Chapter 47

The Holy Monk Is Halted at Night by the Water That Reaches Heaven; Metal and Wood, in Mercy, Save the Children

Now the king leaned on the dragon bed, tears gushing like a spring, and wept until dark without staying. Pilgrim came up and called aloud: “Why are you so befuddled? The bodies of the Daoists are lying there: one a tiger, one a deer, and Goat Strength an antelope. If you will not believe it, have the bones fished up and look: where among men are such skulls? They were mountain beasts turned spirits, who came with one heart to destroy you; but seeing your fortune still in its vigor, they dared not strike. Had two years more passed and your fortune declined, they would have taken your life and swallowed your kingdom whole. It is our luck to have come early, rooted out the demons, and saved your life. What are you crying for? Crying for? Hurry and stamp the rescript, and send us out.” The king, hearing this, came to himself at last. The officers, civil and military, all reported: “The dead are truly a white deer and a yellow tiger, and in the caldron truly goat bones. The holy monk's words must be heeded.” The king said: “If it is so, we thank the holy monk. The day is late.” He told the Grand Tutor: “Escort the holy monk to the Temple of the Abyss of Wisdom. Tomorrow at morning court the Eastern Pavilion will be thrown open, and the Court of Imperial Entertainments will lay a pure vegetarian feast in thanks.” And so they were escorted to the temple to rest.

At the fifth watch next morning the king held court, gathered his officers, and sent the word: “Quickly — post the proclamation inviting monks, at all four gates and along every road.” On the other side the feast was laid in grand array; the carriage came out of court to the gate of the Temple of the Abyss of Wisdom, the Tang monk and his party were invited, and all went together into the Eastern Pavilion to the feast — no more of that.

Now the monks who had escaped with their lives, hearing of the proclamation inviting monks, came joyfully into the city, one and all, to find the Great Sage Sun, return their hairs, and give thanks. When the elder had risen from the feast, the king, his rescript exchanged, with the queen and the consorts and the two wings of civil and military officials, escorted them out the court gate. There the monks knelt by the roadside, saying: “Grandpa the Great Sage Equal to Heaven: we are the monks who escaped with our lives from the sandbank. We heard you had swept away the demons and rescued us, and that our king has posted the proclamation inviting monks, and we have come to return your hairs and knock our heads in thanks for heaven's grace.” Pilgrim laughed: “How many have come?” The monks said: “Five hundred — not half a one missing.” Pilgrim shook himself and gathered in the hairs. He said to king and ministers, monks and laymen: “These monks old Sun did release; the carts old Sun hauled over the two barriers, through the spine pass, and smashed; and those two Daoist monsters old Sun beat to death. Now that the demons are destroyed, you know there is power in the gate of Chan. Never again do such things or follow such beliefs. I would have you join the three teachings into one: honor the monks, honor the Daoists, and bring up worthy men. Then I will keep your kingdom firm forever.” The king followed his counsel, thanked him past telling, and saw the Tang monk out of the city.

On this journey, only for devotion did they serve the Tripitaka; striving at practice, they glorified the One Origin. They walked at dawn and lodged at night, drank when thirsty, ate when hungry, and before they knew it spring was gone and summer spent, and it was the weather of autumn again. One day, the light already failing, the Tang monk reined in: “Disciples, where shall we sleep tonight?” Pilgrim said: “Master, we who have left home do not talk like people who stayed home.” Tripitaka said: “And how is it with those who stayed home? And with us who left it?” Pilgrim said: “Those who stayed home at this hour are in warm beds under warm covers, a child hugged to the breast, a wife kicking at their heels, sleeping at their ease. We who left home — where would we find that? We wear the moon and mantle the stars, eat the wind and sleep on waters: while there is road, we walk; when there is none, we stop.” Bajie said: “Brother, you know one thing and not the other. The roads now are steep and rough; I carry a heavy load, and it is hard going. We must find a place to sleep a good sleep and refresh our strength, or how shall I shoulder the load tomorrow? Otherwise you will have me carried off my feet.” Pilgrim said: “Let us go another stage by the moonlight, and lodge where there are houses.” Master and disciples had no choice but to follow Pilgrim on.

They had not gone far when they heard the roar of rushing waves. Bajie said: “That is done — we have come to the end of the road.” Sha Monk said: “A stretch of water blocks the way.” The Tang monk said: “How are we to cross?” Bajie said: “Let me test it and see how deep it is.” Tripitaka said: “Wuneng, stop your nonsense: how would you test the depth of water?” Bajie said: “Find an egg-shaped pebble and toss it in midstream. If it splashes bubbles, it is shallow; if it goes down gulping with a sound, it is deep.” Pilgrim said: “Go try.” The Idiot groped up a stone and tossed it into the water; they heard it go down gulping, with a swirl of fish-spume, to the bottom. He said: “Deep, deep, deep — we cannot get over!” The Tang monk said: “You may have tested the depth, but you do not know how wide it is.” Bajie said: “That I do not know, that I do not.” Pilgrim said: “Let me look.” The good Great Sage rode the somersault cloud, leapt into the air, and fixed his gaze — and this is what he saw:

A broad sheen washing the moon; a vast shadow floating on the sky.The numinous stream swallows Mount Hua; the long current threads a hundred rivers.A thousand layers of ravening waves roll; ten thousand folded ridges of steep billows toss.No fishing fires at the banks; on the sand-heads egrets sleep.A blank expanse, like the very sea: one gaze and no shore at all.

He hastily drew in the cloud and came down on the bank: “Master, it is wide, wide — we cannot get over! Old Sun has fiery eyes and golden pupils: by daylight I can often see a thousand li, and know good luck from bad; by night I can see three hundred, five hundred. Now I look and look and cannot see the banks: how would I fix the number of its breadth?”

Tripitaka was badly startled; his mouth could not speak, his voice choked: “Disciples — what is to be done?” Sha Monk said: “Master, do not cry. Look: there by the water stands something — is that not a man?” Pilgrim said: “Some fisherman hauling his net, maybe. I will go ask.” He took the iron staff and in two or three strides was up to it — ah! Not a man: a stone tablet. On the tablet were three great characters in seal script, and below, two lines of ten small ones. The three great characters read REACH-HEAVEN RIVER; the ten small ones read: EIGHT HUNDRED LI STRAIGHT ACROSS; FROM ALL AGES FEW HAVE CROSSED. Pilgrim called: “Master, come look.” Tripitaka looked, and dropped tears: “Disciples, when I left Chang'an I thought the road west easy. Who knew the demons would bar the way, the mountains and waters stretch so far.”

Bajie said: “Master, listen: drums and cymbals somewhere. Some household keeping a religious feast, I would say. Let us go angle for a vegetarian meal, ask the way to a ferry, and cross tomorrow.” The Tang monk, listening from the saddle, heard indeed the sound of drums and cymbals: “Those are no Daoist instruments: it is our own Buddhist work. Let us go.” Pilgrim led the horse ahead, and the whole party came following the sound. There was no proper road: high or low, across the sandbank, they saw a cluster of dwellings, four or five hundred households by guess, and well kept too. Behold:

Leaning on the hill, opening the road; by the bank, over the brook. Everywhere wicket gates half shut; every household's bamboo court made fast. On the sand-heads the sleeping egrets dream sweet dreams; beyond the willows crying birds have cold throats. The short flute is silent; the cold washing-mallets keep no time. Red knotweed sways its sprays in the moonlight; yellow reed-leaves vie with the wind. At the field's edge village dogs bark at the sparse hedge; at the ferry the old fisherman sleeps in his skiff. Lamps few, hearths still, and high in the sky a bright moon like a hanging mirror. Suddenly a breath of white-clover fragrance: the west wind, from across the water, bringing it.

The Tang monk dismounted. At the head of the road stood a house, a banner-pole planted outside its gate, lamps and candles a-blaze within, incense smoking sweet. The Tang monk said: “Wukong, this place is different from those mountain hollows and river banks. Under the eaves of men we can be sheltered from the cold dew, and sleep sound without fear. None of you come: let me go first to this pious giver's door and beg. If he will take me in, I will call to you; if not, none of your rampaging. Your faces are ugly: you might frighten people and bring down trouble — and then there would be no lodging at all.” Pilgrim said: “Well said. Master, go first; we will wait here.”

The elder took off his bamboo hat, bareheaded, shook out his gown, trailed his tin staff, and came to the gate of the house. The door stood half open, half shut; the Tang monk dared not push in. He stood a little while, and out came an old man, beads at his throat, chanting Amida Buddha, coming to shut the door. The elder, startled, put his palms together and called: “Worthy patron — your humble monk gives greeting.” The old man returned the bow: “Monk, you have come too late.” The Tang monk said: “How so?” The old man said: “Come late, and there is nothing left. Had you come earlier, my house was feeding the monks: all the rice you could eat, three sheng of polished rice, a length of white cloth, ten coppers. Why come only at this hour?” The Tang monk bowed: “Worthy patron, your humble monk is no hunger-chaser of feasts.” The old man said: “If not for a feast, what business brings you?” The Tang monk said: “I am sent under the imperial seal of the Great Tang in the Land of the East to the Western Heaven for scriptures. I have reached your place, and the day is dark. Hearing drums and cymbals at your house, I have come to beg a lodging for the night, and I go on at first light.” The old man waved his hands: “Monk, you who have left home must not tell lies. From the Great Tang in the Land of the East to here is fifty-four thousand li. Alone and unattended, how could you come?” The Tang monk said: “You see very truly, worthy patron. But I have three young disciples: they open roads through mountains and bridge the waters, and so guarded your humble monk here.” The old man said: “If you have disciples, why did they not come with you?” He called: “Come, come — there is room in my house to sleep.” The Tang monk turned and called: “Disciples — come here.”

Now Pilgrim was hasty by nature, Bajie rude by birth, and Sha Monk headlong too; the three, hearing their master call, led the horse, shouldered the load, and without asking good or bad came swarming in like a gust of wind. The old man, seeing, fell down in a fright, saying only: “The monsters are come, the monsters are come!” The Tang monk raised him: “Worthy patron, no fear: not monsters — my disciples.” Quaking, the old man said: “A master so handsome — how could he find disciples so ugly?” The Tang monk said: “Their looks are nothing — but they can ride down dragons and tame tigers, take monsters and seize demons.” Half believing, the old man helped the Tang monk slowly in.

Now those three fierce ones swarmed into the hall, tied the horse, dumped the luggage. In the hall several monks were chanting scripture; Bajie thrust out his long snout and bawled: “Hey, monks — what scripture is that you are chanting?” The monks, hearing themselves questioned, looked up suddenly —

To see the strangers come: long snout and ears so wide.Thick body, broad of shoulder; a voice like thunder's crash.Pilgrim and Sha Monk beside — still uglier their faces.Of all the monks in that great hall, not one but shook with terror.The cantors chanted on; the leader bade them stop.No thought for chime or bell; the Buddha-images dropped and left.Together they blew out the lamps, and scattered in the flare.Stumbling and sprawling — the door-sill never crossed.Your head knocks my head: a trellis of gourds tipped over.A fair and quiet service turned to open laughter.

The three brothers, seeing them stumbling and sprawling, clapped their hands and roared with laughter. The monks, in greater terror still, knocked their heads together, each for his own life, and cleared out every one.

The Tang monk helped the old man up into the hall — not a lamp left burning — and the three were still rocking with laughter. The Tang monk cursed them: “You shameless things, utterly ill-mannered! I have admonished you morning upon morning, pressed it on you day upon day. The ancients said: ‘Good without teaching — what but a saint? Good after teaching — what but a worthy? Taught, and still not good — what but a fool?’ To rampage like this is to be the lowest of the low and fools into the bargain. In the door you came with no sense of what is above or below: you have frightened an old patron to the ground, scared off the chanting monks, and spoiled a good house's good work — and the sin falls on me?” They dared not answer. The old man now believed these were his disciples, and bowed to them in haste: “Masters, no great harm, no great harm. The lamps were just put out, the flowers scattered: the service was on the point of ending.” Bajie said: “If it is settled, bring out the last of the feast, wine and rice: we will eat and sleep.” The old man called: “Lights, lights!” His household, hearing, made a great wonder of it: “The scriptures are being chanted in the hall, with all those candles — why call for lights?” Several servants came out to look, found the place pitch dark, and lit torches and lanterns, and came crowding in. Suddenly they looked up and saw Bajie and Sha Monk, dropped their torches in a fright, whipped round, and clapped to the middle door, shouting inside: “Monsters! Monsters!”

Pilgrim took up a torch, lit the lamps and candles, drew up a folding chair, and begged the Tang monk to sit in the place of honor; he and his brothers sat on either side, and the old man before them. As they settled, the inner door opened and out came another old man, propped on a staff: “What demons are these, come in the black of night to a house of good works?” The old man seated in front rose at once and met him behind the screen door: “Brother, no shouting: no demons — these are the holy ones of the Great Tang in the Land of the East, going for scriptures. Fierce as the disciples' faces are, ill-looking men are kind at heart.” The old man put down his staff then, made his reverence to the four, and when the courtesies were done, sat before them too, and called: “Tea — and lay the vegetarian table.” He called several times, while the servants, quaking, dared not come near.

Bajie could not help asking: “Old sir, why do your servants keep running on both sides?” The old man said: “I tell them to bring the vegetarian dishes and wait on you masters.” Bajie said: “How many waiting on us?” The old man said: “Eight.” Bajie said: “And the eight wait on which of us?” The old man said: “On you four.” Bajie said: “The pale-faced master there wants one man; the hairy-faced thunder-beak wants two; the unlucky-faced one wants eight — and I would want twenty waiting on me before it was enough.” The old man said: “By that reckoning, your innards must be the largest.” Bajie said: “It would pass, just about.” The old man said: “People, then — people!” Great and small, he called out thirty or forty.

Monk and old man talked, question and answer, and the household lost its fear. A table was laid at the top, and the Tang monk begged to the seat of honor; three tables at the sides for the three; at the front a table for the two old men. First came the plain fruits and vegetables, then noodle dishes and rice, snacks and vermicelli soup, all set out neat and plentiful. The elder Tang raised his chopsticks and first chanted a scroll of the Grace-at-Meal scripture. The Idiot, hasty of gullet and hungry besides, could not wait for the master's scripture to end: he grabbed the red-lacquered wooden bowl and slapped a whole bowl of white rice down his throat — done. A servant beside said: “This master has no craft at all: instead of pocketing buns, he pockets rice — and ruins his clothes with it!” Bajie laughed: “No pocketing — eaten.” The servant said: “Your mouth never moved: how eaten?” Bajie said: “Call me a liar, boy, if I did not eat it. Do not believe me? I will eat another and show you.” The servants brought another bowl, filled it, and handed it over. The Idiot wagged it once and slapped it down his throat — done. The servants cried: “Grandpa! Your gullet is brick-built and mortared — polished and slick, truly!” The Tang monk's scroll of scripture was not yet finished, and already five or six bowls had passed through his hands. Only then did all raise their chopsticks together and eat. The Idiot, rice or noodles, fruit or snack, grabbed and gulped and still bawled: “More rice, more rice!” — and slowly the food gave out. Pilgrim called: “Worthy brother, eat a little less; better than starving in a mountain hollow — enough for half a belly is fine.” Bajie said: “Look at him. The saying goes: ‘Feed the monks short of full, and you might as well bury them alive.’” Pilgrim said: “Clear the table, and pay him no mind.” The two old men bowed: “To tell the truth, masters: by day we would not be afraid — such a bellied elder as this we could feed a hundred and more of. But it is late: the remains of the feast were cleared, and all we steamed was a shi of noodle-buns, five dou of rice, and a few tables of vegetarian food, to treat a few kin and neighbors and give the monks their blessing-bits. We never looked for you masters. The monks were frightened off, we dared not invite the kin, and everything has gone before you. If it is not enough, we will steam more.” Bajie said: “Steam more, steam more!”

The table was cleared. The Tang monk rose, thanked them for the meal, and asked: “What is your honorable surname, worthy patron?” The old man said: “Chen.” The Tang monk put his palms together: “Then we are of one clan, your humble monk and you.” The old man said: “You are surnamed Chen too, master?” The Tang monk said: “I am: my lay family was Chen. May I ask what feast you were keeping just now?” Bajie laughed: “Master, why ask him? Do we not know? A green-shoots feast, a peace feast, a wind-up feast, that is all.” The old man said: “No, no.” The Tang monk asked again: “What was it, truly?” The old man said: “A feast of preparation for death.” Bajie laughed till he toppled: “Granddad, your eyes are bad. We are the lords of lying and bridging and gulling folk — and you would gull me with that lie? Do monks not know the feasts? There is the feast of storing merit in advance, the feast of repayment in advance — where was there ever a ‘preparation-for-death feast’? None of your household has died: why keep a death feast?”

Pilgrim, hearing, was secretly pleased: “The Idiot is getting clever. — Granddad, you have misspoken. What is a ‘preparation-for-death feast’?” The two old men leaned forward: “If you are going for scriptures, why not keep the proper road, and come tumbling to our door?” Pilgrim said: “The road we kept is proper: only a stretch of water barred the way, and we could not cross; and hearing drums and cymbals, we came on purpose to beg a lodging.” The old man said: “At the water — did you see anything?” Pilgrim said: “Only a stone tablet, with the three characters ‘Reach-Heaven River,’ and beneath, the ten: ‘Eight hundred li straight across; from all ages few have crossed.’ Nothing else.” The old man said: “Walk a little farther up the bank — a li, hardly more, from that tablet — and there is a temple of the Great King Divine-Responsive. You did not see it?” Pilgrim said: “I did not. Tell us, granddad: what is ‘Divine-Responsive’?” The two old men dropped tears together: “Masters, that Great King—”

“Fills a whole countryside with awe, and temples rise; his power guards the people a thousand li.Year by year he sheds sweet rain on the farms; age after age he drops clouds of blessing on the village.”

Pilgrim said: “Sweet rain shed, blessing clouds dropped — that is well-meaning enough. Why so grieved and troubled, then?” The old man stamped and beat his breast and gave a groan: “Masters—”

“Much of his grace — but grudge there is as well; kind his keeping — yet it kills.Only because he must eat boys and girls: no open, upright god is he.”

Pilgrim said: “He eats boys and girls?” The old man said: “He does.” Pilgrim said: “And it has come round to your house, I suppose?” The old man said: “This year it has fallen to us. A hundred households dwell here. The place is under Yuansui County of the Kingdom of Cart-Slow, and is called Chen Family Farm. The Great King demands his sacrifice once a year: a boy child and a girl child, with pigs and sheep and offerings. He eats his fill, and keeps our winds in season and our rains in time; if the sacrifice fails, he sends down calamity.” Pilgrim said: “How many sons at your house?” The old man beat his breast: “The pity of it, the pity of it! Talk of sons — it shames us. This is my younger brother, Chen Qing. I am called Chen Cheng. I am sixty-three this year, he is fifty-eight, and children come hard to both of us. At fifty I had no son. Friends pressed me to take a concubine; there was no help for it, I found one, and she bore a daughter, just turned eight, named One-Weight of Gold.” Bajie said: “A precious name. Why ‘One-Weight of Gold’?” The old man said: “Such a hard time I had of children: I mended bridges, paved roads, built temples, raised pagodas, gave alms and fed monks — and kept an account book: where I spent three taels, where five. By the year the girl was born the spending came to thirty catties of gold; and thirty catties make one weight. So she is called One-Weight of Gold.” Pilgrim said: “And whose is the boy?” The old man said: “My brother has a son, by his concubine too, seven this year, named Chen Guanbao.” Pilgrim asked: “Why that name?” The old man said: “Our house keeps the shrine of Lord Guan; at Lord Guan's altar we prayed for this boy, and so he is Guanbao — Guan's treasure. Between us two brothers, a hundred and twenty years of age, we have but these two children. Now the turn of sacrifice has come to our house, and we dare not withhold them. The love of father and child is hard to cut, hard to part: so we are first holding a deliverance service for the children. Hence a ‘feast of preparation for death.’”

The Tang monk, hearing, could not keep the tears from his cheeks: “It is as the ancients said: ‘The ripe plum does not fall — the green plum falls first: heaven harms the childless worst.’” Pilgrim laughed: “Let me ask him further. Granddad, what estate have you?” The two old men said: “Something: fifty or sixty qing of wet fields, sixty or seventy of dry; eighty or ninety pastures; two or three hundred water buffalo, thirty or twenty donkeys and horses, pigs and sheep and chickens and geese past counting; in the house, old grain we cannot eat and clothes we cannot wear. Our goods and lands would make a figure.” Pilgrim said: “An estate like this — and you saved up for it, I see.” The old man said: “How do you mean, saved?” Pilgrim said: “With such property, how could you bear to give your own children to the sacrifice? At fifty taels of silver you could buy a boy child; at a hundred taels, a girl child. With expenses, two hundred taels all told — and you would keep your own children and your line. Would that not be better?” The two old men dropped tears: “Master, you do not know. The Great King is divinely sharp: he walks among our houses.” Pilgrim said: “When he walks among you, what face do you see? How long or short is he?” The two old men said: “We see no shape: only a breath of fragrant wind, and we know the Great King has come; at once the whole measure burns incense, old and young bow to the wind. Great and small matters of our houses, spoon and bowl, he knows; the birth-years and months of old and young he remembers. And only one's own children will he accept. Never mind two or three hundred taels: thousands upon thousands could not buy children so like, the same year and the same month.”

Pilgrim said: “So that is how it is. Very well, very well: bring your son out and let me look.” Chen Qing hurried inside and carried Guanbao out into the hall, and set him before the lamp. The little one, knowing nothing of life and death, had his two sleeves stuffed with fruit, and danced about eating and playing. Pilgrim, seeing, murmured a spell under his breath, shook himself, and changed into the very likeness of Guanbao. The two children, hand in hand, danced before the lamp. The old men, terrified, threw themselves on their knees. The Tang monk said: “Masters — forbid it, forbid it!” The old man said: “That master was just speaking, and now he is the very likeness of my son: call one, and both answer, both dance. It will be cutting short our years. Show your true form, show your true form, we beg you.” Pilgrim wiped his face and showed his true form. The old man knelt before him: “So those are your powers, master.” Pilgrim laughed: “Am I like your son?” The old man said: “Like, like, like: the same face, the same voice, the same clothes, the same size.” Pilgrim said: “You have not looked closely. Bring the scales, and weigh us: are we one weight?” The old man said: “Yes, yes, yes — one weight.” Pilgrim said: “So — would he serve for the sacrifice?” The old man said: “All too well, all too well: he would serve.”

Pilgrim said: “Then today I stand in for this child's life, and keep your line and your incense unbroken: I will go be sacrificed to the Great King.” Chen Qing knelt and knocked his head: “If you will truly stand in for us in your mercy, I will give a thousand taels of silver, for the Tang master's traveling money to the Western Heaven.” Pilgrim said: “And no thanks to old Sun?” The old man said: “Once you stand in for the sacrifice, there will be no you left.” Pilgrim said: “How would there be no me?” The old man said: “The Great King will have eaten you.” Pilgrim said: “He dares eat me?” The old man said: “If not, he will find it gamy.” Pilgrim laughed: “Leave it to heaven. If he eats me, my span was short; if not, my luck holds. I will go to the sacrifice for you.”

Chen Qing knocked his head in thanks without pause, and promised five hundred taels of silver besides. But Chen Cheng neither knocked his head nor said a thanks: he only leaned against the screen door and wept bitterly. Pilgrim saw, came up, and took him: “Old elder, you do not consent and you do not thank me — is it your daughter you cannot give up?” Only then did Chen Cheng kneel: “It is: I cannot. Your honor's kindness has been great enough, standing in for my nephew. But I have no son, only this one daughter. Even after I die she will weep for me bitterly — how could I give her up?” Pilgrim said: “Then quick: steam a meal of five dou of rice, prepare some fine vegetarian dishes for that long-snouted master of mine, and have him change into your daughter. My brother and I will go together to the sacrifice. Let us do one secret kindness while we are at it, and save both your children's lives — how is that?”

Bajie, hearing this, was badly startled: “Brother, you want your sport, and never mind whether I live or die — you will drag me into it.” Pilgrim said: “Worthy brother, the saying goes: ‘The rooster eats no food he has not earned.’ We came into this house and were nobly fed — and you were bawling you had not had enough. How can you refuse them a little help in trouble?” Bajie said: “Brother, changing shapes is beyond me.” Pilgrim said: “You have thirty-six transformations: how beyond you?” The Tang monk called: “Wuneng, your brother speaks best and settles it well. The saying goes: ‘To save one life is worth more than building a seven-story pagoda.’ First, to repay their kindness; second, to lay up hidden merit; and the night is cool and idle besides — go and play at it, brothers.” Bajie said: “Just hear the master! I can change into a mountain, a tree, a boulder, a mangy elephant, a water buffalo, a big fat fellow, that I can; but into a little girl — there I am beaten.”

Pilgrim said: “Old elder, do not believe him. Bring your daughter out and let us look.” Chen Cheng hurried inside and carried the child One-Weight of Gold into the hall. The whole household, wives and concubines, old and young, within and without, came out and knocked their heads, begging only that the children's lives be spared. The girl wore on her head a flowered kingfisher hoop set with eight jewels and hanging pearls; on her body a gleaming red-yellow silk jacket, and over it a sponge-green satin cape with a chessboard collar; at her waist a great red flowered silk skirt; on her feet a pair of toad-head shoes of pale red silk; on her legs two gold-threaded knee wraps. And she had fruit in her hand, eating. Pilgrim said: “Bajie — there is the girl. Change into her likeness, quick, and we go to the sacrifice.” Bajie said: “Brother, so dainty and pretty — how would I change?” Pilgrim said: “Quickly — or take the beating.” Bajie, in a panic, said: “No beating, brother — let me try.”

The Idiot recited his spell, shook his head a few shakes, and cried: “Change!” — and truly his head came over like a girl's; only his belly was fat and huge, and his gait loutish, nothing like. Pilgrim laughed: “Change a little more.” Bajie said: “Beat me and have done: it will not come — what then?” Pilgrim said: “Would you be a wench by the head and a monk by the body? Neither man nor maid — how would that do? Now raise your spell-steps.” He blew on him a breath of magic air, and at once the body changed too, just like the child's. Then he said: “Sirs, take your households and your son and daughter inside, and make no mistake. In a moment my brother and I may play the shirkers and slip inside, and then we would be hard to tell apart. Give the children good fruit to eat, and do not let them cry out: if the Great King learns of it too soon, the wind of it will get abroad. We two are off to play our parts.”

The good Great Sage gave Sha Monk his charge to guard the Tang monk: “I will be Chen Guanbao, and Bajie One-Weight of Gold.” The two made ready, and asked: “How are we to be offered? Tied and carried, or bound and carried? Steamed and carried, or chopped and carried?” Bajie said: “Brother, do not torment me: I have no such powers.” The old man said: “Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind. Only two red-lacquered vermillion trays: you two sit in the trays, set on tables, and two stout lads carry the tables, and so you are carried to the temple.” Pilgrim said: “Good, good, good — bring out the trays, and let us try.” The old man brought out two vermillion trays, and Pilgrim and Bajie sat in them. Four stout lads raised the two tables, walked a turn about the courtyard, and carried them back and set them in the hall. Pilgrim was delighted: “Bajie, carried about like this for play, we are monks served up on platters.” Bajie said: “Carried out and carried back, both ends till daybreak — that I do not fear. But carried to the temple, to be eaten — that is no play!” Pilgrim said: “Just watch me. The moment they set to eating me, run.” Bajie said: “But how will they eat? If the boy first, I can run; if the girl first — what of me?” The old man said: “In years past, at the sacrifice, some bold ones have hid behind the temple, or under the offering table, and seen him eat the boy first and the girl after.” Bajie said: “Luck, luck!”

The brothers were still talking when outside arose a din of gongs and drums, lamps and torches blazing; the whole village threw open the front gates, calling: “Bring out the boy and girl for the sacrifice.” The old men wept as they went, and the four stout lads carried the two of them out.

Whether their lives would hold — listen to the next chapter to find out.

The Holy Monk Is Stopped by Night at the Heaven-Reaching Water; Metal and Wood, in Mercy, Save the Little Children.

Now the king leaned on the dragon bed, tears gushing like a spring, and wept till nightfall without stopping. Pilgrim stepped up and called loudly: "Why are you so confused? The Daoists' bodies lie before you: one is a tiger, one a deer, and Goat Strength an antelope. If you don't believe it, have the bones fished up and look—what man ever had such skulls? They were mountain beasts turned demons, who came here with one heart to destroy you. Because your fortune was still strong, they dared not strike. Wait another two years, when your luck wanes, and they would have taken your life and swallowed your kingdom whole. It was lucky we came early, wiped out the demons, and saved your life. What are you crying for? What for? Hurry and stamp the papers, and send us on our way." The king heard this and came to his senses. The civil and military officials all reported: "The dead are indeed a white deer and a yellow tiger, and in the oil pot indeed goat bones. The holy monk's words must be heard." The king said: "Since it is so, I thank the holy monk. It is late today." He gave the order: "Grand Tutor, take the holy monk to the Zhiyuan Temple. Tomorrow at morning court I will open the eastern pavilion wide and have the Court of Imperial Entertainment lay a plain vegetarian feast to thank him." They were indeed taken to the temple to rest.

At the fifth watch the next day the king held court, gathered his officials, and gave the word: "Quickly post the proclamation calling the monks back—hang it at all four gates and on every road." Meanwhile a great feast was laid; the carriage went out of court to the gate of the Zhiyuan Temple, the Tang monk and his party were asked for, and all went into the eastern pavilion to the feast. No more of that.

Now the monks who had escaped death heard of the proclamation calling monks back, and every one came gladly into the city to find the Great Sage Sun and return the hairs in thanks. The elder finished the feast; the king stamped the papers, and with the empress and the consorts and the officials of both rows escorted them out the court gate. There the monks knelt by the roadside and said: "Grandpa the Great Sage Equal to Heaven! We are the monks who escaped death on the sand. We heard that you swept away the demons and pulled us out of trouble, and that our king has posted the proclamation to call the monks back. We have come to return your hairs and kowtow in thanks for Heaven's grace." Pilgrim laughed: "How many of you have come?" They said: "Five hundred—not half a one missing." Pilgrim shook himself and took back the hairs. Then he said to the king, the ministers, the monks, and the laymen: "It was truly old Sun who freed these monks; it was old Sun who hauled the carts over the two gates and through the spine pass and smashed them; and it was old Sun who beat those two demon Daoists to death. Today the demons are wiped out, and you know the Chan gate holds the true Way. From now on, do not act wildly or believe lies. I hope you will make the three teachings one: honor the monks, honor the Daoists, and nurture talent. Then I will keep your kingdom firm forever." The king did as he was told and thanked him without end, and so sent the Tang monk out of the city.

On this journey, all for the sake of the scriptures, Tripitaka pressed on with care, striving in his practice to light the one origin. They walked at dawn and lodged at night, drank when thirsty, ate when hungry, and before they knew it spring was spent and summer worn away, and it was autumn weather again. One day, evening already falling, the Tang monk drew rein: "Disciples, where do we lodge tonight?" Pilgrim said: "Master, men who have left home shouldn't talk like men who have not." Tripitaka said: "What of those who have a home? What of us?" Pilgrim said: "A man with a home at this hour has a warm bed and a warm quilt, a child in his arms, his wife's feet at his heels, sleeping at his ease. Can we, who have left home, manage that? We must carry the moon and wear the stars, eat the wind and lodge by the water: where there is a road we walk, and only where there is none do we stop." Bajie said: "Brother, you know one side of it and not the other. The roads now are steep and hard, and I carry a heavy load; it is truly rough going. We need to find a place to sleep sound, refresh our strength, and be able to shoulder the load tomorrow. Otherwise, won't it wear me down?" Pilgrim said: "Walk one more stage by the moonlight, and lodge where there are houses." Master and disciples had no choice but to follow Pilgrim on.

Before long they heard the roar of tumbling waves. Bajie said: "That is it—we have come to a dead end." Sha Monk said: "A stretch of water blocks us." The Tang monk said: "Then how do we cross?" Bajie said: "Let me test it and see how deep it is." Tripitaka said: "Wuneng, don't talk nonsense. How would you test the depth of water?" Bajie said: "Find a pebble and throw it in the middle. If it splashes up bubbles, it is shallow; if it goes down gurgling with a sound, it is deep." Pilgrim said: "Go and try." The Idiot felt around, found a stone, and threw it into the water: it gurgled up a fish's belch and sank to the bottom. He said: "Deep, deep, deep! We cannot go on!" The Tang monk said: "Though you have tested the depth, you do not know how wide it is." Bajie said: "That I don't know, I don't." Pilgrim said: "Let me look." Good Great Sage—he rode the somersault cloud, jumped into the air, fixed his eyes, and looked. There is what he saw:

A broad sheen of light bathed the moon; a vast reflection floated on heaven.The spirit stream swallowed Mount Hua; the long current ran through a hundred rivers.A thousand layers of raging waves rolled; ten thousand folds of steep billows tossed.No fishing fires at the banks; on the sandbars egrets slept.Blank and boundless, it seemed the sea—one look and there was no end.

He hastily gathered in the cloud and came down at the river's edge: "Master, it is wide, wide—we cannot get across! Old Sun has fiery eyes and golden pupils. By daylight I often see a thousand li, and I know luck from doom; even at night I see three or five hundred. Now I cannot see the far bank at all—how could I fix the width?"

Tripitaka was shocked, speechless, his voice choked: "Disciples, what are we to do with this?" Sha Monk said: "Master, don't cry. Look—isn't that someone standing by the water?" Pilgrim said: "Some fisherman hauling his nets, I would say. Let me go and ask." He took his iron staff and in two or three strides was up to it. Ah! Not a man—a stone tablet. On it three large seal-script characters, and below, two lines of ten small ones. The three large characters read "Heaven-Reaching River"; the ten small ones read "It runs a full eight hundred li; from age to age, few travelers pass." Pilgrim called: "Master, come look." Tripitaka looked, tears dropping: "Disciples, when I left Chang'an I thought the western road easy. Who knew demons would block it, and the mountains and waters stretch so far."

Bajie said: "Master, listen—isn't that drums and cymbals somewhere? Some family holding a rite, I would say. Let us go and chase a meal and ask where the ferry is, and cross tomorrow." Tripitaka heard from horseback: there really was the sound of drums and cymbals. "And those are not Daoist instruments; it is our own Buddhist folk holding their rite. Let us go." Pilgrim led the horse ahead, and the party followed the sound. There was no proper road—over high ground and low, across the sands—and they made out a cluster of homesteads, four or five hundred families or so, all comfortably settled. Look:

Leaning on the hills, the road ran through; beside the banks it bordered the creek. Everywhere wooden gates were shut, every bamboo courtyard closed. On the sandbar the roosting egrets dreamed clear dreams; beyond the willows a bird cried with a cold throat. The short flute was silent; the cold washing-block beat no rhythm. Red knotweed branches swayed in the moonlight; yellow reed leaves wrestled the wind. Village dogs bayed at passers-by along the sparse hedges; at the ferry the old fisherman slept in his fishing skiff. Lamps were few and the smoke of hearths still; high in the sky the bright moon hung like a mirror. Suddenly came a breath of white-clover fragrance—the west wind carrying it over from the far bank.

The Tang monk dismounted. At the head of the lane stood one house with a streamer pole outside its gate, and inside, lamps and candles were blazing and the incense smoke lay thick. Tripitaka said: "Wukong, this place is different from the hollows and the riverbanks. Under a human roof we can be sheltered from the cold dew and sleep sound. You all stay back, and let me go first to the door of this pious host and ask. If he will take me in, I will call you; if not, do not carry on. Your faces are ugly—I fear you would frighten people and stir up trouble, and then there would be no lodging at all." Pilgrim said: "Well said. Master goes first; we will wait here."

The elder took off his bamboo hat, bareheaded, shook out his cassock, trailed his tin staff, and came to the door of the house. The door stood half open, and Tripitaka did not presume to enter. He stood a moment, and out came an old man with prayer beads at his throat, murmuring "Amitabha," on his way to shut the gate. The elder, flustered, joined his palms and called: "Old patron, this humble monk greets you." The old man returned the bow: "You have come too late, monk." Tripitaka said: "What do you mean?" The old man said: "Come late, and there is nothing left. Had you come earlier, my house was feeding the monks a full meal: three sheng of cooked rice, a length of white cloth, ten copper coins. Why come only at this hour?" Tripitaka bowed: "Old patron, I am not chasing the alms meal." The old man said: "If not for alms, what have you come for?" Tripitaka said: "I am sent under the Emperor's seal from the great Tang in the Land of the East to fetch scriptures in the Western Heaven. I have reached your honorable place, and the sky is already dark. Hearing drums and cymbals at your house, I came to beg a night's lodging; at dawn I go on." The old man waved his hands: "Monk, a man of religion should not tell lies. From the great Tang in the Land of the East to here is fifty-four thousand li. Alone as you are, how could you come?" Tripitaka said: "You see it exactly, old patron. But I have three young disciples: they cut roads through mountains and bridge the waters, and so brought this humble monk here." The old man said: "If you have disciples, why not bring them? Come in, come in—there is room at my house to sleep." Tripitaka turned his head and called: "Disciples, over here."

Pilgrim is impatient by nature, Bajie born rough, and Sha Monk headlong too; hearing their master call, the three led the horse and shouldered the load and, asking no questions, swept in like a gust of wind. The old man saw them and fell down flat, crying: "The monsters have come! The monsters have come!" Tripitaka helped him up: "Patron, don't be afraid. Not monsters—my disciples." The old man, trembling: "Such a fine-looking master—how did you find such ugly disciples?" Tripitaka said: "Though their looks fall short, they can tame dragons and subdue tigers, catch monsters and seize demons." Half believing, half doubting, the old man helped the Tang monk slowly in.

Now the three rough ones burst into the main hall, tied the horse, and set down the baggage. In the hall a few monks were reciting scriptures; Bajie cupped his long mouth and bellowed: "Hey monk—what sutra are you chanting?" At the question the monks suddenly looked up:

They looked at the strangers: mouths long, ears big.Bodies thick, shoulders broad, voices like bursting thunder.Pilgrim and Sha Monk were uglier still.Of all the monks in the hall, not one but was frightened.The teachers kept chanting; the head of the row called a stop.No thought now for chime or bell—the Buddha images were dropped.Together they blew out the lamps; the light scattered and fled.Tumbling and crawling, they never crossed the doorsill.Head knocked on head, like a gourd rack tipped over.A clean and holy rite turned into one great joke.

The three brothers saw them tumble and crawl, clapped their hands, and roared with laughter. The monks, more terrified than ever, kowtowed and cracked their heads, each for his own life, and every one of them cleared out.

Tripitaka helped the old man up into the hall. Not a lamp was lit, and the three still laughed and chortled. The Tang monk cursed: "You foul things, altogether graceless. I teach you morning after morning, warn you day after day. The ancients say: 'Good without teaching—what is that but a saint? Good after teaching—what is that but a worthy? Taught and still not good—what is that but a fool?' And you carry on like this: you are the lowest and most foolish of creatures. You come through a door with no sense of what is what; you knock the old patron down, scatter the chanting monks, and spoil the good work of this house—is not the sin then on my head?" He spoke till they dared not answer. The old man now believed these were his disciples, and turned hastily and bowed: "My lord, no great harm, no great harm. The lamps were only just put out, the flowers scattered; the rite was nearly over." Bajie said: "If it is all done, then set out the closing feast—wine and food—let us eat and sleep." The old man called: "Lights! Bring lights!" The household heard and clucked in wonder: "They are chanting in the hall with all those candles—why call for lights?" Several servants came out to look, found it pitch dark, lit torches and lanterns, and crowded in together. Suddenly they looked up and saw Bajie and Sha Monk, dropped their torches in a panic, whipped around, and slammed the middle door, yelling inside: "Monsters! Monsters!"

Pilgrim took up a torch, lit lamps and candles, dragged over a folding chair, and asked the Tang monk to sit in the seat of honor; the brothers sat on either side, and the old man sat in front. As they settled, the inner door opened and another old man came out, leaning on a staff: "What demons come in the black of night to a house of good works?" The first old man rose in haste and met him behind the screen door: "Brother, don't shout. Not demons—holy men of the great Tang in the Land of the East, seeking scriptures. Their disciples' faces are fierce, but they are fierce in look and kind in heart." The old man then put down his staff and made his bows to the four. When the bows were done he sat down in front too, and called: "Tea! Lay the fast meal!" He called several times, but the servants trembled and dared not come near.

Bajie could not help asking: "Old man, why do your servants keep running back and forth there?" The old man said: "I told them to bring the fast meal to serve you lords." Bajie said: "How many to serve?" The old man said: "Eight." Bajie said: "Eight to serve whom?" The old man said: "To serve you four." Bajie said: "The white-faced master needs only one; the hairy-faced one with the thunder-god mouth, two; the one with the luckless face, eight—and I would want twenty to be enough." The old man said: "In that case, I would say your stomach is the bigger." Bajie said: "It gets by." The old man said: "There are people, there are people." And he called out thirty or forty, big and small.

As the monk and the old men talked back and forth, the household lost its fear. A table was set at the top and the Tang monk asked to sit above; three tables stood at the sides for the three of them; a table in front for the two old men. First came plain fruits and vegetables, then noodle dishes, rice, snacks, and vermicelli soup, all laid out neat and orderly. The elder Tang raised his chopsticks and first recited a scroll of the Meal-Opening Sutra. The Idiot, hasty by habit and hungry besides, could not wait for the master's sutra to end. He grabbed a red-lacquered wooden bowl, flipped a bowl of white rice into his mouth, and it was gone. A young servant nearby said: "This lord has no plan at all—people tuck buns in their sleeves; why did he tuck the rice, and spoil his clothes?" Bajie laughed: "I didn't tuck it. I ate it." The servant said: "You never lifted it to your mouth—how did you eat it?" Bajie said: "Call it a lie if you like, boys—clearly I ate it. Don't believe me? I'll eat another so you can watch." The servants brought another bowl heaped up and handed it over. The Idiot shook it once, flipped it into his mouth, and it was gone. The servants cried: "Grandpa! Your throat must be built of polished brick—truly smooth and slick!" The Tang monk's one scroll of sutra was not yet done, and he had already put away five or six bowls. Then they raised their chopsticks together and ate the fast meal. The Idiot, rice or noodles, fruit or snack, just grabbed and gulped, still shouting: "More rice! More rice!" The food gradually ran out. Pilgrim called: "Worthy brother, eat a little less. It is still better than starving in a mountain hollow; half a bellyful will do." Bajie said: "What a face. The saying goes: 'Feeding a monk without filling him is worse than burying him alive.'" Pilgrim said: "Clear the dishes. Pay him no mind." The two old men bowed: "To tell the truth, my lords: by daylight we would not fear—even an elder with a belly like that, we could feed a hundred. But it is late. The leftovers were cleared, and we had steamed only a dan of noodles and five dou of rice and a few tables of vegetarian food, to treat a few kin and neighbors and give the monks a share of the blessings. We never looked for you lords. The monks ran off in fright, we dared not call the kin, and everything has gone to you. If you are not full, we will steam more." Bajie said: "Steam more! Steam more!"

The talk done, dishes and tables were cleared. Tripitaka rose, thanked them for the meal, and asked: "What is your honored surname, patron?" The old man said: "Chen." Tripitaka joined his palms: "Then we are of one clan, this humble monk and you." The old man said: "Are you also surnamed Chen, my lord?" Tripitaka said: "Yes—in lay life I was a Chen too. May I ask what rite you were holding just now?" Bajie laughed: "Master, why ask him? Don't we know? Some green-shoot fast, or a peace fast, or an end-of-season fast, that is all." The old man said: "No, no." Tripitaka asked again: "Truly, what is it for?" The old man said: "It is a fast held in advance for the dead." Bajie laughed till he doubled over: "Grandpa, you have no eye at all. We are the great kings who tell lies and build bridges to fool people—how would you fool me with that lie? What monk does not know the fast rites? There is the fast held in advance to bank merit, and the fast held in advance to repay debts—where would there be a 'fast held in advance for the dead'? Nobody in your house has died—what dead-man's fast is this?"

Pilgrim heard and was secretly pleased: "The Idiot is getting sharper. —Grandfather, you have said it wrong. What is a 'fast held in advance for the dead'?" The two old men bowed forward: "You who seek scriptures—why not keep the proper road, and come stumbling here instead?" Pilgrim said: "We kept the proper road. A stretch of water blocked us and we could not cross; hearing the drums and cymbals, we came specially to beg a night's lodging." The old man said: "At the water, did you see anything?" Pilgrim said: "Only a stone tablet, with the three characters 'Heaven-Reaching River' and the ten below: 'It runs a full eight hundred li; from age to age, few men pass.' Nothing else." The old man said: "Walk a little way up the bank—about a li from the tablet there is a temple of the Great King of Answered Prayers. Did you not see it?" Pilgrim said: "We did not. Tell us, grandfather—what is 'answered prayers'?" The two old men wept together: "My lords, that Great King—

his power answers through the whole countryside, and raised him a temple; his might guards a thousand li of common folk.Year after year he rained sweet rain on the village; age after age lucky clouds settled on the town."

Pilgrim said: "Sweet rain and lucky clouds—that sounds well. Why are you grieving and troubled then?" The old man stamped his feet, beat his breast, and groaned: "My lords—

much as he gives, there is grudge in the gift; kind as he is, he destroys.Because he must eat boys and girls, he is no bright and upright god."

Pilgrim said: "He eats boys and girls?" The old man said: "Just so." Pilgrim said: "I suppose it has come round to your house this year?" The old man said: "This year it is our very house. A hundred families live here. This place belongs to Yuanhui County in the country of Cart Slow, and is called Chen Family Village. The Great King must be worshipped once a year: one boy, one girl, and pigs, sheep, and offerings of wine. He eats his fill of them and keeps our rains in season; if we fail the rite, he sends down calamity." Pilgrim said: "How many sons have you, patron?" The old man beat his breast: "Pity, pity! Speak of sons—it shames us. This is my younger brother, Chen Qing. I am called Chen Cheng. I am sixty-three this year, and he is fifty-eight, and we have both had a hard road with children. At fifty I still had no son. Kin and friends urged me to take a concubine; helpless, I took one, and she bore a girl, just turned eight, named One Weight of Gold." Bajie said: "A precious name. Why call her One Weight of Gold?" The old man said: "Being so unlucky in children, I built bridges and mended roads, raised temples and pagodas, gave alms and fed monks, and kept an account book: three taels here, five taels there. By the year my daughter was born, I had spent better than thirty catties of gold. Thirty catties make one weight, so we called her One Weight of Gold." Pilgrim said: "And whose is the boy?" The old man said: "My brother has a son, by his concubine too, seven this year, named Chen Guanbao." Pilgrim asked: "Why that name?" The old man said: "Our house keeps the altar of Lord Guan; we begged this son at Lord Guan's altar, so we named him Guanbao—Guan's safeguard. Between us, my brother and I count a hundred and twenty years, and these two children are all the seed we have. Now the turn of the yearly worship has fallen to our house, and we dare not withhold them. The love of father and child is hard to cut—so we first hold a rite to ease his next birth. That is what we mean by 'a fast held in advance for the dead.'"

Tripitaka heard, and the tears would not stay on his cheeks: "Just as the ancients said: 'The ripe plum does not fall, but the green plum falls—Heaven harms the childless man.'" Pilgrim laughed: "Let me question him. Grandfather, how big is your estate?" The two old men said: "Fairly good: forty or fifty qing of wet fields, sixty or seventy of dry, eighty or ninety pastures; two or three hundred water buffalo, thirty or twenty donkeys and horses, and countless pigs, sheep, chickens, and geese. In the house we have old grain we cannot eat and clothes we cannot wear. Our goods and lands would all bear counting." Pilgrim said: "An estate like that—you must have scrimped to build it." The old man said: "How do you make that out?" Pilgrim said: "With such property, how can you bear to give up your own children to the rite? Fifty taels of silver would buy a boy; a hundred taels would buy a girl. Counting expenses, no more than two hundred taels—and you would keep your own children and descendants. Would that not be better?" The two old men wept: "My lord, you do not know. The Great King is a very god of answers; he often walks among our houses." Pilgrim said: "When he walks among you, what face do you see? How long or short is he?" The two said: "We never see his shape. We only smell a gust of fragrant wind, and we know the Great King has come. Then we burn incense by the full measure, old and young bowing into the wind. He knows the least spoon and bowl of our houses; he remembers the birth years and months of old and young. Only one's own children will he take. Never mind two or three hundred taels—even thousands and myriads could not buy children just alike, born the same year and month."

Pilgrim said: "So that is how it is. Very well, very well. Bring your son out and let me look." Chen Qing hurried inside, carried little Guanbao out into the hall, and set him before the lamp. The child, who knew nothing of life and death, had his sleeves full of fruit and went dancing and hopping, eating and playing. Pilgrim watched, murmured a spell to himself, shook himself, and took the very shape of Guanbao. The two children held hands and danced before the lamp. The old man fell on his knees in a fright. The Tang monk said: "My lord, careful—careful!" The old man said: "That lord was talking just now—how has he turned into the very likeness of my son? I call one, both answer; I call, both run. It wears away our years of life. Show your true form, I beg you—show your true form." Pilgrim rubbed his face once and showed himself. The old man knelt before him: "My lord, so you have such powers." Pilgrim laughed: "Do I look like your son?" The old man said: "Like, like, like—the very same face, the same voice, the same clothes, the same height." Pilgrim said: "You have not looked closely. Bring the scale and weigh us—are we the same weight?" The old man said: "Yes, yes, yes—the same weight." Pilgrim said: "In that case, would he do for the sacrifice?" The old man said: "More than well, more than well. He would do."

Pilgrim said: "Then I will take this child's place today, leave your house its incense and descendants, and go to be sacrificed to that Great King myself." Chen Qing knelt and kowtowed: "If you will truly take his place in your mercy, my lord, I will give a thousand taels of silver to Master Tang for traveling money to the Western Heaven." Pilgrim said: "And no thanks to old Sun?" The old man said: "Once you have gone in his place, you will be gone." Pilgrim said: "How would I be gone?" The old man said: "The Great King will eat you." Pilgrim said: "Does he dare eat me?" The old man said: "If he does not eat you, he will at least find you gamey." Pilgrim laughed: "Let Heaven decide. If he eats me, my life was short; if not, it is my luck. I will go to the rite."

Chen Qing kowtowed his thanks over and over, and promised five hundred taels besides. But Chen Cheng neither kowtowed nor gave thanks; he only leaned against the screen door and wept bitterly. Pilgrim saw and came and took hold of him: "Old brother, you neither agree nor thank me. Is it that you cannot give up your daughter?" Chen Cheng knelt at last: "Yes—I cannot give her up. Your lordship's kindness in taking my nephew's place is already enough. But I have no son, only this one girl. Even after I die she would weep for me bitterly—how can I give her up?" Pilgrim said: "Quick then: steam five dou of rice and get some good vegetarian dishes ready for my long-mouthed brother to eat. Have him turn into your daughter, and my brother and I will both go to the sacrifice. Let us do a good deed in the dark and save your two children's lives—how about it?"

Bajie heard and was greatly alarmed: "Brother, you want to shine, and you do not care whether I live or die—you will drag me into it." Pilgrim said: "Worthy brother, the saying goes: 'The rooster eats no food he has not worked for.' We came in the door and enjoyed a grand meal—and you were still bawling that you were not full. How can you refuse the house a little help in its trouble?" Bajie said: "Brother, transforming is beyond me." Pilgrim said: "You have thirty-six transformations—how is it beyond you?" Tripitaka called: "Wuneng, your brother is quite right, and it is handled justly. The saying goes: 'Saving one life beats building a pagoda of seven stories.' First, to repay their kindness; second, to store up hidden virtue; and it is a cool, empty night—go and have your fun, brothers." Bajie said: "Listen to the master! I can turn into a mountain, a tree, a rock, a mangy elephant, a water buffalo, a big fat fellow—but a little girl is another matter."

Pilgrim said: "Old brother, do not believe him. Bring out your daughter and let me see her." Chen Cheng hurried inside and carried little One Weight of Gold out into the hall. The whole household, wives and concubines, old and young, inside and out, came out kowtowing, begging only that the child's life be saved. The girl wore on her head a jeweled hoop of eight treasures with hanging pearls; on her body a red-shot yellow silk jacket, and over it a parrot-green satin cape with a chessboard collar; at her waist a great red flowered silk skirt; on her feet a pair of toad-head shoes of pale red silk; on her legs two gold-threaded knee wraps. She was eating fruit too. Pilgrim said: "Bajie, there is the girl. Turn into her likeness quickly, and we will go to the sacrifice." Bajie said: "Brother, so small and pretty—how would I turn?" Pilgrim said: "Quickly, or you will feel the staff." Bajie, in a panic: "Brother, don't beat me. Let me try."

The Idiot said his spell, shook his head a few times, and called "Change!"—and truly his head turned, with a girl's face; only his belly was fat and broad, all wrong for it. Pilgrim laughed: "Change a little more." Bajie said: "Beat me if you like—I cannot manage it. What then?" Pilgrim said: "A girl's head on a monk's body—neither man nor woman! What a fix! Stand into your magic step." He blew on him a breath of magic air, and at once his body turned, just like the child's. Then he said: "You two old men, take your families and your son and daughter inside, and do not mistake them. In a while my brother and I may slip in to dodge work and act the clever one, and it would be hard to tell us apart. Give the children good fruit to eat, and do not let them cry out—if the Great King got wind of it, the news would leak. My brother and I are off to have our fun."

Good Great Sage—he told Sha Monk to guard the Tang monk: "I turn into Chen Guanbao, and Bajie into One Weight of Gold." When both were ready, they asked: "How is the offering made? Are we tied or bound? Steamed, or chopped to pieces?" Bajie said: "Brother, do not play with me. I have no powers like that." The old man said: "Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind. Only this: two red-lacquered trays, and you two sit each inside a tray, set on tables; two young men carry each table, and so you are carried up to the temple." Pilgrim said: "Good, good, good. Bring out the trays and let us try." The old man brought out two red trays, and Pilgrim and Bajie sat in them. Four young men lifted the two tables, carried them once round the courtyard, and carried them back into the hall. Pilgrim rejoiced: "Bajie, carried about like this for play, we are monks with trays of our own now." Bajie said: "If they carry us off and carry us back—both ways till dawn, I don't care. But when we are carried to the temple, they will eat us—and that is no fun!" Pilgrim said: "Just watch me. The moment they make to eat me, you run." Bajie said: "But how will they eat? If they eat the boy first, I can run. If they eat the girl first, what then?" The old man said: "In years past, when the rite was held, some bold man would hide behind the temple or under the offering table and saw it: first the boy, then the girl." Bajie said: "Luck, luck."

As the brothers talked, outside arose a din of gongs and drums, torches blazing; the whole village opened the front gates and called: "Bring out the boy and the girl!" The old men wept as they went, and the four young men carried the two of them out.

Whether their lives would stand—listen to the next chapter to find out.