Chapter 40

The Child-Fiend's Sport Bewilders the Heart of Meditation; Ape and Horse, the Elixir Measure and the Wood-Mother, All Stand Empty

Now the Great Sage Sun and his two brothers pressed down their clouds and went straight into the palace, where sovereign, ministers, heir, and consorts in several companies bowed to receive them and give thanks. Pilgrim told the sovereign and his ministers the whole story of the Bodhisattva's subduing and taking of the monster, and one and all they bowed their heads in worship without end. And just as congratulations were at their height, the official of the vermilion gate came to report: "Sovereign, outside there are four monks more come." Bajie panicked: "Brother—could it be the monster's trick, feigning the Bodhisattva Manjusri to beguile us, and now turned monk again, come to match wits with us?" "Nothing of the sort," said Pilgrim, and ordered them summoned in to be seen.

The civil and military passed the word, and they were brought in. Pilgrim looked: they were the monks of Treasure Grove Monastery, bearing in the heaven-reaching crown, the jade belt, the ochre-yellow robe, the carefree shoes. Pilgrim was overjoyed: "Well come, well come!" He had the servitor come forward: off with the headwrap, on with the heaven-reaching crown; off with the cloth gown, on with the ochre-yellow robe; off with the sash, on with the jade belt; off with the monk's sandals, on with the carefree shoes; and he had the prince bring out the white jade scepter and set it in the king's hand; and up onto the hall they pressed him to style himself the Solitary One. As the ancients said: "A court cannot go a single day without its sovereign." But the king would not sit. Weeping, he knelt at the foot of the steps: "Three years I was dead, and today your mercy, Master, has brought me back to life—how dare I presume to style myself sovereign? Let one of you masters be king; I will gladly take my wife and children outside the walls and live as a commoner, and that suffices." Tripitaka would not hear of it: his whole heart was set on worshiping the Buddha and seeking the scriptures. They begged Pilgrim, who laughed: "To tell you the truth, gentlemen: had Old Sun a mind to be emperor, he might have been emperor of every state under heaven, of all the nine regions. Only we are used to being monks, and lazy souls withal. To be emperor I should have to let my hair grow, keep late hours and early—no sleep at dusk, no rest at the fifth drum; news from the borders would rob me of peace; reports of famine would weigh me down with helpless sorrow. How should I ever get used to it? You go on being emperor, and I my monk, and I will go work out my merit." The king, pressed past refusal, could only mount the jeweled hall, face south as the Solitary One, proclaim a general amnesty, and send the monks of the Treasure Grove Monastery home with titles and rewards. Then he opened the eastern pavilion and feasted Tang monk. And he sent word to summon painters, who took the likenesses of the four master and disciples of Tang, to be honored in the Golden Chime Hall.

The master and disciples, the state settled, would not linger, and made to take leave of the king and turn west. The king, with the consorts of the three palaces, the prince, and all his ministers, presented the treasures of state, gold, silver, and silks to the master in payment of his debt. Tripitaka would not accept a hair's worth; he had the rescripts exchanged and pressed Wukong and the rest to pack the horses and set out early. The king, ill at ease with so little accepted, brought out the whole imperial equipage and begged the Tang monk to ride in state, with the two ranks of civil and military to lead the way; he himself, with the consorts of the three palaces and the prince, the whole family, steadying the axle and pushing the wheels, saw them beyond the city walls, where he stepped down from the dragon carriage and took his leave of them all. The king said: "Master, when the day comes that you return from the west with the scriptures, you must pass once more within my borders." "Your disciple obeys," said Tripitaka. The emperor's eyes stood brimming with tears, and he turned back with all his ministers.

So the four monks of Tang took the goat-track of the great road, their one thought set on worshiping at Vulture Peak. It was the season when autumn dies into early winter, and behold:

Frost withers the red leaves, the woods grow gaunt; rain ripens the yellow millet, brimming everywhere.The sun warms the ridge plums opening in dawn's colors; the wind sways the mountain bamboo, stirring sounds of cold.

Leaving Black Rooster, master and disciples lodged by night and walked by dawn for something over half a month, when suddenly another great mountain rose before them, truly brushing the sky and barring the sun. Tripitaka's heart gave a start in the saddle; he reined in hastily and called Pilgrim. "What are your orders, Master?" said Pilgrim. "See, another great mountain and steep ridges ahead," said Tripitaka. "We must be on our guard, for fear some wicked thing set upon us again." Pilgrim laughed: "Just keep walking, and give it no more thought. Old Sun has his own guards." The elder could only set his mind at ease, whip up his horse, and press to the crags—the place indeed was perilously steep. And behold:

High? The crest touched the blue empyrean. Deep? The ravine below was like the courts of the dead.Before the mountain, forever the welling white clouds, the billowing black mists.Red plums and jade bamboo; green cypress and gray pine.Behind the mountain stood a soul-snatching terrace ten thousand zhang high; behind the terrace, an eerie demon-hiding cave; within the cave, a plinking dripping spring; below the spring, a winding runnel of flowing water.There too the gibbons leaping skyward and earthward bearing fruit; antlered deer standing branched and stark; roe deer gazing at men, meek and mooning.At dusk the tiger hunted the hills for its den; at dawn the dragon broke the waves to rise from the water.A step at the cave door set it clattering; the startled birds burst up in a whir.See the beasts of the woods slinking past—such a gathering of birds and beasts would make the heart jolt with fright.Hall tumbles on cave-hall, cave-hall tumbles on hall; the cave rings "dang," the fallen cave rings like an immortal.Blue stone dyed into a thousand slabs of jade; green gauze veiling ten thousand heaps of mist.

Master and disciples were in the very middle of their dread when they saw in a fold of the hills a red cloud shooting straight up into the vault of the ninth heaven, gathering into a ball of fire-breath. Pilgrim was startled; he sprang forward, caught Tang monk by the foot, and pushed him from the horse, crying: "Brothers, go no farther—the monster is upon us!" In a fluster Bajie whipped out his muckrake and Sha Monk swung his precious staff, and they ringed Tang monk round.

But the tale must part in two. In that red light, truly, was a monster fiend. Years before, he had heard it said that the Tang monk of the eastern lands, bound west for scriptures, was the Elder Golden Cicada reborn, a good man of ten lifetimes' practice; that whoever ate one piece of his flesh would lengthen his days and live as long as heaven and earth endure. Morning upon morning he had waited in these hills, and today, unforeseen, they had come. Watching from midair, he saw the three disciples ring the Tang monk round on his horse, each ready for battle. The fiend marveled without end: "Fine monks! Just now I saw a pale-faced plump monk on horseback—the holy monk of Tang beyond doubt—and how is it three ugly monks have warded him? Every one with fists knotted and sleeves gathered, weapons in hand, for all the world as if fixing to fight. Ai! One of them has a keen eye, I wager—he knows me. In such a posture, never shall I taste the Tang monk's flesh." He pondered a long while, taking counsel of his own heart: "To seize him by force I cannot get near; but beguile him with kindness, and the prize may be won. Let me but muddle his mind; then, striking from within kindness itself, I shall take him for certain. First let me go down and sport with them."

Cunning fiend! He scattered the red light and pressed his cloud to earth. In the hillside he shook himself and changed into a naughty child of seven, stark naked without a stitch, his hands and feet bound with hempen cord, hung high on the tip of a pine, crying at every breath: "Help, help!"

Now the Great Sage Sun, happening to look up again, saw the red cloud all scattered and the fire-breath wholly gone. He called: "Master, mount and let us be going." "You said the monster was upon us—how dare we go on?" said Tang monk. Pilgrim said: "Just now I saw a red cloud rise from the ground and gather in the air into a ball of fire-breath—past doubt a monster. Now the red cloud has scattered; some monster in passing, I take it, without stomach to harm us. Let us go." Bajie laughed: "Brother, how glib you talk! What is a monster 'in passing'?" "You would not know," said Pilgrim. "If the demon king of some mountain or cave lays a feast and bids the spirits of the hills and caves to it, then spirits come from all four quarters, east and west, south and north, to attend. His mind is all on the feast, none on harming men—that is a monster in passing."

Hearing this, Tripitaka half believed and half doubted, and could only take his saddle and press on along the road toward the mountain. As they went they heard the cry: "Help!" The elder was greatly startled: "Disciples, halfway up this mountain—what person is that calling?" Pilgrim came forward: "Master, just keep walking. Trouble yourself with no sedan chairs—man-borne, mule-borne, open, or closed. In such a place, were there a sedan, there is no one to bear you in it." "It is no chair that is borne," said Tang monk, "but a cry that is calling." Pilgrim laughed: "I know. Let idle matters alone, and walk on."

Tripitaka took his advice and whipped up his horse. They had gone scarcely a li when the cry came again: "Help!" The elder said: "Disciples, that cry is no ghost or goblin. Did a ghost or goblin cry, there would be the one cry and no echo. Hear him: one cry, then another. Some soul in trouble, no doubt. We should go to his rescue." "Master, fold up that merciful heart of yours for today," said Pilgrim, "and let it out again once we are past this mountain. This place bodes more ill than good. You know the saying of things that lean on grass and cling to wood: any creature may become a fiend. Most are bearable, but one kind above all—the python: once it has cultivated through long years and deep days into a spirit, it can learn a man's intimate name. If it calls from the tussocks or a fold of the hills and the man does not answer, well and good; but answer once, and it plucks away his primal spirit, follows him home that very night, and takes his life for certain. On, on! As the ancients said, 'Escaped with your life, thank the gods.' Do not heed that crying." The elder could only do as told, and whipped up his horse once more.

Pilgrim thought to himself: "Where the monster lurks I cannot tell, but cry he will and cry he does. Let Old Sun pay him out with the art of the opposed stars, and part the two of them for good." Brave Great Sage! He called Sha Monk forward: "Gather in the horses and walk slow, while Old Sun steps aside a moment." See him: he let the Tang monk go on a few steps, pronounced a spell, worked the art of moving mountains and shrinking ground, pointed the gold-banded staff behind him—and master and disciples, past that peak, went on ahead, leaving the monster behind.

Then he lengthened his stride, caught up the Tang monk, and hurried them on toward the mountain. And Tripitaka heard the cry from behind the mountain: "Help!" The elder said: "Disciples, that soul in trouble has the worst of luck—he has missed us; we have walked past him. Hear him calling behind the mountain." "He was before the mountain just now," said Bajie. "Only the wind has shifted, that is all." "Shifted wind or no," said Pilgrim, "walk on." So they went without another word, longing to stride over the whole mountain in a single step—but of that no more.

Now the fiend had called three or four times from the hillside, and no one had come. He thought to himself: "Here I wait for the Tang monk; I saw him not three li away—why has he not come all this while? Some shortcut, I suppose, has carried him off." He shook his body, slipped the cords, rose again on red light, and went up for another look. And now the Great Sage Sun, glancing back over his shoulder, knew it for the monster, caught the Tang monk by the foot once more, and pushed him from the horse: "Brothers, careful, careful—the monster is upon us again." Bajie and Sha Monk, in a fluster, took up rake and staff and ringed Tang monk round once more.

At the sight the fiend marveled from midair: "Fine monks! Just now I saw the pale-faced monk on horseback—and how have the three of them hidden him again? This time I shall know when we meet. First the sharp-eyed one must be brought down; only then can I take the Tang monk—else, all my scheming wins nothing, and all my labor comes to naught." Then he pressed down his cloud and, just as before, changed his shape and hung high on the tip of a pine to wait—this time not half a li off.

Now the Great Sage Sun looked up again, saw the red cloud scattered once more, and begged the master to mount and go on. "You said the monster was upon us again—how now, begging me to ride on?" said Tripitaka. "Still a monster in passing," said Pilgrim. "He dare not meddle with us." The elder's anger rose: "This brazen monkey mocks me past bearing. Where demons truly are, he cries all is well; in so quiet a place he frightens me with his everlasting shout of monsters. All show and no substance, with no care for what he does: he seizes me by the foot and hauls me from my horse—and then explains away some 'monster in passing.' Had I been hurt in the fall, what then? So it is, so it is..." "Do not blame me, Master," said Pilgrim. "Limb or hand bruised in a fall, that I could doctor; but once a monster had snatched you, where would I ever track you?" Tripitaka, in great wrath, gnashing his teeth, would have begun the Tight-Fillet Spell, but Sha Monk pled so hard that he could only mount and ride on.

Scarcely was he settled in the saddle when the cry came again: "Master, help!" The elder looked up: a little child, stark naked, hung in a tree. He gathered in the reins and fell to berating Pilgrim: "This brazen ape, past all decency! Not one grain of kindness in him—his whole heart set on outrage and violence! I told him plainly it was a human voice that called, and he had a thousand words to say, all of them 'monster.' Look—is not the thing hanging in that tree a human being?" The Great Sage, seeing his master's wrath fall upon him—and seeing the child's shape face to face—could make no move; and fearing the Tight-Fillet Spell besides, he hung his head and dared not answer, letting Tang monk ride to the foot of the tree. The elder pointed with his whip-lash: "Whose child are you? What trouble has hung you here? Tell me, that I may save you." Ah! Plainly a spirit-fiend was he, and cunningly changed; but the master was mortal flesh with mortal eyes, and could not tell.

The fiend, thus questioned, played his feint the harder: tears standing in his eyes, he cried: "Master, west of the mountain lies the Withered Pine Run, and beyond the run a village—my home is there. My great-grandfather was surnamed Hong; he heaped up gold and silver till his estate was past ten thousand in worth, and men called him Hong the Million. Old and long gone to his rest, he left the estate to my father. Of late the family has run to extravagance, the estate has dwindled, and he has changed his style to Hong the Hundred Thousand. He keeps company with bold men from all four quarters, lending out gold and silver in hope of interest. Who knew the men without registry would swindle it all away—principal and interest never to return. My father swore a great oath never to lend a coin again. Then the borrowers, poor and desperate, banded into a wicked crew, torches blazing, staves in hand, and in broad day fell upon our door, plundering our wealth to the last thread; they killed my father; and seeing my mother's beauty, carried her off to be some bandit's wife. My mother could not part with me: she held me in her arms and, weeping and trembling, followed the brigands. Here in this mountain they took it into their heads to kill me too. Only her piteous pleading spared me the blade; instead they strung me up in a tree with ropes, to die of cold and hunger. Where those villains took my mother, no one knows. I have hung here three days and three nights, and no living soul has passed. What merit I laid up in some former life, that in this one I should meet you, venerable master! If you will open your great mercy and save my life and send me home, I would pledge my body and sell my life to repay you. Though the yellow sand covered my face, I would never forget it."

Hearing this, Tripitaka took it for gospel, and told Bajie to loose the cords and bring him down. The Idiot, no better at telling men from monsters, moved to do it. Pilgrim at his side could not hold back, and barked: "You brazen thing! One here knows you. Have done with your hollow conjuring and lying tricks. If your estate is plundered, your father slain by brigands, your mother carried off—to whom should we deliver you? And with what would you repay us? Your lie has come apart at the seams." At this the monster took fright in his heart, knowing the Great Sage for a man of power, and set a mark against him in secret. Yet trembling, tears dropping, he said: "Master, though my parents are gone and my wealth spent, some lands of ours are yet untouched, and our kin all living." "And what kin have you?" said Pilgrim. The monster said: "My grandfather's house lies south of the mountain, my aunt north of the ridge; Fourth Li at the head of the run is my uncle by marriage, Third Hong in the wood my father's cousin; and there are uncles and elder cousins living all about our village. If you will save me, venerable master, then at the village, before all our kin, I will tell of your rescue one by one, sell off some lands, and repay you in fullest measure."

Hearing this, Bajie shouldered Pilgrim aside: "Brother, a mere child like this—why keep cross-questioning him? He said the robbers took his loose wealth—when did they ever carry off houses and land? And if his kinsmen repay us—our appetites are vast, but we could not eat the worth of ten mu of field. Bring him down." The Idiot had food and nothing else in his head, good or bad; with his precept-knife he cut the cords and let the monster down. The fiend wept before the Tang monk's horse and knocked his head without cease. The elder's heart was soft: "Child, mount behind me; I will carry you." "Master, my hands and feet are numb from the hanging, my hips and loins ache; and we are country folk besides, unaccustomed to riding," said the monster. Tang monk told Bajie to carry him. The fiend shot him a look: "Master, my skin is frozen to the quick—I dare not be carried by this master. His snout is long, his ears great, the bristles at the back of his head stiff; they prick me past bearing." "Then let Sha Monk carry him," said Tang monk. The fiend shot him a look too: "Master, when the brigands came to plunder our house they had all painted their faces, and wore false whiskers, and flourished knives and staves. They frightened me out of my wits, and at the sight of this somber-faced master my soul is clean gone; I dare not have him carry me." Tang monk told Pilgrim Sun to carry him. Pilgrim laughed: "I will carry him, I will carry him." The monster rejoiced within, and made shift to be taken up by Pilgrim, meek and uncomplaining.

Pilgrim drew him aside, weighed him in his hands: barely three catties and ten-odd ounces. Pilgrim laughed: "You brazen monster, today is your dying day—playing ghost-tricks before Old Sun? I know you for one of those things." "I am a child of a good family, sunk in this great misfortune—what 'thing' do you take me for?" said the monster. "A child of a good family—and bones so light?" said Pilgrim. "My frame is small," said the monster. "How old are you this year?" said Pilgrim. "Seven," said the monster. Pilgrim laughed: "A catty to a year of age would make seven catties—how is it you do not weigh four?" "I lost my mother's milk young," said the monster. "Very well," said Pilgrim. "I will carry you—only if you want to make water, tell me first."

So Tripitaka went on ahead with Bajie and Sha Monk, and Pilgrim followed bearing the child, the company making straight west. There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

High as virtue rises, the demon hindrance rises higher; the Chan mind is stillness still—yet out of stillness fiends are born.The heart's lord, upright, walks the middle way; the Wood-Mother, bemused, totters off the track.The willful horse says nothing, nursing love and desire; the Yellow Dame is silent, yet anxieties gnaw her.The wandering evil triumphs and rejoices in vain: in the end it is spent where the right stands.

The Great Sage Sun, the fiend on his back, grumbled inwardly at the Tang monk, who knew nothing of hardship: "Over country as steep as this, empty-handed is hard enough—and he sets Old Sun to carrying a man. Never mind that he is a monster; even were he a good lad, his parents gone, who is to say where one should carry him? Better to dash him dead." But the monster had marked his thought: he worked a power, drew in four breaths from the four quarters, and blew them onto Pilgrim's back, which grew heavy as a thousand catties. Pilgrim laughed: "My child, working your mass-giving art to crush your old master, eh?" Hearing this, and fearing what the Great Sage might do to him, the monster worked the art of the shed body: his primal spirit slipped out and sprang aloft, and stood poised in the vault of the ninth heaven. Heavier still grew the weight on Pilgrim's back. The Monkey King's wrath flared: he snatched the body and dashed it against the rocks by the roadside with a squelching smash, battering it flat as a meat cake. And still fearing further insolence, he tore off the four limbs outright and flung them to either side of the road, all smashed to bits.

The fiend in the air saw it all plainly, and his heart could not hold its fire: "This monkey monk is past all decency! Grant I am a monster meaning harm to your master—have I so much as raised a hand? Why mangle me so? It is lucky I had my wits about me and slipped my spirit out; else you had taken a life for nothing. And if I do not take the Tang monk now, and yield them one courtesy more, I do but give them time to grow wiser." Wily fiend! There in midair he raised a whirling wind: with a great roar it came, rolling stones and flinging sand, savage past telling. What a wind:

Surging, raging, it rolled the reek of wave and cloud; black vapor billowed and blotted out the sun.Ridge trees torn up root and branch; wild plum, trunk and all, swept flat.Yellow sand blinded the eyes so men could not walk; strange stones maimed the road—how could it hold even?Rolling and wheeling, the level ground went dark; over all the mountain birds and beasts set up their howling.

It tore Tripitaka clean from his saddle; Bajie dared not look up, and Sha Monk bowed his head and covered his face. The Great Sage Sun knew the monster's doing, but by the time he sprang forward in pursuit the fiend had ridden his wind and carried off the Tang monk—without trace or shadow, no one knew which way, nowhere to follow.

In a little while the wind fell, and the sun shone bright. Pilgrim came forward and looked: the white dragon horse trembling and neighing in fright, the luggage cast down by the road, Bajie groaning at the foot of the crag, Sha Monk crouched on the slope and crying out. Pilgrim called: "Bajie." The Idiot, knowing Pilgrim's voice, looked up: the wild wind was already still. He scrambled up and seized him: "Brother, what a wind!" Sha Monk too came up: "Brother, that was a whirlwind." And then: "Where is Master?" "The wind came so hard," said Bajie, "we all hid our heads and covered our eyes, each dodging for himself—Master was clinging to his horse the last I saw." "And where is he now?" said Pilgrim. "Perhaps he was made of rush pith," said Sha Monk, "and one gust has whisked him away."

Pilgrim said: "Brothers, this is where we should part." "Just so," said Bajie. "Part now while we may, each to his own road—the best counsel. That western road runs on without end; when would we ever reach it?" At this Sha Monk started as if struck, every limb gone numb: "Brothers, what talk is this? For sins of a former life we were moved by the Bodhisattva Guanyin, who touched our crowns and gave us vows, changed our names in the Law, turned us to the Buddha's fruit; and gladly we took on the guarding of the Tang monk going west to worship the Buddha and seek scriptures, to offset fault with merit. And now, come all this way, at one stroke it is all undone, and you talk of each to his own road—would not that betray the Bodhisattva's good work, mar our own virtue, and make men laugh at us for beginning and never finishing?" "Brother, what you say is true," said Pilgrim. "Only the master would never hear a word. Old Sun's eyes are fiery, his pupils gold: he knows the sound from the rotten. That wind just now was the work of the child that hung in the tree. I knew him for a monster; you did not, nor the master either—he took him for a child of a good family and set me carrying him. I was laying my plans to handle him, and he worked his mass-giving art to crush me. I dashed him to bits. Then he must have used his shed-body art, raised that whirlwind, and carried off my master. That is why I rail at him for never listening: hence my slackened heart and dying spirit, and my talk of each to his own road. But since you, worthy brother, hold to it so loyally, you leave Old Sun hard put between going and staying. Bajie—what in earnest is to be done?" "I spoke wildly just now, a few words past my mouth; truly we should not part," said Bajie. "Brother, there is nothing for it—trust Brother Sha, and let us go find that monster and rescue Master." Then Pilgrim turned wrath to gladness: "Brothers, let us knit one heart again. Gather up the luggage and the horses—up the mountain after the monster, to rescue our master!"

The three clung to vines and swung on creepers, over slopes and round ravines, five or seven tens of li—and not a word of news. On that mountain there were no birds of the air nor beasts of the field—only old cypresses and lofty pines everywhere. The Great Sage Sun, fretted to the quick, gave a leap onto the topmost crag, shouted "Change!"—and became three-headed and six-armed, the very figure of his havoc in the Heavenly Palace. He brandished the gold-banded staff, and it became three gold-banded staffs, and he laid about him with a crack and a smash, one sweep east, one sweep west, striking without pause on every side. Bajie, seeing it, said: "Sha Monk, this is bad—the Brother cannot find the master, and vexation has brought on a fit of madness."

Pilgrim's flailing soon beat out a pack of destitute gods, clad in a patch here, a rag there, breeches without seat, trousers without front, who knelt before the mountain crying: "Great Sage—the mountain god and the earth gods have come to see you." "Why so many mountain gods and earth gods?" said Pilgrim. The gods kowtowed: "Let the Great Sage hear: this mountain is called Drill-Bit Mountain, six hundred li of it. We are a mountain god to every ten li and an earth god to every ten—thirty mountain gods and thirty earth gods in all. Yesterday we heard the Great Sage was come, but could not gather at once, and so our welcome was late and drew the Great Sage's wrath—a hundred thousand pardons." "I will let the charge pass for now," said Pilgrim. "Answer me: how many demons keep this mountain?" The gods said: "Gracious grandfather! One demon is enough: he has rubbed our crowns bald, left us short of incense and paper, without so much as a blood offering, clothes too few for our backs and food too little for our mouths—had there been more demons, where would we be?" "Does this demon dwell before the mountain, or behind it?" said Pilgrim. "Neither before nor behind," said the gods. "In this mountain there is a run called the Withered Pine Run, and by the run a cave called the Fire Cloud Cave. In it dwells a demon king of vast powers, who is forever carrying off us mountain gods and earth gods to tend his fires and mind his gates, and to ring his bells and sound his watch through the night. And his imps demand their customary fees besides." "You are spirits of the dark jurisdiction—what money have you?" said Pilgrim. "No money have we for him," said the gods, "so we must catch wild roe and deer to keep his imps in order morning and night; and if we bring no offering, he comes to tear down our shrines and strip our vestments, and grants us no peace. A hundred thousand times we beg the Great Sage to destroy this fiend and deliver the living souls of this mountain." "Since you serve at his pleasure and live under his cave," said Pilgrim, "you know surely where he comes from and what he is called?" The gods said: "Of him—why, the Great Sage may know already. He is the son of the Bull Demon King, reared by the Raksasi. He cultivated three hundred years in the Flaming Mountains and mastered the true fire of samadhi; his powers are vast indeed, and the Bull Demon King set him to hold this mountain. His milk-name is Red Boy; his style is the Great King Holy Infant."

At this Pilgrim's heart filled with joy. He waved off the earth gods and the mountain god, resumed his own form, leapt down from the crag, and said to Bajie and Sha Monk: "Brothers, set your minds at rest; no more grieving. Our master will come to no harm: the monster and Old Sun are kin." Bajie laughed: "Brother, none of your lies. Your country is the Eastern Continent of Victorious Divinity, and this is the Western Continent of Cattle-Gift: the roads are far, ten thousand waters and a thousand hills between, two oceans to cross—how should you be kin?" "Those we spoke with just now were the earth gods and mountain god of this very place," said Pilgrim. "I asked them the monster's origin: he is the son of the Bull Demon King, reared by the Raksasi, named Red Boy, styled the Great King Holy Infant. Why, five hundred years ago, in the days of my havoc in the Heavenly Palace, I roamed the famous mountains of the world seeking out the bold men of the earth, and the Bull Demon King swore brotherhood with Old Sun—we were seven brothers together. Six demon kings besides, and Old Sun the smallest-made of the lot, so the Bull Demon King was called eldest brother. This monster is the Bull Demon King's son; I knew his father—and reckon it up, that makes me his old uncle. How dare he harm my master? Let us be off quickly." Sha Monk laughed: "Brother, the saying goes: 'Three years without a call, and kinship cools to nothing.' You parted from them five or six hundred years ago, without so much as a cup of wine exchanged, without a gift or invitation between you—where would he find kinship with you?" "Is that how you measure men?" said Pilgrim. "The saying runs: 'A drifting duckweed returns to the great sea—where in this world do men fail to meet?' Even if he disowns the kinship, surely he will not harm my master. I do not ask him to set a feast before us—only to hand me back my Tang monk whole."

The three brothers, each in earnest devotion, led the white horse, the luggage on its back, and took the great road straight ahead. Night and day alike they went a hundred-odd li, till they came upon a pine wood, and within it a winding run, and beneath the run a rush of living water, green and clear; and at the run's head a stone-slab bridge leading across to that cave dwelling. Pilgrim said: "Brothers, see the crags glimmering over there—surely the monster's dwelling. Let us take counsel together: who will keep the luggage and the horses? And who will cross with me to subdue the demon?" "Brother," said Bajie, "this old pig has no patience for sitting. I will go with you." "Good, good," said Pilgrim. He told Sha Monk: "Hide horse and luggage deep in the wood and guard them carefully, while we two go up to the door to look for our master." Sha Monk obeyed; Bajie fell in beside him, and the two came on, weapons in hand. And so it was:

Before the Infant is refined, the baleful fires prevail; the Mind-Ape and the Wood-Mother go forth side by side.

But what fortune would attend this going, good or ill—who could say? Listen to the next chapter to find out.

The child's trickery disorders the mind of meditation; the Ape and Horse toil, and the Wood-Mother is left empty

Now Pilgrim Sun and his two brothers brought their clouds down and went straight into the palace, where the king, his ministers, and the heir bowed in thanks to receive them. Pilgrim told the king and ministers the whole story of how the Bodhisattva had subdued the monster, and they worshiped without end. In the middle of the congratulations the gate official came in to report: "My lord, four more monks outside." Bajie panicked: "Brother, could the demon have worked some trick—faked the Bodhisattva Manjushri, fooled us, and now changed into monks to match wits with us?" Pilgrim said, "Nonsense." He ordered them shown in.

The civil and military passed the order, and they were shown in. Pilgrim looked: they were the monks of Baolin Monastery, carrying in the sky-piercing crown, the jade-green sash, the ochre-yellow robe, and the carefree shoes. Pilgrim was delighted: "Well come, well come!" He had the king come forward: off with the head cloth, on with the sky-piercing crown; off with the cotton clothes, on with the ochre-yellow robe; off with the cord, on with the jade-green sash; off with the monk's shoes, on with the carefree shoes; and he had the prince bring out the white jade tablet and put it in the king's hand. Then he asked him up the hall to take his throne and style himself the Solitary One. As the old saying goes: "A court cannot be one day without its sovereign." The emperor would not sit. Weeping, he knelt in the middle of the steps: "I have been dead three years. Now Master has brought me back to life—how dare I usurp the honor? Let one of the masters be sovereign. I am content to take my wife and child outside the walls and live as a common man." Tripitaka would not hear of it; his one thought was to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures. Then they asked Pilgrim, and he laughed: "To tell you the truth, gentlemen: if Old Sun cared to be emperor, he would have been emperor of all the kingdoms of the nine provinces by now. But we are used to being monks—it is an easy life. Be emperor, and you must let your hair grow; no sleep at dusk, none at the fifth drum; news from the frontier unsettles the heart; sight of famine brings helpless sorrow. How would we ever get used to it? Be your emperor, and I will be my monk, and go win merit." The king, pressed past bearing, had to mount the throne hall, face south as the Solitary One, proclaim a general amnesty, and send the monks of Baolin away with titles and rewards. Then the east hall was opened for a feast for the Tang monk. Meanwhile an edict summoned the painters, who took the likenesses of the four of the Tang party, to be honored in the Golden Chime Hall.

Master and disciples, the state now settled, would not stay long. They asked leave of the king and turned west. The emperor, with the consorts and queens of the three palaces, the prince, and all his ministers, offered the guardian treasures of the state, gold, silver, and silks, to the master in thanks. Tripitaka would not take a thread. He had only his papers stamped, and pressed Wukong and the rest to saddle up and be off early. The king felt it keenly. He brought out the full imperial train, begged the Tang monk to ride in honor, had both ranks of civil and military lead the way, and with the queens and consorts of the three palaces and the prince, the whole family, steadying hub and pushing wheel, saw them out beyond the walls before he stepped down from the dragon carriage and took leave of them all. The king said, "Master, on the day you return from the Western Heaven with the scriptures, you must pass through my borders again." Tripitaka said, "Your disciple obeys." The emperor's eyes swam with tears, and he turned back with his ministers.

The four monks of the Tang party took the winding high road, their whole hearts set on Vulture Peak. It was the turn of autumn into winter, and see:

Frost has thinned the red leaves; every wood is spare.Rain has ripened the millet; it swells on every side.Sun warms the ridge plums into dawn's colors; wind shakes the mountain bamboo to sounds of cold.

Master and disciples left the Black-Rooster Kingdom, lodging at night and walking at dawn, for a good half month more—when suddenly another high mountain rose, truly scraping the sky and blocking the sun. Tripitaka's heart jumped in the saddle. He pulled the rein hard and called to Pilgrim. Pilgrim said, "Master, your orders?" Tripitaka said, "Look—more great mountains and steep ridges ahead. Be careful and on your guard, lest some evil thing attack us again." Pilgrim laughed: "Just walk. No extra worrying. Old Sun has his guard." The elder had to set his mind at rest, whip up his horse, and press to the crags. It was perilously steep indeed. See:

High? The summit touches the blue heavens. Deep? The ravine is like the courts of the dead.Before the mountain, white clouds welling and black mists churning; red plum and jade bamboo, green cypress and blue pine.Behind the mountain, a soul-seizing terrace ten thousand zhang high; behind the terrace, a strange and eldritch demon-hiding cave; within the cave, a dripping spring that clinks and chimes; below the spring, a winding run of water.There too: gibbons leaping sky-and-earth, offering fruit; deer with branching horns; river deer gazing, dazed, at men.At dusk the tiger roams the hills hunting dens; at dawn the dragon breaks the waves and rises.At the cave door a crash and clatter startles the birds into clattering flight.See the beasts of the wood slink and scurry—and at this company of birds and beasts a man's heart knocks in fright.Hall topples cave, cave topples hall; cave rings on cave, ringing like the halls of immortals.Green stone dyed into a thousand blocks of jade; blue gauze veiling ten thousand heaps of mist.

Just as master and disciples shuddered, they saw in a hollow of the hills a red cloud rising straight into the ninth heaven, gathering itself into a ball of fire. Pilgrim was startled. He stepped up, grabbed the Tang monk by the ankle, and pushed him off the horse: "Brothers, go no farther. The monster is here!" Bajie whipped out his nail rake, Sha Monk swung his precious staff, and they ringed the Tang monk round in the middle.

But the story has two ends. In that red light, truly, was a monster. Some years before, he had heard it said: the Tang monk of the Land of the East, going west for the scriptures, was Elder Golden Cicada reborn, a good man ten lifetimes in cultivation. Whoever ate one piece of his flesh would lengthen life and live as long as heaven and earth. He had waited in these hills day after day—and today, unlooked for, the monk had come. Watching from mid-air, he saw the three disciples ring the Tang monk round by his horse, every one ready for anything. The sprite praised them without end: "Fine monks! Just now I saw a pale-faced, plump monk on a horse—truly that holy monk of the Tang—and now three ugly monks guard him? Fists out, sleeves tucked, weapons in every hand, as if itching for a fight. Ah! One of them must have sharp eyes—he must have known me. In a case like this, don't dream of tasting that Tang monk's flesh." He pondered long, asking his own heart, and settled it with himself: "If I go at them by force, I cannot get near. But if I beguile him with kindness, I may yet get him in hand. Once his heart is muddled, I will spring the trap inside the kindness and have him for certain. Let me go down and have some fun with them first."

The fine demon scattered his red light, brought his cloud down, and in the hillside shook himself and changed into a child of seven, stark naked, hands and feet bound with hempen rope, hung high on the top of a pine, crying over and over: "Help! Help!"

Now the Great Sage Sun looked up again: the red cloud had scattered, the fiery vapor all gone. He called: "Master, mount up and let's go." The Tang monk said, "You said the monster was coming—how dare we walk on?" Pilgrim said, "Just now I saw a red cloud rise from the ground and gather into a ball of fire in the sky—that was a monster, sure enough. Now the cloud has scattered: some monster passing by, without the stomach to harm anyone. Let's go." Bajie laughed: "Big brother is the smoothest talker. What is a 'passing' monster?" Pilgrim said, "You would not know. When a demon king of some mountain or cave holds a feast and invites the spirits of all the hills and caves, spirits come from all four quarters, east, west, south, and north. His mind is set on the feast, not on hurting anyone. That is a monster passing through."

Hearing this, Tripitaka half believed and half did not; he could only take the saddle and push on along the road toward the mountain. As they went they heard the cry: "Help!" The elder was alarmed: "Disciples, halfway up this mountain—who is calling?" Pilgrim came forward: "Master, just walk. Do not get tangled in talk of sedan chairs—man-carried, mule-carried, open chairs, sleeping chairs. In a place like this, even if there were a chair, there would be no one to carry you." The Tang monk said, "It is not a chair being carried—it is a voice calling." Pilgrim laughed: "I know. Mind nobody's business. Walk."

Tripitaka took his word and whipped the horse on. They had not gone a full li when the cry came again: "Help!" The elder said, "Disciples, that cry is no goblin or demon. If it were a goblin or demon, there would be the cry, but no echo. Hear him: one call, and then another. It must be someone in trouble. We should go save him." Pilgrim said, "Master, tuck that merciful heart away for today. Once we are over this mountain, bring out all the mercy you like. This place bodes far more ill than good. You know the saying about things that cling to grass and trees—things can become spirits. Most of them we could manage. But the python: let it cultivate year upon year, deep into the days, till it becomes a sprite, and it learns a man's milk-name. If it calls to you from the grass or from a hollow of the hills and you do not answer, well and good. But answer once, and it hooks away your primal spirit, follows you home that very night, and takes your life, certain as sunrise. Walk on, walk on. The ancients said: 'Escape with your life, and thank the gods.' Do not listen to it." The elder had to take his word, whipped up the horse, and went on.

Pilgrim thought to himself: "Where is this brazen beast, bawling and bawling? Let Old Sun give him the spell of the Mao and You stars—put the two where they can never meet." The Great Sage called Sha Monk up: "Hold the horses and walk slow. Let Old Sun step aside a moment." See him let the Tang monk go on a few steps, then speak a spell and use the mountain-shifting, land-shrinking art: one backward point of the gold-banded staff, and master and disciples were past the peak and on ahead—leaving the monster behind.

Stretching his stride again, he caught up with the Tang monk, and they pushed on toward the mountain. And Tripitaka heard the cry again, from behind the mountain: "Help!" The elder said, "Disciples, that troubled soul has no luck at all—he never met us; we have walked past him. Hear him calling behind the mountain." Bajie said, "If he was ahead of us before, he still is—the wind has only turned." Pilgrim said, "Never mind turning winds. Walk." So they all kept silent, wishing they could cross the whole mountain in one step. No more of that.

The monster had called three or four times on the hillside and no one came. He thought: "I have been waiting here for the Tang monk. I saw him not three li off—why has he not come all this while? He must have cut round by another path." He shook his body, slipped the ropes, rose on his red light, and went up to look again. And before he knew it the Great Sage Sun was looking back over his shoulder, knew it for the monster, grabbed the Tang monk by the ankle and pushed him off the horse again: "Brothers, careful, careful—the monster is back!" Bajie and Sha Monk snatched up rake and staff in a flurry and ringed the Tang monk round once more.

Seeing it, the sprite marveled from mid-air: "Fine monks! Just now the pale-faced monk sat on his horse—and how have the three of them hidden him again? This once, I will know when we meet face to face. First I must fell the one with the sharp eyes; only then can I take the Tang monk. Otherwise it is wasted cunning and nothing caught, labor and spirits spent for nothing." He brought his cloud down, changed as before, hung high on the pine top, and waited—this time not half a li away.

The Great Sage Sun looked up again: the red cloud had scattered. He asked his master to mount and go on. Tripitaka said, "You said the monster was back. Why ask me to ride on?" Pilgrim said, "Another one passing through. He would not dare touch us." The elder grew angry: "This brazen monkey plays with me without end. Where monsters really are, he says all is well; in a quiet place like this he frightens me, bawling every so often about monsters. More noise than truth, no sense of what matters—seizing me by the ankle and dumping me off the horse. And now he explains it as 'monsters passing through.' If he had lamed me, would he be sorry? Such conduct, such conduct—" Pilgrim said, "Master, don't be angry. If I bruise your hand or foot, that heals. If a monster snatches you, where would I ever look?" Tripitaka was furious and, grinding his teeth, moved to recite the Tight-Fillet Spell—but Sha Monk begged him hard, and he mounted and went on.

He had hardly settled in the saddle when the cry came again: "Master, help!" The elder looked up: a little boy, stark naked, hung on a tree. He checked the rein and cursed Pilgrim: "This brazen monkey—what shamelessness! Not one grain of kindness in him, nothing in his heart but violence! I told him plainly the voice was a human voice, and he talked a thousand words—nothing but 'monster, monster.' Is the thing hanging on that tree not a person?" The Great Sage, seeing his master's anger fall on him—and seeing the thing face to face now—could make no move; and fearing the Tight-Fillet Spell, he hung his head and dared not answer. He let the Tang monk come under the tree. The elder pointed with his whip tip and asked: "Whose child are you? What misfortune hangs you here? Tell me, and I will save you." Ah! Plainly it was a spirit, transformed so—and the master was mortal-eyed, mortal flesh, and could not tell.

The demon, questioned so kindly, worked his deceit the harder. Tears in his eyes, he cried: "Master, west of the mountain there is a ravine called Withered Pine, and across it a village. That is my home. My great-grandfather was surnamed Red. He heaped up gold and silver till his estate was worth tens of thousands, and men called him Red Million. He died long ago and left the estate to my father. But spending ran high, the fortune wore thin, and the name changed to Red Hundred-Thousand. My father kept company with bold men from all quarters, lending gold and silver for interest. Who knew the men without papers would cheat it all away—principal and interest never seen again? My father swore a great oath never to lend a coin again. Those borrowers, poor and desperate, banded into a wicked crew, and with torches and clubs in open day they stormed our gate, plundered every thread of our wealth, killed my father—and seeing my mother was handsome, carried her off to be the mountain bride of their chief. My mother could not leave me. She held me in her arms, weeping, trembling, following the bandits. When they reached this mountain they meant to kill me too. Her pleading saved me from the knife, and they strung me up on a tree with rope, to die of cold and hunger. Where they took my mother, no one knows. I have hung here three days and three nights, and not one soul has passed. What merit in another life brings me to meet you, venerable Master, in this one? If you will show great mercy and save my life, send me home, I would pawn my body and sell my life to repay you. Even under yellow sand, I would never forget it."

Hearing this, Tripitaka took it all as truth and told Bajie to untie the ropes and bring the child down. The Idiot, no better at telling people, stepped up to do it. Beside him Pilgrim could not hold back, and barked: "You brazen thing! Someone here knows you. None of your airy tricks, lying to fool people. If your estate was plundered, your father killed by bandits, your mother carried off—to whom would we hand you, saved? What would you thank us with? Your lie has come apart at the seams." The monster heard and was frightened; he knew the Great Sage was a man of power, and marked him well in his heart. Still he trembled and said through falling tears: "Master, though my parents are gone and the family money all lost, some of the land is untouched, and all our kin are living." Pilgrim said, "And what kin have you?" The monster said, "My grandfather lives south of the mountain; my aunt north of the ridge; Fourth Li at the ravine's head is my uncle by marriage; Third Hong in the wood is my father's cousin; and my father's brothers and cousins all live near our village. If you will save me, venerable Master, then at the village, before all our kin, I will tell everyone what you have done, sell some of the land, and repay you richly."

Hearing this, Bajie shouldered Pilgrim aside: "Brother, he is a little child—why keep grilling him? He said it was bandits. They rob loose cash—did they carry off the houses and the land too? And if we meet his kin, however vast our appetites, we could not eat the worth of ten mu of his fields. Let him down." The Idiot had food on his mind and no thought of right or wrong. He cut the ropes with his precept knife and let the monster down. The monster knelt by the Tang monk's horse, eyes brimming, knocking his head for all he was worth. The tender-hearted elder said: "Child, get up on the horse. I will carry you." The monster said, "Master, my hands and feet are numb from hanging, my hips ache—and we are country folk; I am not used to riding." The Tang monk told Bajie to carry him. The monster glanced at him: "Master, my skin is frozen half raw. I dare not have this master carry me. His snout is long, his ears big, the bristles on his neck stiff—they would prick me to death." The Tang monk told Sha Monk to carry him. The monster glanced at him too: "Master, when those bandits raided our house, every one of them had his face painted and wore false whiskers and brandished steel. They frightened me so that one look at this gloomy-faced master and my soul left me. I dare not have him carry me either." The Tang monk told Pilgrim Sun to carry him. Pilgrim laughed: "I'll carry him, I'll carry him." The monster rejoiced in secret and let himself be carried, docile as you please.

Pilgrim pulled him aside by the road and weighed him in his hand: barely three catties and some ten ounces. Pilgrim laughed: "You brazen monster, today is your day to die. Playing your tricks in front of Old Sun? I know what you are, my 'what-do-you-call-it.'" The monster said, "I am the child of a good family, met with undeserved disaster. What 'what-do-you-call-it' am I?" Pilgrim said, "A child of a good family, and your bones this light?" The monster said, "My frame is small." Pilgrim said, "How old are you this year?" The monster said, "Seven." Pilgrim laughed: "A catty a year of growth—it should be seven catties. How are you under four?" The monster said, "I lost my milk young." Pilgrim said, "Very well, I will carry you. If you need to make water or anything, you tell me first."

Tripitaka went on ahead with Bajie and Sha Monk, Pilgrim following with the child on his back, the whole party striking west. There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

The higher the virtue, the higher the demon's hindrance; the mind of Zen, still by nature, breeds demons in its stillness.The lord of the heart walks straight down the middle road; the Wood-Mother, dull of foot, scrambles at the edge.The Horse of Intention is silent, holding love and desire; the Yellow Dame says nothing, aching with care.The wayward evil triumphs—and triumphs in vain; in the end it is spent where the right path passes.

The Great Sage Sun carried the demon on his back, grumbling inwardly at the Tang monk who never knew hardship: "On this savage mountain even empty-handed is hard going—and he has Old Sun carrying a man. Never mind that the creature is a monster; even if he were a good person, his parents are dead, and who knows who he would be carried to. Better to dash him down and be done." But the monster knew his thought already. He used his magic, drew in four breaths from the four quarters, and blew them onto Pilgrim's back—and it grew heavy as a thousand catties. Pilgrim laughed: "My child, so you are working your heavy-body magic on your old master." Hearing this, the monster, afraid the Great Sage would hurt him, freed his corpse, let his primal spirit slip out, jumped up, and stood poised in the ninth heaven. The weight on Pilgrim's back grew heavier still. The Monkey King flared up, seized the body, and dashed it down on the rocks by the road with a wet smash—the corpse flattened like a meat cake. Fearing more insolence still, he tore off its four limbs, threw them down on either side of the road, and smashed them all to pieces.

The creature watched it all from the sky, plain as day, and could not keep the fire out of his heart: "This monkey monk is too much. Grant that I am a demon and mean your master harm—have I laid a finger on him yet, that you mangle me like this? It was lucky I had my wits about me and slipped my spirit out; otherwise you have killed me for nothing. If I do not take the Tang monk now and yield him another round, I will only be teaching him to sit still and grow clever." The fine demon whipped up a whirlwind in mid-air; with a great roar it came, rolling stones and flinging sand, fierce past telling. What a wind:

Surging in rage, it rolls the reek of water and cloud; black vapor churns and shuts out the sun.The trees of the ridge are torn up root and all; the wild plums, trunks included, swept flat.Yellow sand blinds the eyes; men cannot walk; strange stones maim—how keep the road?Rolling and wheeling, the level ground goes dark; over the whole mountain, birds and beasts howl.

The wind tore the Tang monk clean from his saddle; Bajie dared not look up; Sha Monk bowed his head and covered his face. The Great Sage Sun knew it was the monster's wind and leaped in pursuit—but riding the gale the monster had already swept the Tang monk away, without trace or shadow, to no place anyone could name, nowhere to follow.

Presently the wind's voice died and the sunlight came back. Pilgrim came up and looked: the white dragon horse trembling and neighing in fright, the load dumped in the road, Bajie groaning at the foot of the crag, Sha Monk crouched on the slope calling out. Pilgrim shouted, "Bajie!" Hearing Pilgrim's voice, the Idiot looked up; the gale had gone quiet. He scrambled up and grabbed Pilgrim: "Brother, what a wind!" Sha Monk came up too: "Brother, it was a whirlwind." Then he asked: "Where is Master?" Bajie said, "The wind came so hard we all ducked and covered our eyes, each hiding as he could. Master had his face down on the horse." Pilgrim said, "And where has he gone now?" Sha Monk said, "If he were made of rush-light, a puff like that would take him."

Pilgrim said, "Brothers, this is where we should scatter." Bajie said, "Right. Scatter early, each to his own road—that is best. The road west has no end. When would we ever get there?" Sha Monk started as if struck, numb all over: "Brother, what talk is this? We, for sins in a former life, were moved by the Bodhisattva Guanyin's persuasion; she laid her hand on our crowns and gave us vows, changed our names in the law, turned us to the Buddha's fruit; and we willingly promised to guard the Tang monk west to worship the Buddha and seek the scriptures, our merit paying for our sins. Come to this pass and quit it all in a day—with talk of every man to his own road? Would that not betray the Bodhisattva's good work, wreck our own virtue, and make the world laugh, saying we began and did not finish?" Pilgrim said, "Brother, yours is the better word. Only Master never listens to a soul. These fiery eyes of mine, these golden pupils, know good from bad. That wind just now was the work of the child on the tree. I knew him for a monster. You did not know, and Master did not either—took him for a child of good family and had me carry him. Old Sun was laying his trap when the creature worked his heavy-body magic on me; I smashed him to pieces. Then he must have slipped his corpse free, whipped up that whirlwind, and carried off my master. And so I grudge him—always refusing to hear me—my heart went slack, and I said let every man scatter. But if you, worthy brother, are in such earnest, Old Sun is caught between going and staying. Bajie—what would you have us do, in plain truth?" Bajie said, "I spoke out of turn just now; truly we should not scatter. Brother, there is nothing for it: trust Brother Sha, and let us go find that monster and save Master." Pilgrim turned anger to joy: "Brothers, let us be of one heart again. Gather the load, saddle the horse—up the mountain after the monster, to save Master."

The three clung to vines, grasped at creepers, hunted slopes, wound through ravines, five or seven tens of li—and not a word of him. On that mountain there was not a bird on the wing nor a beast on the run; only old cypresses and tall pines met the eye. The Great Sage Sun grew desperate. He gave a leap up onto the wildest peak, shouted "Change!"—and became three-headed and six-armed, his old wreck-the-Heavenly-Palace self. He shook the gold-banded staff into three gold-banded staffs and slashed and pounded, one sweep east, one sweep west, beating without pause on every side. Bajie saw it and said: "Sha Monk, this is bad. Big brother cannot find Master, and the fury has driven him clean out of his wits."

After a while of this, Pilgrim beat out a crowd of shabby gods—each in a rag and a scrap, breeches without seat and trousers without mouth—who knelt before the mountain crying: "Great Sage, the mountain gods and earth gods have come to see you." Pilgrim said, "Why so many mountain gods and earth gods?" The gods knocked their heads: "We report to the Great Sage: this mountain is called Point-Drill Mountain, six hundred li of it. There is a mountain god every ten li and an earth god every ten li—thirty mountain gods and thirty earth gods in all. Yesterday we heard the Great Sage was come, but we could not gather at once, and so our welcome was late and stirred the Great Sage's anger. We beg forgiveness a thousand times." Pilgrim said, "I will let the charge go for now. Answer me: how many monsters are on this mountain?" The gods said, "Grandpa, there is just one monster, and he has rubbed our crowns bald. He has left us short of incense and paper, with never an offering of blood; not one of us has clothes to cover him or food to fill his mouth. And you ask how many monsters we could feed!" Pilgrim said, "Does this monster live in front of the mountain or behind it?" The gods said, "Neither in front nor behind. In this mountain there is a ravine called Withered Pine Ravine, and by it a cave called Fire-Cloud Cave. In that cave is a demon king of vast powers. Time and again he has carried us mountain gods and earth gods off to tend his fires and keep his doors, to ring his bell and give the watchword through the night—and his little demons come collecting their regular fees besides." Pilgrim said, "You are spirits of the dark world of ghosts. What money would you have?" The gods said, "Having no money to give him, we can only catch a few river deer and wild elk, morning and evening, to provision his spirits. If we come with nothing, they tear down our shrines and strip our very clothes, and leave us no peace at all. We beg the Great Sage a thousand times: destroy this monster for us, and save every living thing on this mountain." Pilgrim said, "Since you serve under him and keep always about his cave, tell me: what kind of monster is he, and what is he called?" The gods said, "Once he is named, the Great Sage may know him. He is the son of the Bull Demon King, raised by the Raksasi. He cultivated three hundred years on the Flaming Mountains and mastered the true fire of samadhi—his powers are vast indeed. The Bull Demon King set him to hold this mountain. His milk-name is Red Boy; his style is the Sage Infant King."

Hearing this, Pilgrim was delighted clear through. He waved the earth gods and mountain gods away, showed his true form, jumped down from the peak, and said to Bajie and Sha Monk: "Brothers, set your minds at rest. No more grieving. Master will not be harmed—the monster and Old Sun are kin." Bajie laughed: "Brother, no lying. You are of the Eastern Triumph Continent; this here is the Western Cattle-Gift Continent. Roads beyond counting, ten thousand waters, a thousand mountains, two oceans between—how would he be kin to you?" Pilgrim said, "That crowd just now were the local earth gods and mountain gods. I asked them about the monster, and they say he is the son of the Bull Demon King, raised by the Raksasi, named Red Boy, styled the Sage Infant King. Remember, five hundred years ago, when Old Sun wrecked the Heavenly Palace, he traveled every famous mountain in the world looking for the great men of the earth, and the Bull Demon King and he were sworn brothers of a band of seven. Of those five or six demon kings only Old Sun was small and neat made, so the Bull Demon King ranked as eldest brother. This monster is the Bull Demon King's son. I knew his father—I am his old uncle, if it comes to that. How would he dare harm my master? Let us go quickly." Sha Monk laughed: "Brother, the saying goes: 'Three years without a call, and kinship cools.' You parted from him five or six hundred years ago, never exchanged so much as a cup of wine since, never sent so much as a festival gift. What kinship will he own in you?" Pilgrim said, "What a way to measure a man! The saying goes: 'One leaf of duckweed returns to the great sea; where in life do people fail to meet?' Even if he disowns the kinship, surely he will not harm my master. I will not ask him to set a feast before us—only to hand back my Tang monk whole."

The three brothers, each with a devout heart, led the white horse, the load on its back, and pushed straight on by the main road. Day and night alike they went a hundred li and more, until they saw a pine wood, and in it a winding ravine, and below the ravine a rush of living water green and clear; and at the ravine's head a stone-slab bridge leading over to that cave dwelling. Pilgrim said, "Brothers, see that glittering rock face over there—that must be the monster's lodging. Let us put it to the vote: who keeps the luggage and the horse, and who comes over with me to beat the monster?" Bajie said, "Brother, this old pig was never made for sitting still. I will come with you." Pilgrim said, "Good, good." He told Sha Monk: "Hide horse and luggage deep in the wood and guard them carefully, while we two go up to the door and look for Master." Sha Monk obeyed. Bajie went with him, and the two came on, weapons in hand. And so it is:

The infant's wild fire not yet subdued; the mind-monkey and the wood-mother go to the work together.

But what good or ill would come of this going? Listen to the next chapter to find out.