Chapter 46

The Wrong Way Wields Its Might to Cheat the True Dharma; the Mind-Monkey Shows Its Holiness and Roots Out the Demons

Now the king, seeing that Pilgrim Sun had the art of calling dragons and commanding spirits, set the royal seal to the rescript and was handing it to the Tang monk, to let them pass on the western road — when the three Daoists tumbled down in a panic before the Hall of Golden Chimes and made their plea. The emperor came down from the dragon seat and lifted them up with his own hands in haste: “Preceptors, why this great ceremony today?” The Daoists said: “Your Majesty, we came here to buttress the altars of state, to guard the country and calm the people, and have toiled twenty years — and today this monk plays his arts, snatches it all and flings it away, and ruins our name. Your Majesty pardons the guilt of bloodshed for one shower of rain — is that not to make light of us? We beg Your Majesty to keep back their rescript, and let us brothers wager with him once more, and see how it stands.” The king, thoroughly muddled, leaned east when they spoke east and west when they spoke west, and truly took the rescript back: “Preceptor, how would you wager with him?” The Great Immortal Tiger Strength said: “I will wager with him at sitting in meditation.” The king said: “Preceptor, you are wrong. That monk is of the Chan school by breeding: he must know the Chan subtleties first, before he dared accept the decree to seek scriptures. Why wager on that?” The great immortal said: “My meditation is not the common sort. It has a rare name: it is called Manifest Holiness on the Ladder of Clouds.” The king said: “What is Manifest Holiness on the Ladder of Clouds?” The great immortal said: “Take a hundred tables; fifty make one meditation platform; stack them one upon another; no hand may climb them, no ladder or stool be used: each rides a cloud up, sits down on the platform, and keeps still for a set number of watches.”

The king, seeing some difficulty in this, sent down the word to ask: “Monk — my state preceptor would wager with you at ‘Manifest Holiness on the Ladder of Clouds,’ sitting in meditation. Which of you can do it?” Pilgrim, hearing, brooded and did not answer. Bajie said: “Brother, why so silent?” Pilgrim said: “Brother, to tell you the truth: kicking heaven and stirring wells, churning seas and overturning rivers, shouldering mountains and chasing the moon, shifting stars and swapping the Dipper — tricks like those I can manage; and beheading and braining, belly-splitting and heart-gouging, transformations strange past telling — these too I do not fear. But meditation — there I lose. Where would I find the gift of sitting? Lock me to an iron post, and I will be clambering up and down it all the same: sit still? Not a chance.” Tripitaka spoke up suddenly: “I can sit in meditation.” Pilgrim rejoiced: “Good, good. And for how long can you sit?” Tripitaka said: “When I was young I met a Chan monk of the countryside expounding the Way; in the root of life itself, fixing the nature and keeping the spirit, within the gate of death and life — I have sat two years, three years.” Pilgrim said: “If Master sits two or three years, we may as well give up the scriptures. It is a matter of two or three watches at most, and then we come down.” Tripitaka said: “Disciples, but I cannot get up there.” Pilgrim said: “Step forward and say yes; I will send you up.”

The elder put his palms together before his breast, and said: “Your humble monk can sit in meditation.” The king sent the word, and the meditation platforms were set up. A kingdom has the strength of moving mountains: in less than half a watch two platforms stood, on the left and right of the Hall of Golden Chimes.

The Great Immortal Tiger Strength came down from the hall, took his stand before the steps, gave a bound, stepped on a cloud small as a mat, and sat down on the western platform. Pilgrim plucked a hair and made a sham likeness to keep Bajie and Sha Monk company below; then he made a five-colored auspicious cloud, scooped up the Tang monk into the air, set him down on the eastern platform, drew in his light, changed into a cicada grub, flew to Bajie's ear, and said: “Brother, watch Master closely. And speak no more to old Sun's double.” The Idiot laughed: “Understood, understood.”

Now the Great Immortal Deer Strength sat on his embroidered cushion watching a long while; the two on the high platforms showed no winner; so this Daoist lent his brother a hand: he plucked one of the short hairs at the back of his skull, rolled it in a ball, and flicked it upward, straight to the Tang monk's head, where it turned into a great bedbug and bit the elder. At first the elder felt an itch, then a pain. Now in meditation one must not stir a hand: to stir is to lose. The pain past bearing, he ducked his head and rubbed the itch against his lapel. Bajie said: “Bad — Master is in a fit of the falling sickness.” Sha Monk said: “No — a fit of the headache.” Pilgrim heard and said: “My master is an honest gentleman: if he says he can sit, he can sit; if he says he cannot, he cannot. Would a gentleman lie? Say nothing, you two — I will go up and look.”

Good Pilgrim: with a whine he flew to the Tang monk's head, saw a bedbug the size of a grain of beans biting his master, nipped it off in haste, and rubbed and stroked for him. The elder, free of itch and pain, sat composed above. Pilgrim thought: “A monk's head is shined bald — it could not house a single louse; how should there be a bedbug on it? That Daoist's trickery, to hurt my master. Ha! And all for nothing, no winner either way. Wait till old Sun plays him one back!” This Pilgrim flew up, lighted on a beast-head ornament of the golden hall, shook himself, changed into a centipede seven inches long, came straight to the Daoist's nose hollow, and stung him once. The Daoist could not sit steady: a somersault, and over he went, nearly losing his life — saved by the crowd of officers, great and small. The king, greatly alarmed, had the Grand Tutor lead him off to the Hall of Literary Splendor to comb and wash. Pilgrim rode his auspicious cloud back and carried his master down before the steps: the elder had won.

The king would have let them go. The Great Immortal Deer Strength pleaded again: “Your Majesty, my brother has an old quivering sickness; up in the high air, meeting the wind of heaven, it flared, and so the monk won. Keep him a while: let me wager with him at Divining Through the Board.” The king said: “What is ‘Divining Through the Board’?” Deer Strength said: “Your humble Daoist knows the art of divining through a board what a thing is. Let us see if the monk can match it. If he out-guesses me, let him go; if not, let Your Majesty fix the crime, wipe out our brothers' wrong, and keep unstained the kindness of our twenty years guarding the realm.” Truly the king, thoroughly muddled, followed this slander, and sent the word: a scarlet-lacquered cabinet was brought by the palace officers into the hall. The queen was told to place a treasure in it. In a moment it was carried out and set before the white jade steps, and monk and Daoist were told: “Wager your powers, the two of you: divine what treasure is in the cabinet.”

The Tang monk said: “Disciples — how would I know what is in the cabinet?” Pilgrim drew in his light, changed into the cicada grub again, lighted on the Tang monk's head, and said: “Master, be at ease; let me go look.” The good Great Sage flew softly to the cabinet, crept under its foot, found a crack between the boards, and slipped inside. There was a red-lacquered vermillion tray, and in it a suit of palace clothes: the jacket of Hills and Rivers, Altars of State, and the skirt of Heaven and Earth, Hills and Streams. He took them up and rumpled them to rags, bit the tip of his tongue, sprayed out a mouthful of blood, cried “Change!”, and turned the suit into one ragged, tattered old bell-cloak. On leaving he pissed on it into the bargain. Then he slipped back out the crack, flew to the Tang monk's ear, and said: “Master, guess ‘a ragged, tattered old bell-cloak.’” The Tang monk said: “They say guess a treasure — what treasure is a bell-cloak?” Pilgrim said: “Never mind. Just guess it.”

The Tang monk stepped forward and was about to guess, when the Great Immortal Deer Strength said: “I guess first: in the cabinet are the jacket of Hills and Rivers, Altars of State, and the skirt of Heaven and Earth, Hills and Streams.” The Tang monk said: “No, no — in the cabinet is a ragged, tattered old bell-cloak.” The king said: “The monk is insulting — daring to mock my kingdom as treasureless, guessing some ragged bell-cloak.” He called: “Seize him!” The two wings of guards made to lay hands. Tang monk, in a fright, put his palms together and cried: “Your Majesty, spare your humble monk a moment, and let the cabinet be opened. If it is truly a treasure, I accept my guilt; if not, would you not have wronged me?” The king had it opened. The officer in attendance opened it and brought out the vermillion tray — and there truly was a ragged, tattered old bell-cloak. The king raged: “Who put such a thing in?” From behind the dragon seat stepped forth the queens of the three palaces: “My lord, it was I, your handmaid, who placed the jacket of Hills and Rivers, Altars of State, and the skirt of Heaven and Earth, Hills and Streams — how it turned into this, I cannot say.” The king said: “Withdraw, consort. I understand. The things used in palaces are satin and silk, gauze and damask: where would a ragged cloak come from?” He called: “Bring the cabinet up again. Let me hide a treasure with my own hands, and we will try once more.” The emperor went back to the rear palace, picked the great peach grown on the immortal peach tree in the royal garden, big as a bowl, and put it in the cabinet, and had it carried down to be divined again.

The Tang monk said: “Disciples — more guessing.” Pilgrim said: “At ease — let me go look again.” With a whine he flew off, slipped in through the board-crack again, and saw a peach — just to his mind. He showed his true form, sat in the cabinet, and gnawed the peach clean with a few bites, the two hollows of the fruit swept clean too, and set the stone inside. Then he changed into the cicada grub, flew out, lighted on the Tang monk's ear, and said: “Master, guess ‘a peach stone.’” The elder said: “Disciples, do not play with me. If I had not been quick with my tongue just now, I would have been led off to execution. This time it must be a treasure. What treasure is a peach stone?” Pilgrim said: “Fear nothing. Just keep beating him.”

The Tang monk was about to speak when he heard the Great Immortal Goat Strength say: “I guess first: an immortal peach.” The Tang monk divined: “No peach — a bare peach stone.” The king shouted: “It was an immortal peach I placed there: how a stone? The third preceptor has guessed it.” The Tang monk said: “Your Majesty, open it and see.” The officer in attendance carried it up and opened it, brought out the vermillion tray — and truly, a stone, without skin or flesh. The king, seeing, was startled: “Preceptors, wager no more. Let them go. The immortal peach I hid with my own hands is now only a stone: who has eaten it? Some god or spirit, I suppose, secretly helps him.” Bajie, hearing, said to Sha Monk with a faint cold smile: “They do not know what an old peach-eater he is.”

As they spoke, the Great Immortal Tiger Strength, combed and washed in the Hall of Literary Splendor, came up the hall and said: “Your Majesty, this monk has the art of transport and substitution. Bring the cabinet up, and I will break his art, and divine against him again.” The king said: “What would you divine now, preceptor?” Tiger Strength said: “The art will substitute things, but not a living person. Hide this page inside, and he cannot substitute, I promise you.” So the little page was hidden in the cabinet, the lid shut down, and it was carried down, and they called: “Monk, divine again: this third time, what treasure is inside?”

The Tang monk said: “Here we go again!” Pilgrim said: “Let me go look.” Whining off he flew, slipped inside, and saw a little page. The good Great Sage — a fellow of resource: truly his leaps and shifts are rare in the world, and his cunning rare in the age. He shook himself, changed into the very likeness of an old Daoist, entered the cabinet, and called: “Disciple.” The page said: “Master — where have you come from?” Pilgrim said: “By the art of passing through walls.” The page said: “What teaching have you brought me?” Pilgrim said: “That monk saw you go into the cabinet. If he guesses ‘a Daoist page,’ we lose again. I came on purpose to take counsel: have your head shaved, and we will guess ‘a monk.’” The page said: “As Master pleases — so long as we beat him. If we lose to him again, it will not only lower our name: I fear the court will honor us no more.” Pilgrim said: “Well said. Come here, child: beat him, and I will reward you handsomely.” He changed the gold-banded staff into a razor, gathered the child in his arms, and said: “There is a good boy — bear the pain, not a sound, while I shave you.” In a moment the hair was off; he wadded it in a ball, stuffed it into a cranny of the cabinet foot, put up the razor, patted the bald head, and said: “Child, you look a monk about the head — only the clothes do not match. Take them off and let me change them for you.” The page wore a crane-feather cloak of shallot-white figured silk, flowered, with embroidered edging; truly he took it off. Pilgrim blew on it a breath of magic air, cried “Change!”, and it turned into a russet-yellow gown, and he put it on him. Then he plucked two hairs and made a wooden fish, and put it in his hand: “Disciple, listen: if they call ‘Daoist page,’ by no means come out; if they call ‘monk,’ shove up the lid for me, knock the wooden fish, chant a scroll of the Buddha's scripture, and crawl out — and we have won.” The page said: “I can only chant the Scripture of the Three Officers, the Scripture of the Northern Dipper, the Scripture of Averting Calamity — I cannot chant the Buddhists' scriptures.” Pilgrim said: “But can you invoke the Buddha?” The page said: “Amida Buddha — who cannot chant that?” Pilgrim said: “Very well, very well — the Buddha, then, and save me the teaching. Remember it now: I am off.” He changed back into the cicada grub, slipped out, flew to the rim of the Tang monk's ear, and said: “Master, guess ‘a monk.’” The Tang monk said: “This time we are sure to lose.” Pilgrim said: “How do you make that out?” The Tang monk said: “The scripture says: ‘Buddha, dharma, sangha — the Three Treasures.’ A monk, too, is one of the treasures.”

Even as they spoke the Great Immortal Tiger Strength said: “Your Majesty, the third time it is a Daoist page.” He kept calling — but out the page would not come. The Tang monk put his palms together: “It is a monk.” Bajie bawled with all his might: “In the cabinet is a monk!” And the page suddenly shoved up the lid, knocking the wooden fish, chanting the Buddha's name, and crawled out. The two wings of civil and military officials cheered aloud with one voice; the three Daoists were struck dumb.

The king said: “This monk has gods and spirits at his side. How does a Daoist go into a cabinet and come out a monk? Suppose a barber slipped in after him — he might shave the head, but how should the clothes fit too, and the mouth chant the Buddha's name into the bargain? Preceptors, let them go.” The Great Immortal Tiger Strength said: “Your Majesty, it is chess with a matched player at last, a general meeting his match. Your humble Daoist will stake the martial arts he learned young on Bell South Mountain, and wager with him to the end.” The king said: “What martial arts?” Tiger Strength said: “We three brothers have some powers: we can have our heads struck off and set back on; our bellies split and hearts gouged out, and grow whole again; and bathe in a caldron of boiling oil.” The king was appalled: “All three are roads to death.” Tiger Strength said: “Having such powers, we dare speak so boldly: we will wager with him to the finish.” The king called: “Monk of the Land of the East: my state preceptor will not let you go. He will wager with you at beheading, at belly-splitting, at bathing in the boiling caldron.”

Pilgrim, at that moment in the shape of the cicada grub, flying back and forth with the news, heard this, drew in the hair at once, showed his true form, and laughed aloud: “Fortune, fortune! Trade knocking at the door.” Bajie said: “All three are life-losing business — what trade is that?” Pilgrim said: “You do not know my powers yet.” Bajie said: “Brother, your changes and leaps like these would be plenty — how have you such powers besides?” Pilgrim said: “I—”

“Struck off, my head can talk; chopped off, my arm can fight.Cut away my legs, I walk; my belly split, it levels up — past all compare.Just like a household wrapping dumplings: one pinch, and it is whole again.A bath in the oil caldron is easier still: warm broth to wash off grime, no more.”

Bajie and Sha Monk, hearing, roared with laughter.

Pilgrim came forward: “Your Majesty, this little monk can be beheaded.” The king said: “How can you be beheaded?” Pilgrim said: “When I cultivated in the temple long ago, I met a Chan wanderer of the countryside who taught me the art of beheading. Whether it works or not, I do not know — let us try the new trick now.” The king laughed: “The monk is young and knows nothing. Where is beheading a thing to try new? The head is the chief of the six yang: struck off, one dies on the spot.” Tiger Strength said: “Your Majesty, that is exactly what we want, so we may vent our spite.” The muddled king believed him and sent the word to prepare the place of execution.

At the word, three thousand of the guard drew up outside the court gates. The king said: “Let the monk be beheaded first.” Pilgrim answered gaily: “I first, I first.” Cupping his hands, he called aloud: “Preceptors, pardon my boldness — I go first.” He turned about and walked out. The Tang monk seized him: “Disciple, be careful. That is no place for play.” Pilgrim said: “What is there to fear? Let go, and I will go and be back.”

The Great Sage went straight into the place of execution, where the executioners seized him, trussed him in a bundle, and pressed him onto the high earthen mound. A shout: “Begin the cut!” — swish, and off came the head. The executioner gave it a kick, and away it rolled like a watermelon, thirty or forty paces. From the neck-stump no blood came; only from within the belly came a call: “Head, come back!” The Great Immortal Deer Strength, seeing such a feat, hastily recited a spell to the local earth god and the spirits of the place: “Hold that head fast. When I have beaten the monk and reported to the king, I will have your little shrine rebuilt into a great temple, and your clay statues recast in true gold.” It seems those earth gods and spirits, because he had the Five Thunder art, served his bidding: in the dark they truly held Pilgrim's head down. Pilgrim called again: “Head, come back!” The head might have been rooted: it would not stir. Pilgrim's heart burned; clenching his fists he strained once — the binding cords all snapped; he shouted “Grow!”, and swish, from the neck-stump shot up a head. The executioners' hearts quaked, every one, and the guards' bowels trembled. The officer of execution hurried into court and reported: “Ten thousand years — the little monk's head was struck off, and he has grown another!” Bajie said with a cold smile: “Sha Monk — so big brother has powers like that too.” Sha Monk said: “He has seventy-two transformations: so he has seventy-two heads.”

Before the words were out, Pilgrim came up, calling: “Master.” The Tang monk rejoiced: “Disciple — was it hard?” Pilgrim said: “Not hard at all. Good sport.” Bajie said: “Brother, do you need salve for the wound?” Pilgrim said: “Feel and see whether there is a scar.” The Idiot reached out and felt, and grinned from ear to ear: “Wonderful, wonderful! Grown whole and perfect — never a mark of the cut.”

The brothers were still rejoicing when the king called out to hand up the rescript: “You are pardoned. Go quickly, go quickly.” Pilgrim said: “The rescript we will take — but the state preceptor must go to the place of execution too, have his head struck off, and try the new trick as well.” The king said: “Great Preceptor, the monk will not let you off either. Wager with him — only do not frighten me.” Tiger Strength could only go; the executioners trussed him flat too, and with a flourish struck off his head and kicked it away; it rolled thirty paces and more. From his neck-stump too no blood came, and he too called: “Head, come back!” Pilgrim made haste to pluck a hair, blew on it a breath of magic air, cried “Change!”, and turned it into a yellow dog, which ran into the ground, snapped up the Daoist's head in one bite, and trotted straight to the royal water river and dropped it in — no more of that.

Now the Daoist called three times over, and the head did not come. Unlike Pilgrim's powers, nothing grew; and from the neck-stump red light came gouting out. Poor soul — the art of calling wind and rain he had; how could it match an immortal perfected in long life? In a moment he lay in the dust. The people crowded to look: a headless yellow tiger.

The officer of execution came again to report: “Ten thousand years — the Great Preceptor's head was struck off and would not grow again; he lies dead in the dust: a headless yellow-maned tiger.” The king, hearing, went white with fright, his eyes fixed on the two Daoists. Deer Strength rose: “My brother's fate is spent, his fortune run out — but how a yellow tiger? It is all that monk's cursed trickery: his masking art has changed my brother into a beast. I will not spare him now: I will wager with him at belly-splitting and heart-gouging.”

The king, hearing, came back to himself. He called: “Little monk — the second preceptor will wager with you still.” Pilgrim said: “This little monk has long gone without cooked food. Coming west the other day, I fell in with a pious household pressing food on me, and ate a few too many buns; these days my belly aches: worms, I fear. I was just wishing to borrow Your Majesty's knife, open my belly, take out my innards, and wash my stomach clean — then I will be fit to go west and see Buddha.” The king, hearing, said: “Take him to the place.” A crowd came — some propping, some hauling. Pilgrim freed his arms: “No need to prop me — I will walk myself. One thing: do not bind my hands; I need them to wash my innards.” The king sent the word: “Do not bind his hands.”

Pilgrim swayed along to the place of execution, leaned against the great post, undid his sash, and bared his belly. The executioner looped one rope about his neck and shoulders and one about his legs, flourished a short ox-ear knife, and cut under the belly, opening a hole. This Pilgrim crawled his belly open with both hands, took out his guts, and sorted them, strand by strand, a good while; then set them back inside, coiled as before; pinched the belly-skin shut, blew on it a breath of magic air, cried “Grow!”, and it closed whole again.

The king, astounded, held the rescript in both hands: “Holy monk, do not delay your journey west. Take your rescript and go.” Pilgrim laughed: “The rescript is a trifle. Let the second preceptor try the splitting and the gouging too — what do you say?” The king said to Deer Strength: “This is no affair of mine: you chose to be his enemy. Go on, go on.” Deer Strength said: “Set your heart at rest: I will not lose to him, I promise you.”

Look at him — like the Great Sage Sun, swaying along, straight into the place of execution. The executioners looped the ropes on him, and with a swish of the ox-ear knife split his belly open. He too drew out his liver and guts and fingered them with his hands. Pilgrim promptly plucked a hair, blew on it a breath of magic air, cried “Change!”, and turned it into a hungry hawk, which spread wings and talons and, swish, made off with his heart and five entrails, every scrap, to enjoy them heaven knew where. The Daoist was left a hollow-bellied, broken-gutted, dripping ghost; an organ-less, gutless, wandering soul. The executioners kicked over the great post and dragged the corpse out to look — ah! A white-furred, horned deer.

In a fright the officer of execution came again to report: “Ten thousand years — the second preceptor's luck ran out: at the very splitting of his belly, a hungry hawk made off with his entrails, liver and all, and he died on the spot. His true form was a white-furred, horned deer.” The king said in dread: “How a horned deer?” The Great Immortal Goat Strength pleaded: “That my brothers should die and show the shapes of beasts: it is all that monk's sorcery, contrived to destroy us. Let me avenge my brothers.” The king said: “What power have you to beat him?” Goat Strength said: “I will wager with him at bathing in the caldron of boiling oil.” The king had a great caldron brought, brimming with fragrant oil, and set the two to the wager. Pilgrim said: “I am obliged. This little monk has not had a bath in an age: these two days my skin is dry and itchy — a soak I must have, one way or another.”

The officer in attendance set the caldron of oil indeed, heaped dry firewood, lit a fierce blaze, and boiled the oil, and told the monk to go down first. Pilgrim put his palms together: “I do not know — do we bathe in the civil manner or the military?” The king said: “What is the civil manner? What is the military?” Pilgrim said: “In the civil manner, without taking off your clothes: fold your hands like this, go down, roll once, come up — and you must not soil your clothes: one spot of grease and you lose. In the military manner, fetch a clothes-rack and a towel, strip, jump in, and turn somersaults and stand handstands as you like: bathing for sport.” The king said to Goat Strength: “Will you bathe civil or military?” Goat Strength said: “In the civil manner I fear his clothes are drug-steeped and shed the oil. The military manner.”

Pilgrim stepped up again: “Pardon my boldness — I take precedence yet again.” Look at him: off with the cotton gown, off with the tiger-skin kilt, one bound, and into the caldron, riding the waves and dueling the billows, sporting like a swimmer under water. Bajie, seeing, bit his finger and said to Sha Monk: “We have misjudged the monkey too. All his jabber and jest, his baiting for sport — who knew he had real powers like this?” The two of them clucked and marveled past expressing.

Pilgrim, watching, grew suspicious: “The Idiot is laughing at me. Truly: ‘The clever do the work; the clumsy take their ease.’ Old Sun here cavorts and labors, while he stands at his ease. Let me rope him in once and see whether he is not afraid.” In mid-bath he gave a splash, dove to the bottom of the caldron, changed into a date-stone nail, and never came up again.

The officer of execution came near and reported again: “Ten thousand years — the little monk is boiled dead in the oil.” The king rejoiced, and had the bones fished up to look. The executioner dipped an iron skimmer into the caldron. Now the skimmer's mesh was coarse, and Pilgrim's nail was small: to and fro he slipped through the meshes — how would they fish him up? He reported again: “The monk's body is slight and his bones tender: all boiled away.” The king said: “Seize the other two monks.” The guards on both sides, seeing Bajie's fierce face, fell on him first and bound him by the back.

Tang monk, in an agony, cried: “Your Majesty, spare your humble monk a moment. That disciple of mine, since he took the vows, has merits at every turn. Today, crossing the preceptors, he has died in the caldron of oil. But he who dies first becomes a spirit: how dare your humble monk cling to life? Truly, the officers of the world must answer for the people of the world: if Your Majesty bids your servant die, how dare your servant live? I beg only this grace of you: half a cup of cold rice-water, three sheets of spirit money, and leave to go before the caldron and burn this handful of paper, to show one thought of master and disciples — then I will take my guilt.” The king, hearing, said: “It is just. The men of Zhonghua are full of honor.” He ordered rice-water and yellow paper brought, and it was brought, and handed to the Tang monk.

The Tang monk had Sha Monk go with him; at the foot of the steps some guards dragged Bajie by the ears to the caldron's side. The Tang monk prayed toward the caldron: “Disciple Sun Wukong—

Since you took the vows and bowed in the chantry wood, you have guarded my road west with deep affection.We hoped to win the great way together — who would have thought that today you go into the dark?In life you had one thought: to fetch the scriptures; in death the heart that chants the Buddha's name remains.Soul of heroism over ten thousand li, wait for us: as a ghost in the netherworld, climb to Thunderclap.”

Bajie, hearing, said: “Master, not a prayer like that. — Sha Monk, you pour the rice-water; I will do the praying.” The Idiot, trussed on the ground, puffed and panted: “You mischief-making brazen monkey, you witless Bimawen; you death-worthy brazen monkey, you oil-boiled Bimawen. The monkey is done for, the horse-keeper's line is ended.” Sun Pilgrim, at the bottom of the caldron, heard the Idiot's storm of curses, could not contain himself, showed his true form, and stood dripping at the bottom of the caldron: “You greasy lout! Who are you cursing?” The Tang monk, seeing, said: “Disciple, you have scared me out of my wits!” Sha Monk said: “Big brother plays dead the cleanest of anybody.”

The two wings of civil and military officials hurried up to report: “Ten thousand years — the monk is not dead: he has come crawling out of the caldron again.” The officer of execution, fearing he had lied to the court, reported in turn: “Dead he is — but the day was ill-omened: the little monk has come back to show his ghost.” Pilgrim, hearing, flared with rage, leapt from the caldron, wiped off the grease, dressed, whipped out his staff, seized the officer of execution, and dashed him to a ball of flesh with one blow of the head: “Whose ghost should I be showing?” The officers, terrified, made haste to unbind Bajie and knelt on the ground begging: “Pardon, pardon!” The king came down from the dragon seat, and Pilgrim went up the hall and seized him: “Your Majesty, no running! Let your third preceptor go down into the caldron of oil too.” The emperor, quaking: “Third Preceptor, save your emperor's life: down into the caldron quickly — do not let the monk beat me.”

Goat Strength came down the hall, stripped as Pilgrim had, jumped into the caldron, and made a show of bathing in his turn. Pilgrim released the king, came to the caldron's edge, called to the fire-tenders to add wood — and reached in a hand to feel. Ah! The boiling oil was stone cold. He thought: “When I bathed it was scalding; when he bathes, cold. I know: some Dragon King or other is guarding him here.” He leapt up into the air, recited the spell of OM, and summoned the Dragon King of the Northern Sea: “You horned earthworm, you scaled loach! Why help the Daoist — a cold dragon cording the caldron bottom, to let him play the saint and beat me?” The Dragon King, terrified, stammered yes and yes again: “Ao Shun would never dare help him. The Great Sage does not know: this evil beast toiled through a whole course of cultivation and shed his husk, but of all he won only the Five Thunder art is a true receipt; the rest is side-alley stuff, and cannot come into the immortal way. This is the ‘Great Flaying’ he learned on Little Rush-Covered Hill. The other two the Great Sage has already broken, and their true forms shown. This one's cold dragon too is of his own smelting: good enough to gull worldly folk for sport — but how would it gull the Great Sage? This humble dragon will take his cold dragon now, and I promise you bone shattered and skin scorched.” Pilgrim said: “Take it away this instant, and spare the beating.” The Dragon King turned into a whirling wind, came to the caldron's edge, seized the cold dragon, and made off to the sea — no more of that.

Pilgrim came down and stood with the Tang monk, Bajie and Sha Monk before the hall, and saw the Daoist struggling in the boiling oil, unable to crawl out. He slipped once, and in a moment bone came apart and skin scorched and flesh boiled to rags.

The officer of execution came again to report: “Ten thousand years — the third preceptor is fried to nothing.” The king, tears filling his eyes, beat the royal desk with his hand and wept aloud:

“The human body is hard to win — hard indeed; without the true transmission, refine no elixir.The art of commanding spirits and charmed water you may have; the pill that lengthens life and guards it, never.The bright round whole — how should it cross to nirvana? Vainly spending scheming thought, and the life never safe.Had I known so light a downfall, better to have eaten in secret and dwelt secure in the hills.”

And so it was:

Touching stone to gold and smelting mercury — what did they avail? Calling rain and summoning wind — all emptiness in the end!

But how would master and disciples manage it? Listen to the next chapter to find out.

The False Way Struts Its Strength and Scoffs at the True Law; the Mind-Ape Shows Its Holiness and Wipes Out Every Fiend.

Now the king, seeing that Pilgrim Sun had the art of calling the dragons and commanding the gods, stamped the travel papers with the royal seal and was about to hand them to the Tang monk and let them go on west. The three Daoists, in a panic, threw themselves down on the Golden Chime Hall and begged to speak. The emperor came down from the dragon seat at once and raised them with his own hands, in haste: "Preceptors, why this great ceremony today?" The Daoist said: "Your Majesty, we came here to hold up the state, guard the country, and keep its people, laboring twenty bitter years—and today this monk plays his tricks, snatches it all and throws it away, and ruins our name. Your Majesty pardons the crime of murder for one fall of rain—does that not make light of us? We beg Your Majesty to keep their papers and let us brothers wager with him once more, and see how it goes." The king, thoroughly muddled—east when told east, west when told west—took back the papers and said: "Preceptor, how would you wager?" The Great Immortal Tiger Strength said: "I will wager with him at sitting meditation." The king said: "Preceptor, you are wrong. That monk came out of the Chan school; of course he knows Chan first, or he would never have taken the edict to seek scriptures. Why wager on that?" The Great Immortal said: "My sitting meditation is not like the common sort. It has a rare name: Manifest Holiness on the Ladder of Clouds." The king said: "What is Manifest Holiness on the Ladder of Clouds?" The Great Immortal said: "Take one hundred tables; fifty make one meditation platform, stacked table upon table. No climbing up with your hands, no ladders or stools—one rides a cloud, sits down on the platform, and stays without moving for a set number of hours."

The king saw the difficulty in it and sent down the question: "Monk, my state preceptor wants to wager with you at sitting meditation, Manifest Holiness on the Ladder of Clouds. Can any of you do it?" Pilgrim heard and brooded without answering. Bajie said: "Brother, why don't you speak?" Pilgrim said: "Brother, to tell you the truth: kicking heaven and hollowing wells, stirring the sea and turning rivers, carrying mountains and chasing the moon, shifting stars and moving the Dipper—tricks like those I can all do; being beheaded, chopped apart, bellies opened and hearts dug out—strange shifts like those I don't fear either. But sitting meditation—I lose. I have no gift for sitting. Chain me to an iron post, and I'll still be clambering up and down. Don't imagine I could sit still." Tripitaka suddenly spoke: "I can sit meditation." Pilgrim rejoiced: "Good, good. How long can you sit?" Tripitaka said: "In my youth I met a wandering Chan monk who preached the Way. In the very root of life, fixing the nature and holding the spirit, at the gate of death and life itself—I have sat two or three years at a stretch." Pilgrim said: "Master, if you sit two or three years we may as well give up the scriptures. Two or three hours at most, and you come down." Tripitaka said: "Disciple, the trouble is I cannot get up there." Pilgrim said: "You answer him. I'll carry you up."

The elder joined his palms at his breast and said: "This humble monk can sit meditation." The king gave the edict and the platforms were raised. A state has the strength to overturn mountains: inside half an hour two platforms stood ready, one on each side of the Golden Chime Hall.

The Great Immortal Tiger Strength came down from the hall, stood at the middle of the steps, gave a spring, stepped onto a mat of cloud, and sat down on the western platform. Pilgrim plucked a hair and made a fake image to keep Bajie and Sha Monk company below; then he raised a five-colored auspicious cloud, whisked the Tang monk into the air, and sat him down on the eastern platform. He gathered in his glow, turned into a cicada grub, and flew to Bajie's ear: "Brother, watch Master carefully, and don't talk to my stand-in." The Idiot laughed: "Understood, understood."

Now the Great Immortal Deer Strength sat on his cushion watching a long time; the two above were dead even. The Daoist moved to help his brother: he plucked a short hair from the back of his head, rolled it into a ball, flicked it up, and it landed on the Tang monk's head and turned into a big bedbug, which bit the elder. First the elder felt an itch, then a pain. The rule of meditation forbids moving your hands—to move them is to lose. The pain soon passed all bearing; he ducked his head and rubbed the itch against his robe front. Bajie said: "Bad! Master's falling-sickness is on him." Sha Monk said: "No—it's a headache fit." Pilgrim heard and said: "My master is an honest man. If he says he can sit, he can sit; if he says he cannot, he cannot. Would an honest man lie? You two stop talking. I'll go up and look."

Good Pilgrim—he buzzed up, flew to the Tang monk's head, and saw a bedbug the size of a bean biting his master. He quickly pinched it off and rubbed and patted for his master. The elder, free of pain and itch, sat composed above. Pilgrim thought: "A monk's head is bald—not even a louse could settle there. How did a bedbug get on it? That Daoist must have played his trick to hurt my master. Ha! And the contest still cannot be decided. Let old Sun play him a trick!" This Pilgrim flew up, dropped onto a beast head on the golden hall, shook himself, and turned into a centipede seven inches long, went straight into the Daoist's nostril hollow and bit him. The Daoist could not sit steady; he turned a somersault and fell off—nearly losing his life. Only the crowd of officials, great and small, caught him. The king, greatly alarmed, ordered the Grand Tutor to lead him into the Hall of Literary Splendor to wash and groom. Pilgrim rode his auspicious cloud back and carried his master down to the foot of the steps—the elder had won.

The king only said: let them pass. The Great Immortal Deer Strength pleaded again: "Your Majesty, my brother has an old hidden-wind ailment. Climbing so high, he met the wind of heaven and it flared up; that is how the monk won. Keep them here a while. Let me wager with him at guessing through a board." The king said: "What is 'guessing through a board'?" Deer Strength said: "This humble Daoist has an art of knowing things through a board. Let us see whether the monk can match it. If he can out-guess me, let him go; if not, Your Majesty may set the penalty, wipe out the wrong done my brothers, and the twenty years of guarding the state will not have been shamed." And indeed the king, thoroughly muddled, took this slander and gave the word: a vermilion-lacquered cabinet was carried by palace servants into the hall. He had the lady of the palace put in a treasure. In a moment it was carried out and set before the white jade steps, and he said to monk and Daoist: "You two, wager your powers: guess what treasure lies in that cabinet."

Tripitaka said: "Disciples, how can I know what is in the cabinet?" Pilgrim drew in his glow, turned again into a cicada grub, and perched on the Tang monk's head: "Master, don't worry. I'll go and look." Good Great Sage—he flew lightly to the cabinet, crawled beneath one of its feet, and found a crack between the boards. He slipped in and saw a red-lacquered tray, and in it a set of palace clothes: the Jacket of Mountains and Rivers and the Skirt of Earth and Heaven. He picked them up with his hands, shook them into a mess, bit the tip of his tongue, blew a mouthful of blood-spray over them, called "Change!" and they turned into a tattered, worn-out bell-cloak. Before leaving he added a puddle of sharp urine. Then he slipped back out through the crack, flew to the Tang monk's ear, and said: "Master, just guess a tattered, worn-out bell-cloak." Tripitaka said: "They say to guess a treasure. What treasure is a worn-out bell-cloak?" Pilgrim said: "Never mind. Just guess it."

The Tang monk stepped forward, about to guess, when the Great Immortal Deer Strength said: "I guess first: in the cabinet is the Jacket of Mountains and Rivers and the Skirt of Earth and Heaven." The Tang monk said: "No, no. In the cabinet is a tattered, worn-out bell-cloak." The king said: "This monk is rude—he mocks my kingdom's lack of treasure, guessing some worn-out bell-cloak." He gave the order: "Seize him!" The officers of both rows moved to lay hands on him. The Tang monk, alarmed, joined his palms and cried: "Your Majesty, spare this humble monk a moment—open the cabinet and look. If it truly is a treasure, I accept my guilt; if not, would you not be wronging me?" The king ordered it opened. The officer in attendance opened it, lifted out the tray, and looked: indeed it was a tattered, worn-out bell-cloak. The king raged: "Who put this thing in?" From behind the dragon seat came the empress of the three palaces: "My lord, I with my own hands put in the Jacket of Mountains and Rivers and the Skirt of Earth and Heaven—how it turned into this I cannot say." The king said: "Withdraw, royal wife. I understand. The things used in this palace are satin and silk, damask and gauze—where would such a rag come from?" He said: "Bring up the cabinet. I will hide a treasure myself, and we shall try again." The emperor went back to the inner palace, picked from the immortal peach tree in the royal garden a great peach as big as a bowl, put it in the cabinet, had it carried down, and called for the guess.

The Tang monk said: "Disciple, it is guessing again." Pilgrim said: "Don't worry; I'll go and look." He buzzed off again, slipped in through the crack, and saw a peach—just to his liking. He showed his true form, sat in the cabinet, nibbled the peach clean in a few chomps—clean to the hollows of both cheeks—and set the pit back inside. Then he turned back into a cicada grub, flew out, perched on the Tang monk's ear, and said: "Master, guess a peach pit." The elder said: "Disciple, do not ruin me. Last time, if I had not answered quick, I would have been hauled off for execution. This time it had better be a treasure. What treasure is a peach pit?" Pilgrim said: "Don't fear. Just win."

Tripitaka was about to speak when he heard the Great Immortal Goat Strength: "This humble Daoist guesses first: an immortal peach." Tripitaka guessed: "Not a peach—a bare peach pit." The king cried: "I put in an immortal peach—how can it be a pit? The Third Preceptor has guessed it." Tripitaka said: "Your Majesty, open it and see." The officer in attendance carried it up and opened it and lifted out the tray: indeed a pit, without skin or flesh. The king saw it and his heart jumped: "Preceptor, stop the contest; let them go. An immortal peach I hid with my own hands is now only a pit—who ate it? Some god or ghost must be helping him in the dark." Bajie heard and smiled faintly with Sha Monk: "Little he knows he is a seasoned peach-eater."

While they talked, the Great Immortal Tiger Strength, fresh from his washing and grooming in the Hall of Literary Splendor, came up into the hall: "Your Majesty, this monk has an art of shifting and swapping things. Bring up the cabinet; I will break his trick, and he can guess again." The king said: "What else would the Preceptor guess?" Tiger Strength said: "An art can swap things, but it cannot swap a person. Hide this page boy inside, and I promise he cannot make the exchange." The page really was hidden in the cabinet; the lid was shut, and it was carried down. "Monk, guess again. For this third round, what treasure is inside?"

Tripitaka said: "It has come again!" Pilgrim said: "I'll go and look." He buzzed off, slipped inside, and saw a small boy. Good Great Sage—he had his wits about him: truly a shifter rare in all the world, a clever one scarce under heaven. He shook himself and took the looks of an old Daoist, went into the cabinet, and called: "Disciple." The boy said: "Master, where did you come from?" Pilgrim said: "I came by an art of escape." The boy said: "What instruction have you for me?" Pilgrim said: "That monk saw you go into the cabinet. If he guesses a Daoist page, won't we lose again? So I have come to scheme with you: shave your head, and we will guess a monk." The boy said: "Do as you think best, Master—so long as we win. If we lose to him again, it lowers our name, and I fear the court will stop honoring us." Pilgrim said: "Well said. Come here, my son—beat him, and I will reward you richly." He turned the gold-banded staff into a razor, gathered the boy into his arms, and said: "There is a good boy. Bear the sting, and don't make a sound. I am shaving your head." In a moment the hair was off; he balled it up and stuffed it into the cracks at the cabinet's foot. He put the razor away, felt the shining head, and said: "My son, the head looks like a monk's, but the clothes do not fit. Take them off, and I will change them for you." The page wore a crane-feather cloak of onion-white silk, cloud-toed and flower-patterned, with a brocade border; he really did take it off. Pilgrim blew on it a breath of magic air, called "Change!" and it became a dull yellow robe, which he put on the boy. Then he plucked two hairs, turned them into a wooden fish drum, put it in the boy's hand, and said: "Disciple, listen: if they call for a Daoist page, do not come out for anything. But if they call for a monk, push open the lid for me, knock the wooden fish, recite a scroll of Buddha's scripture, and crawl out—then we win." The boy said: "I only know the Classic of the Three Officials, the Classic of the Northern Dipper, and the Classic of Averting Calamity. I cannot recite Buddhist scripture." Pilgrim said: "Can you say 'Amitabha'?" The boy said: "Amitabha—who cannot say that?" Pilgrim said: "Good, good. Then say Buddha, and spare me the teaching. Remember now—I am off." He turned back into a cicada grub, slipped out, flew to the rim of the Tang monk's ear, and said: "Master, guess a monk." Tripitaka said: "This time he is sure to win." Pilgrim said: "How can you be sure?" Tripitaka said: "The scriptures say: 'The Three Treasures are the Buddha, the Law, and the Order.' A monk is one of the treasures."

As he spoke, the Great Immortal Tiger Strength said: "Your Majesty, the third round holds a Daoist page." He called and called, but the boy would not come out. Tripitaka joined his palms: "It is a monk." Bajie bawled with all his might: "In the cabinet is a monk." The boy suddenly pushed open the lid, knocked the wooden fish, recited Buddha's name, and crawled out. The civil and military officials of both rows cried out in praise; the three Daoists stood with shut mouths and nothing to say.

The king said: "This monk has gods and spirits at his side. How does a Daoist go into a cabinet and come out a monk? Even if a barber slipped in after him, he could only shave the head—how did the clothes fit too, and how does he recite Buddha's name? Preceptor, let them go." The Great Immortal Tiger Strength said: "Your Majesty, it is simply the chess player meeting his match, the general meeting good timber. With the arts I learned as a boy on Mount Zhongnan, I will wager with him to the finish." The king said: "What arts?" Tiger Strength said: "All three of us brothers have some powers: we can have our heads cut off and put them back on; our bellies opened and hearts dug out, and grow whole again; and bathe in boiling oil." The king, shocked: "All three are roads to death." Tiger Strength said: "Only because we have such powers do we dare speak so boldly. We must wager to a finish." The king called: "Monk of the East—the Preceptor will not let you go. He wants to wager with you at beheading, at belly-opening, and at bathing in boiling oil."

Pilgrim, in the shape of a cicada grub, was flying back and forth carrying news; hearing this, he took in the hair, showed his true form, and laughed out loud: "Luck, luck! Trade has come to my door." Bajie said: "All three are matters of life and death. What do you mean, trade at your door?" Pilgrim said: "You don't know my powers yet." Bajie said: "Brother, your shifting tricks are already enough. How do you come to have powers like these besides?" Pilgrim said: "I—

have my head cut off and still can talk; my arms chopped off, I'll strike you yet.Cut off at the legs, I still can walk; my belly opened, it closes flat, past all compare.Just like folk wrapping dumplings at home—one pinch, and it is whole again.Bathing in an oil vat is easier still—it is only warm soup washing off the dust."

Bajie and Sha Monk heard and laughed out loud.

Pilgrim stepped forward: "Your Majesty, this little monk can be beheaded." The king said: "How can you be beheaded and live?" Pilgrim said: "When I was cultivating in the old temple, I met a wandering Chan brother who taught me a trick of beheading. I don't know whether it is any good—let us give it a new try now." The king laughed: "The young monk does not know the world. Where is there a 'new try' for beheading? The head is the seat of the six yangs; once it is off, you die." Tiger Strength said: "Your Majesty, that is just what we want—only so can we vent our anger." The muddled king believed him and gave the edict: set up the execution ground.

At the word, three thousand of the guard lined up outside the court gates. The king said: "Let the monk be beheaded first." Pilgrim answered gladly: "I'll go first, I'll go first." He raised his hands in salute and called loudly: "Preceptor, forgive my boldness—I take the lead." He turned his head and started out. The Tang monk caught his sleeve: "Disciple, be careful. That is no place for play." Pilgrim said: "What is there to fear? Let go, and I'll be back."

The Great Sage went straight into the execution ground, where the executioner seized him, trussed him into a bundle, and pressed him down on the high earthen block. At the shout "Begin the cut!"—swish—the head came off. The executioner gave it a kick, and it rolled like a watermelon, thirty or forty paces away. Not a drop of blood came from Pilgrim's neck, and from inside him came a call: "Head, come back!" The Great Immortal Deer Strength, seeing such powers, panicked and said a spell to the local earth god and the spirits of the place: "Hold that head down. When I have beaten the monk and reported to the king, I will have your little shrine rebuilt into a great temple, and your clay statue regilded in true gold." The earth god and the spirits, because he had the Five Thunders art, did indeed serve him, and in the dark they truly held Pilgrim's head down. Pilgrim called again: "Head, come back!" The head might have grown roots—it would not move. Pilgrim's heart burned; he clenched his fists and strained, snapped every rope that bound him, shouted "Grow!"—and swish, out of the neck grew a head. The executioners' hearts all jumped, and every man of the guard went cold. The overseeing officer rushed into court to report: "Ten thousand years! The little monk's head was cut off, and a new one has grown out." Bajie smiled coldly: "Sha Monk—so our brother had this power too." Sha Monk said: "He has seventy-two transformations, so he has seventy-two heads."

Before the words were done, Pilgrim came walking up and called: "Master." Tripitaka was overjoyed: "Disciple, was it hard?" Pilgrim said: "Not hard at all. Good fun." Bajie said: "Brother, do you need wound salve?" Pilgrim said: "Feel and see—is there a scar?" The Idiot reached out, felt, and stood gaping with delight: "Wonderful, wonderful! It grew back whole—not a mark of the cut."

The brothers were still rejoicing when they heard the king call for the papers: "You are pardoned. Go quickly, go quickly." Pilgrim said: "I will take the papers, but the Preceptor must go to the block too and have his head tried—it is only fair to give it a new try as well." The king said: "Great Preceptor, the monk will not let you off either. Wager with him—but do not frighten me." Tiger Strength had to go. Several executioners trussed him too, gave a swish, cut off his head, and kicked it away; it rolled thirty paces and more. No blood came from his neck, and he too called: "Head, come back!" Pilgrim quickly plucked a hair, blew on it a breath of magic air, called "Change!" and turned it into a yellow dog, which ran into the ground, picked up the Daoist's head in one bite, and ran straight to the royal river and dropped it in. No more of that for now.

Now the Daoist called three times, and no head came. Unlike Pilgrim's powers, nothing grew; from the neck burst out a gush of red light. Poor man—all his arts of calling rain and wind could not match an immortal of the true fruit and long life. In a moment he lay in the dust. The crowd looked: it was a headless yellow-furred tiger.

The overseeing officer came again to report: "Ten thousand years! The Great Preceptor's head was cut off, could not grow again, and he lies dead in the dust—a headless yellow-furred tiger." The king heard, paled with shock, and stared fixedly at the two Daoists. Deer Strength rose: "My brother has lost his fate and his fortune—but how could he be a yellow tiger? It is that monk's trickery, his mask-and-mirror art, that turned my brother into a beast. I will not forgive him now. I will wager with him at belly-opening and heart-cutting."

The king heard and came back to himself. He called: "Little monk, the Second Preceptor still wants a wager with you." Pilgrim said: "This little monk has not eaten cooked food in a long while. Coming west the other day I fell in with a vegetarian host who pressed food on me, and I ate a few buns too many; these last days my belly aches. I think I have bred worms. I was just hoping to borrow Your Majesty's knife, open my belly, take out my organs, and wash my stomach and spleen clean—then I can go on west to see the Buddha." The king heard and said: "Take him to the block." The crowd dragged and pulled at him. Pilgrim shook free: "No need to drag me—I can walk. On one condition: no tying my hands. I need my hands to wash my organs." The king gave the word: "Do not bind his hands."

Pilgrim swayed along and came to the execution ground. He leaned against the great post, undid his belt, and bared his belly. The executioner looped one rope round his arms and neck, tied another round his legs, flourished a short ox-ear knife, and cut under the belly, punching a hole. Pilgrim pulled the belly open with both hands, took out his guts and organs, and straightened them out one by one for a good while, then put them all back inside, coiled as before. He pinched the belly skin, blew on it a breath of magic air, called "Grow!"—and it closed up whole as ever.

The king, greatly shocked, held the travel papers in his hands: "Holy monk, do not delay your journey west. Take your papers and go." Pilgrim laughed: "The papers are a small matter. Let the Second Preceptor have his turn at cutting and carving—what do you say?" The king said to Deer Strength: "This is no affair of mine. You wanted the match. Go on, go on." Deer Strength said: "Ease your heart. I will not lose to him."

Look at him—just like the Great Sage Sun, swaying along, straight into the execution ground. The executioner roped him, and with a rending sound the short ox-ear knife opened his belly. He too took out his liver and guts and fingered them with his hands. Pilgrim plucked a hair, blew on it a breath of magic air, called "Change!" and turned it into a hungry hawk, which spread wings and claws and in a swish snatched away all his organs, heart and liver, and flew off who knows where to feast. The Daoist was left an empty-bellied, broken-gutted dripping ghost, a roaming soul short of organs and without guts. The executioners kicked over the great post and dragged the body out to look—ah! It was a white-furred horned deer.

The overseeing officer, in a flutter, came to report: "Ten thousand years! Bad luck for the Second Preceptor. In the very middle of the belly-cutting, a hungry hawk snatched away all his organs, liver and guts, and he died on the spot. His true form is a white-furred horned deer." The king said in fear: "How can he be a horned deer?" The Great Immortal Goat Strength pleaded again: "My brothers are dead—how could they show beast shapes, unless that monk uses his arts to work our ruin? Let me avenge my brothers." The king said: "What power do you have to beat him?" Goat Strength said: "I will wager with him at bathing in boiling oil." The king had a great pot brought, filled with fragrant oil, and told the two to wager. Pilgrim said: "Thank you for your care. This little monk has not bathed in an age; these last two days my skin is dry and itchy—bathe I must."

The officer in attendance set out the oil pot, stacked dry wood, lit a fierce fire, and brought the oil to a boil, and told the monk to go in first. Pilgrim joined his palms: "Which is it—bathing in dress, or bathing in undress?" The king said: "What is bathing in dress? What is bathing in undress?" Pilgrim said: "In dress: without taking off your clothes, fold your hands like this, go in, turn one somersault, and come out—no soiling your clothes. One spot of grease, and you lose. In undress: you take a clothes rack and a towel, strip, jump in, and turn somersaults and stand on your head as you please, bathing for the fun of it." The king said to Goat Strength: "Will you bathe with him in dress or in undress?" Goat Strength said: "In dress, I fear his clothes are drug-tempered and shed the oil. Let it be undress."

Pilgrim stepped up again: "Forgive my boldness—I take the lead once more." Watch him: he stripped off his cloth robe, took off his tiger-skin kilt, gave a spring, and jumped into the pot, rolling through waves and tumbling with billows, playing like a man carrying water. Bajie watched, biting his finger, and said to Sha Monk: "We have misjudged this monkey all along. All this time we have needled him and bantered for sport—who knew he had such real powers?" The two of them muttered praise without end.

Pilgrim saw and grew suspicious: "That Idiot is laughing at me. Just as they say, 'the clever do the work and the clumsy take it easy.' Old Sun splashes about while he stands at his ease. Let me rope him into one binding and see whether he is scared." Bathing away, he gave a splash, dove to the bottom of the pot, turned into a date-pit nail, and did not come up again.

The overseeing officer came near and reported: "Ten thousand years! The little monk has been boiled to death in the oil." The king was delighted and had the bones fished out to see. The executioner dipped an iron strainer into the pot. But the strainer's mesh was wide and the nail Pilgrim had become was tiny; back and forth it slipped through the mesh—how could they fish him out? The officer reported again: "The monk's body was slight and his bones tender; they have all fried away." The king said: "Seize the other two monks." The officers on both sides, seeing Bajie's fierce face, flipped him over first and bound his arms behind him.

Tripitaka cried out in panic: "Your Majesty, spare this humble monk a moment. That disciple of mine, since he took the faith, has served at every turn. Today he offended the preceptors and died in the oil pot. Well—the dead go first to godhead. How dare I cling to life? As they say, the officials of the world govern the people of the world: if Your Majesty orders your servant to die, how dare he not die? I ask only one kindness: give me half a bowl of cold water and rice, and three paper horses, and let me stand before the oil pot and burn this sheaf of paper, to show one thought of the bond between master and disciples. Then I will take my punishment." The king heard and said: "Fair enough. Men of China have a sense of honor." He ordered the gruel and rice and yellow paper money brought, and it was handed to the Tang monk.

The Tang monk had Sha Monk go with him. At the foot of the steps a few officers held Bajie by the ears, dragged to the pot's side. Tripitaka prayed toward the pot: "Disciple Sun Wukong—

since you took the vows and bowed in the Chan grove, deep has been the love that guards me going west.I hoped we both would reach the great Way together—who thought that today you would go down to the dark.In life your only thought was seeking scriptures; in death your heart still holds the Buddha's name.Hero soul of ten thousand li, you must wait: as a ghost in the dark world, climb up to Vulture Peak."

Bajie heard: "Master, do not pray like that. Sha Monk, you pour the offering; let me say the prayer." The Idiot, bound on the ground, puffed with rage: "You trouble-making wretched monkey, you witless Bimawen; you death-doomed wretched monkey, you oil-boiled Bimawen. The monkey's done for, and the horse-keeper's line is cut." Sun the Pilgrim, at the bottom of the oil pot, heard the Idiot cursing away, could not stand it, and showed his true form, dripping wet, standing on the pot's bottom: "You lump of dough, you clod! Who are you cursing?" The Tang monk saw him: "Disciple, you scared me to death!" Sha Monk said: "Big brother, it is an old habit—shamming death and pushing it off clean."

The civil and military officials of both rows rushed forward: "Ten thousand years! The monk is not dead—he has crawled up out of the oil again." The overseeing officer, afraid of lying to the court, reported instead: "Dead he is, all right—but the day was an unlucky one. The little monk's ghost is showing itself." Pilgrim heard, and boiled over. He jumped from the pot, wiped off the grease, put on his clothes, drew the staff, seized the overseeing officer, and with one blow on the head beat him into a lump of meat: "Whose ghost is showing, then?" The officials, terrified, untied Bajie at once and knelt begging: "Forgive us, forgive us." The king came down off the dragon seat, and Pilgrim went up the hall and grabbed him: "Your Majesty, do not run. Have your Third Preceptor go into the oil pot too." The emperor, trembling: "Third Preceptor, save my life—get into the pot quickly, or the monk will beat me."

Goat Strength came down from the hall, stripped like Pilgrim, jumped into the oil pot, and splashed about bathing the same way. Pilgrim let the king go, came to the pot's edge, and told the stokers to add wood. Then he reached in and felt—ah! The boiling oil had all gone cold. He thought: "When I bathed, it seethed; when he bathes, it goes cold. I have it—some Dragon King must be guarding him here." He sprang up into the air, said the spell "Om," and called up the Dragon King of the Northern Sea: "You horned earthworm, you scaled loach! Why help the Daoist—chilling the pot bottom with your cold dragon, to let him play the saint and beat me?" The Dragon King stammered yes, yes at every word: "Ao Shun dared not help him. The truth is, Great Sage, you did not know: this wretched beast labored long at cultivation and shed his shell, but only his Five Thunders art is a true receipt; all the rest is side-gate stuff, and it will never bring him to the immortal way. This is the Big Splitting he learned on Little Thatch Mountain. Those two have already been broken by you, Great Sage, and made to show their true forms. This one's cold dragon is his own refining too—it can fool common folk at play, but how could it fool the Great Sage? This little dragon will take his cold dragon away now, and I promise you bones shattered and skin scorched." Pilgrim said: "Take it away quick, and spare yourself a beating." The Dragon King turned into a whirlwind, went to the oil pot's edge, caught up the cold dragon, and carried it off to the sea. No more of that for now.

Pilgrim came down and stood before the hall with Tripitaka, Bajie, and Sha Monk, and watched the Daoist struggling in the boiling oil, unable to climb out. He slipped once, and in a moment his bones came apart, his skin scorched, his flesh boiled to rags.

The overseeing officer came again to report: "Ten thousand years! The Third Preceptor has fried away." The king, tears filling his eyes, beat his hand on the royal desk and wept aloud:

"A human body is hard to win—truly hard; without the true transmission, do not refine the elixir.You had the art to drive out gods and charm water, but no pill to lengthen life and guard it.The shining whole—how could it reach nirvana? Spending your wits only unsettled your fate.Had you known so light a blow would fall, better to have eaten in peace, hidden safe in the hills."

This is truly:

Pointing stone to gold and smelting mercury—what did they avail? Calling the wind and summoning the rain—it was all emptiness!

How master and disciples would manage next—listen to the next chapter to find out.