed: "This monkey is still up to no good. He minds his own skin and not another's." Pilgrim said, "Quick, quick! No jesting; do not spoil a great matter." The king dared not refuse, and handed the cover to Pilgrim.

Pilgrim took it, brought his cloud down to the ridge of the Chan hall roof, and covered the Tang monk, the white horse, and the baggage. Then he went and sat on the roof of the old monk's abbot's room behind, guarding the cassock. He watched the men set the fire; then he turned, made the sign, said the spell, drew one breath toward the southeast, and blew it out. A wind rose, and blew the fire back upon them till it roared on every side. A fine fire, a fine fire! Look:

Black smoke spread vast; red flames leaped high. Black smoke vast: not one star left in all the sky; red flames leaping: the earth shone, red for a thousand li. At first, gold serpents, glittering; then blood horses, fierce and proud. The three breaths of the south showed off their heroism; the great god of fire put forth his power. Dry wood fed the fire's wild temper — what talk of the Fire Driller's stick? Hot oil flared bright at the gates, outdoing the Patriarch opening his furnace. Truly it was the fire of no feeling — how could it spare men doing murder on purpose? Instead of quelling the plague they abetted the cruelty. Wind fed the fire, and the flames flew more than a thousand feet high; the fire drove the wind, and ashes burst beyond the ninth heaven. Crash and clatter, like firecrackers at year's end; roar and sputter, like cannon in an army camp. It burned so that the Buddha images there could not flee, and the guardians of the east court had nowhere to hide. Better than the night battle at Red Cliff; it passed the burning of the Epang Palace.

Truly, a spark of fire can burn ten thousand acres of field. In a moment the wind raged and the fire triumphed, and the whole Guanyin Monastery glowed red everywhere. See the monks: dragging chests, carrying cages, snatching tables, hauling pots, crying out to heaven through the whole courtyard. Sun Pilgrim guarded the abbot's rooms behind, and the fire-shielding cover fenced the Chan hall in front; all the rest blazed with fire. Truly red flames shone up to heaven, and gold light shone through the walls.

But when the fire rose it woke a monster of that mountain. Twenty li or so south of the Guanyin Monastery stands Black Wind Mountain; in the mountain is the Black Wind Cave, and in the cave a demon, just then waking and turning over. Seeing light through the window, he took it for dawn. He got up to look: it was the glare of firelight away to the north. The demon was shocked: "Ah! The Guanyin Monastery must be on fire. How careless these monks are! Let me go and help put it out." A fine demon: he whipped up his cloud and was at once below the smoke and flame. Truly a fire that scaled the sky; the halls in front were all gone, and the fire still blazed along the two cloisters. He strode in, calling for water, and saw that the back rooms had no fire, and on the roof-ridge a man raising wind. He understood at once, slipped quickly inside, and saw in the abbot's room a glow of rosy light, and on the table a bundle wrapped in blue felt. He untied it: a brocade cassock, a rare treasure of the Buddhist gate. Truly, money moves the hearts of men. He neither fought the fire nor called for water, but took the cassock, looted in the tumult, swung back onto his cloud, and made straight for the eastern hill.

The fire burned until the fifth watch, when dawn broke and it died away. See the monks, scorched and bare, weeping and wailing, all searching the ashes for bronze and iron, poking through charred wood, hunting gold and silver. Some set up huts of hurdles by the wall bins; some cooked rice in pots at the foot of the bare walls. They cried of wrong and injustice, shouting and brawling. Of this no more.

Pilgrim took the fire-shielding cover, somersaulted up to the South Heaven Gate, and handed it to the Heavenly King of the Wide-Gazing Eye: "Thank you for the loan, thank you for the loan." The king took it: "How honest you are, Great Sage! I was just worrying you would not return my treasure and I could not find it anywhere. How good that you bring it at once." Pilgrim said, "Am I a man who cheats people to their faces? As the saying goes: 'Borrow well and return well, and borrowing again is no trouble.'" The king said, "We have not met for so long. Come sit a while in my palace — how about it?" Pilgrim said, "Old Sun is not what he was. No more sitting on a worn bench talking grandly. Now I guard the Tang monk and have no idle hours. Another time, another time." He hurried to take leave and dropped down through the clouds; the sun star was already climbing. He came to the Chan hall, shook himself into a bee, flew in, took his own shape, and looked: his master was still sound asleep.

Pilgrim called, "Master, it is morning. Get up." Tripitaka woke, turned over, and said, "So it is." He dressed, opened the door, and came out. Looking up, he saw only fallen walls and scorched plaster: the towers and halls were gone. He was shocked: "Ah! Where have the halls gone? Why are there only scorched walls?" Pilgrim said, "You are still dreaming. There was a fire in the night." Tripitaka said, "How is it I did not know?" Pilgrim said, "Old Sun guarded the Chan hall, and saw you sleeping sound and would not wake you." Tripitaka said, "You had the power to guard the Chan hall. Why did you not put out the fire in the other rooms?" Pilgrim laughed: "Let me tell you, Master: it was just as you said yesterday. They took a fancy to our cassock and plotted to burn us and kill us. If old Sun had not been awake, we should all be bones and ashes by now." Tripitaka, afraid, said, "It was they who set the fire?" Pilgrim said, "Who but they?" Tripitaka said, "It was not that you were slighted, and did this deed yourself?" Pilgrim said, "Is old Sun such a wretch, to do such a wicked thing? It was truly their own doing. Old Sun saw how cruel their hearts were, and truly did not help put out the fire. I only gave the wind a little push, that is all." Tripitaka said, "Heavens, heavens! When a fire rises, one should help with water. How could you help with wind?" Pilgrim said, "Do you not know the old saying: 'The man has no wish to hurt the tiger; the tiger has no wish to hurt the man'? If they had not played with fire, would I have played with wind?" Tripitaka said, "Where is the cassock? Can it have burned?" Pilgrim said, "No matter, no matter. It cannot burn. The abbot's room where the cassock lay had no fire." Tripitaka said bitterly, "I will say nothing. But if it is hurt in the least, I shall only say those words of mine, over and over, and you may be dead for it." Pilgrim panicked: "Master, do not say it, do not say it! I will surely find your cassock and give it back. Let me go and get it, and we will be on our way." Tripitaka took the horse, Pilgrim shouldered the load, and they came out of the Chan hall, straight for the abbot's rooms behind.

Now the monks were in the middle of their grief when suddenly they saw master and disciple coming with the horse and the load. Their souls fled, every one: "The ghosts have come to take our lives!" Pilgrim shouted, "What ghosts, what lives? Give me back my cassock, quickly." The monks fell on their knees together, knocking their heads: "Grandfather! Every wrong has its wrongdoer, every debt its debtor. If anyone has come for lives, it is no business of ours. It was Guangmou and the old monk who laid the plan against you. Do not ask our lives of us." Pilgrim snapped, "You accursed beasts! Who asked you for lives? Bring the cassock, that I may go on my way!" Two monks with bolder hearts said, "Master, you burned to death in the Chan hall, and now you come asking for the cassock. Tell us truly: are you men, or ghosts?" Pilgrim laughed: "You wicked beasts, what fire was there? Go look at the Chan hall in front, then come talk." The monks got up, went to look, and found that the doors, windows, and lattices of the Chan hall were not scorched in the least. Trembling, they knew that Tripitaka was a holy monk and Pilgrim a guardian of the law. All came up, knocked their heads, and said, "We had eyes and could not see: we did not know true ones had come down among us. Your cassock is with our father in the faith, in the abbot's room behind." Tripitaka passed three or five ranks of fallen walls and broken plaster, sighing without stop. The abbot's room truly had no fire. The monks rushed in and called, "Father, the Tang monk is a holy man and did not burn to death. Instead you have lost all your own goods. Bring out the cassock quickly and give it back to him."

The old monk could not find the cassock, and his monastery's buildings were burned too. He was in the middle of utter worry and anguish; hearing this, how could he answer? With no plan, no way forward or back, he swung out his legs, bent his body, and dashed his head against the wall. Alas: his skull broke, blood flowed, his soul scattered; the breath broke in his throat, and he stained the red sand. There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

Pity the old monk, so dull of mind: in vain he lived out a long life in the world.He would have the cassock to hand down to far generations — how could he know the Buddha's treasure is not a common thing?To take what comes easily as if it were safe forever is surely the way to ruin and defeat.What did Guangzhi and Guangmou avail? To harm others for one's own gain — all is empty.

The monks, in terror, wept: "Our father has dashed his brains out, and the cassock is gone too. What shall we do?" Pilgrim said, "I suppose you stole it and hid it. All of you come out. Write out a roll of names, and old Sun will check you one by one." The keepers of the courts above and below wrote out two lists of every monk, pilgrim, page, and lay brother in the monastery: two hundred and thirty souls in all, great and small. Pilgrim had his master sit high, then called the names from top to bottom and searched each one, making them all open their collars. He checked them clearly, and there was no cassock. Then he searched every chest and thing carried out of the houses, from top to bottom, and found not a trace. Tripitaka, troubled in heart, blamed Pilgrim without end, sat up on high, and began to say the spell. Pilgrim flopped to the ground, holding his head, hardly able to bear it, only crying, "Do not say it, do not say it! I will find the cassock and give it back." When the monks saw this, they came up trembling, knelt, and pleaded, and only then did Tripitaka shut his mouth. Pilgrim rolled up in a bound, pulled the iron rod from his ear, and meant to beat the monks, but Tripitaka shouted him down: "You monkey-head! Your head aches and you are not afraid, and still you turn rude? Do not raise your hand. Do no hurt to anyone. Let me question them once more." The monks knocked their heads and begged Tripitaka: "Master, spare our lives. Truly we did not see it. It was all the old dead devil's fault. Last night he looked at your cassock and wept till deep in the night. He never dared even to look at it again. He was thinking how to keep it forever, as a family treasure: he laid the plan and made the plot to burn you, master. When the fire rose, a wild wind blew, and every man was busy fighting the fire and carrying out goods. No one knows where the cassock went."

Pilgrim was furious. He went into the abbot's room, had the body of the man who had dashed his brains out carried out, stripped and examined it closely: nowhere on it was the treasure. He had the ground of the abbot's room dug up three feet: not a trace. Pilgrim thought a long while and asked, "Have you any monsters here become demons?" The keeper said, "If you had not asked, master, you would never have known. To the south-southeast of here is Black Wind Mountain, and in the Black Wind Cave is a Great King Black. That old dead devil used to discuss the Way with him. He is a demon. There is nothing else." Pilgrim said, "How far is that mountain from here?" The keeper said, "Only twenty li. That ridge you see on the skyline is the one." Pilgrim laughed: "Master, be at ease. No more need be said: that black monster certainly stole it." Tripitaka said, "His place is twenty li from here. How can you be sure it was he?" Pilgrim said, "You did not see last night's fire: its light leaped ten thousand li and shone through the three heavens. Never mind twenty li — two hundred li could see it. Certainly he saw the blaze and took his chance, came secretly here, saw our cassock was a treasure, and looted it in the tumult, beyond doubt. Let old Sun go look for him." Tripitaka said, "If you go, whom have I to lean on?" Pilgrim said, "Set your mind at rest. In the dark, the gods guard you; in the open, I will make these monks serve you." He called the monks over: "Let some of you bury that old ghost. Let some attend my master and watch my white horse." The monks agreed. Pilgrim added: "Do not agree with your mouths only and slack off when I am gone. Those who wait on my master: pleasant faces, cheerful words. Those who feed the white horse: water and fodder, even and enough. If there is the least slip, look at this rod, and take the lesson." He drew the rod out and struck the scorched brick wall one blow: the wall smashed to pieces, and seven or eight ranks of wall besides shook down. The monks saw it, and every bone went soft and every body numb. Knelling, knocking their heads, with tears they said, "Go in peace, grandfather. We will serve you with all our strength and all our hearts and never slack a hair."

A fine Pilgrim: he whipped up the somersault cloud, went straight to Black Wind Mountain, and looked for the cassock. Truly:

The Golden Cicada seeks the true fruit and leaves the capital; staff in hand he goes west, climbing the green slopes.Tigers, leopards, wolves, and creatures fill the road he walks; merchants, craftsmen, scholars, travelers are rarely seen there.On the way he meets the envy of foolish monks in a strange land, and all depends on the Great Sage Equal to Heaven's might.Fire rose, wind blew, and the Chan monastery perished; the black bear stole the brocade cassock by night.

But whether he found the cassock, and what luck he had, listen to the next chapter to find out.