Chapter 78

Piqiu Pities Its Children and Sends Out the Hidden Gods; in the Golden Hall the Demon Is Known and the Way and Its Power Discussed

One thought, newly born, sets a hundred demons stirring; bitterest is the discipline—what can one do with them?Only by washing till no dust or soil is left; and by tethering and gathering, by grinding and polish.Sweep the ten thousand ties away and return to quiescence; sweep the thousand monsters out, and let no time slip.I promise you: leap free of the cage and its snare, and when deeds are full, soar up to the Great Luo heaven.

The story tells how the Great Sage Sun spent all his craft, begged the Tathagata to take the demons, and freed Tripitaka and his disciples from their plight, and they left Lion-Camel City, going west. Months passed, and it was winter already. Behold:

On the ridges plum buds about to break like jade; the pond water hardening into ice.Red leaves all drifting down; green pines fresher in color.Thin clouds flying—snow is coming; withered grass lies low along the level hills.The whole view bright with wintry light; a chill that pierces to the bone.

Master and disciples braved the cold and the chill, lodging in rain, feeding on wind. As they went they saw another city. Tripitaka asked: “Wukong, what place is that over there?” The Pilgrim said: “We shall know when we reach it. If it is a royal seat of the west, we must have the rescripts countersigned; if a prefecture or county, we pass straight through.”

Before their talk was done they were at the gate. Tripitaka dismounted, and the four of them entered the barbican. There under the sunny side of the wall an old soldier slept, curled from the wind. The Pilgrim came up, shook him once, and called: “Officer.” The old soldier started awake, opened his eyes in a blur, saw the Pilgrim, fell on his knees at once and knocked his head, crying: “Master!” The Pilgrim said: “None of your goblin frights. I am no evil spirit—why call me Master?” The old soldier, head to the ground, said: “You are the Lord of Thunder.” The Pilgrim said: “Nonsense. I am a monk of the eastern lands bound to the Western Heaven for scriptures. I reached this place just now and do not know its name, so I ask you.” The old man heard, gathered his wits, gave a yawn, scrambled up, stretched, and said: “Elder, elder, pardon your servant. This place was once called the Kingdom of Piqiu; now it is renamed Boy City.” The Pilgrim said: “Is there a king in the land?” The old soldier said: “There is, there is, there is.” The Pilgrim turned to the Tang monk: “Master, this place was once the Kingdom of Piqiu, now renamed Boy City—but why the change of name I cannot tell.” The Tang monk wondered: “If it is called Piqiu—monk—why call it Boy?” Bajie said: “I suppose the monk king has died and a mere boy succeeded him; hence Boy City.” The Tang monk said: “There is no sense in that, no sense. Let us go in and ask in the streets.” Sha Monk said: “Just so. The old soldier either does not know, or our big brother's fright has him talking nonsense. Let us go into the city and ask.”

They passed within the third gate to the great thoroughfares and markets and looked: the dress was trim, the people comely. Behold:

In wine towers and singing houses the voices clamor; silk shops and tea houses hang their curtains high.Ten thousand doors, a thousand gates, and trade is good; six streets and three markets, sources of wealth run wide.Gold-buyers and silk-sellers swarm like ants; grasping profit, contending for name—all for money.Bearing dignified and courteous, the scene abounding; the river clear, the seas at rest—a year of peace.

The four of them, leading the horse, shouldering the loads, walked the streets a long time, unable to exhaust the signs of prosperity—only, before every single door stood a goose cage. Tripitaka said: “Disciples, these households all set goose cages at their gates—why?” Bajie looked right and left: goose cages truly, ranked and draped with colored silks. The Idiot laughed: “Master, today must be a lucky day on the almanac—good for weddings and for meeting friends; they are all keeping some rite.” The Pilgrim said: “Idle talk—how could every household keep the same rite? There is a reason in it; let me go look.” Tripitaka caught him: “Do not go. Your face is ugly; I fear they will take offense at you.” The Pilgrim said: “Then I will change and go.”

Good Great Sage! He pinched the spell-sign, murmured a charm, shook himself once, and changed into a bee, spread his wings, flew near, slipped in under the drape, and looked: inside sat a child. He went to the cage at the second house: a child again. He looked at eight or nine houses: children every one. All of them boys, not a girl among them. Some sat in their cages playing; some sat weeping; some ate fruit; some dozed. The Pilgrim, having seen, showed his true form and reported to the Tang monk: “Those cages hold little children: the eldest not yet seven, the youngest barely five. Why, I cannot say.” Tripitaka heard, and his thoughts hung unresolved.

They turned a corner of the street and saw a government lodge: the Gold Pavilion Lodge. The elder rejoiced: “Disciples, let us go into this lodge: first to ask about the place; second to rest and rub down the horses; third, the day wanes—we lodge here.” Sha Monk said: “Just so, just so—quickly, in!” The four went in gladly. The officers on duty reported to the lodge master, who met them at the gate, and all exchanged greetings. Seated, the lodge master asked: “From what quarter does the elder come?” Tripitaka said: “This poor monk was sent by the Great Tang of the eastern lands to seek scriptures in the Western Heaven. Come to your honorable place, my rescripts ought to be inspected; I beg the loan of your lofty office for a rest.” The lodge master ordered tea served; when tea was done, he made provision and told the men on duty to arrange their entertainment. Tripitaka thanked him, and asked: “Can we enter the court today and have audience, and have the rescripts inspected?” The lodge master said: “Not tonight; it must wait for the morning court. Tonight rest at ease in this poor office for one night.”

Presently all was made ready, and the lodge master asked the four to share the meal of alms. He had his people sweep the guest rooms for their rest, and Tripitaka thanked him without end. When they were seated the elder said: “This poor monk has a matter he does not understand, and begs your instruction. In your honorable place, how are children reared? I do not know how they are treated.” The lodge master said: “There are not two suns in the sky, nor two principles among men. To rear a child: the father's seed, the mother's blood, ten months of pregnancy, born in its time; then three years at the breast, and little by little the body is formed. How could we not know?” Tripitaka said: “By your account it is as in my own country. But when I entered the city I saw in every household along the streets a goose cage set out, with a little child hidden inside. This I do not understand, and so I venture to ask.” The lodge master bent to his ear and said low: “Elder, let it be—do not ask, do not heed it, do not speak of it. Go to your rest, and be on the road tomorrow morning.” The elder heard, seized the lodge master, determined to have it plain. The lodge master shook his head and waved his hand, crying only: “Guard your tongue.” Tripitaka would not let go at all, fixed on having it in full. Helpless, the lodge master cleared the room of every officer on duty, and alone in the lamplight said softly: “The goose cages you ask of are the doing of our present king, who has lost the Way. Why do you press the question?” Tripitaka said: “What do you mean, lost the Way? You must teach me plainly, or I cannot rest.” The lodge master said: “This country was the Kingdom of Piqiu; lately a ballad of the people has it renamed Boy City. Three years ago there came an old man, dressed as a Taoist, leading a young girl of sixteen. Her face was delicate and lovely, her looks like Guanyin's; she was presented to the king of the day. His Majesty loved her beauty, kept her doted upon in the palace, and titled her the Beautiful Queen. Of late he has not deigned a straight look at the ladies of the three palaces and six courts; day and night he wallows in pleasure without pause. Now he is worn to skin and bone, his body wasted, his appetite gone, his life hanging by a thread. The imperial physicians have ransacked every good prescription and cannot cure him. The Taoist who presented the girl has received our sovereign's patent and is titled the Imperial Father-in-Law. The Father-in-Law has a secret prescription from beyond the seas, of great power to lengthen life. He went of late to the ten isles and three isle-clusters and gathered his drugs, all now complete. But the medicine's guide is terrible: nothing less than the hearts and livers of one thousand one hundred and eleven little children, to simmer into a broth for taking the drug. Taken, it works a thousand years without old age. The children in those goose cages were all picked out beforehand and are kept there. The parents, in terror of the law, dare not weep aloud; and so the rumor spread, and the city is called Boy City. Elder, at court tomorrow: go only to have your rescripts countersigned, and on no account mention this.” With that he rose and withdrew.

The elder's bones went soft and his sinews slack; tears dropped from his cheeks despite him. He cried out suddenly: “Benighted king! Benighted king! For your craving of pleasure and love of beauty you have brewed yourself a sickness—and must you wrong so many children of their lives? Bitter, bitter—it breaks my heart!” There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

The benighted lord, knowing nothing, has lost the true and real; craving pleasure, unrepentant, he wounds his own body in the dark.To seek unending life he butchers children's lives; to avert heaven's calamity he slaughters the little folk.The monk's mercy rises, and cannot let it be; the officer speaks of gain and loss past bearing to hear.Before the lamp he sheds tears and sighs long—grief strikes down the man of chan who bows to Buddha.

Bajie came up: “Master, what has got into you? Always carrying other men's coffins home to weep over. Do not fret. The saying goes: ‘If the king bids the minister die, the minister who does not die is disloyal; if the father bids the son perish, the son who does not perish is unfilial.’ It is his own subjects he destroys—what is that to you? Come, loosen your robes and sleep, and do not grieve for the men of old.” Tripitaka, dropping tears: “Disciple, you are one without pity. I, a monk out of the world, have heaped up merit and works, and the first of all is to show grace. How can this benighted king run on so blindly? Never from of old has eating men's hearts and livers lengthened life. At such a thing, how should I not grieve?” Sha Monk said: “Master, do not grieve yet. Tomorrow morning, when we have the rescripts countersigned, let us speak to the king face to face. If he will not listen, we shall see what manner of Father-in-Law he keeps. Perhaps that Father-in-Law is a demon wanting men's hearts and livers, and has contrived the whole business—who can say?”

The Pilgrim said: “Wujing talks sense. Master, sleep now. Tomorrow let Old Sun go to court with you and see the good or evil of this Father-in-Law. If he is a man, then I fear he has strayed into byways, not knowing the true way, taking drug-gathering for the whole truth; I will take the essential doctrine of the beginning and turn him to the right. If he is a demon, I will seize him and show him to the king, and teach the king to curb his appetites and nourish his body—and on no account let him take those children's lives.” Tripitaka heard and bowed low, returning the Pilgrim's courtesy: “Disciple, most excellent, most excellent. Only—when we see the benighted king, do not open this matter at once, for fear the fool, not weighing far from near, should count it libel and punish us. What then?” The Pilgrim laughed: “Old Sun has his powers. First I will spirit the cage children out of this city, so that tomorrow there is nothing for him to take the hearts from. The local officers will memorialize of themselves; the benighted king must issue some decree, or take counsel with the Father-in-Law, or else order new names chosen. At that point, seizing the occasion to speak, I cannot be held to blame.” Tripitaka was overjoyed, and said: “But how will you get the children out of the city? If truly you can save them, it is a heaven-high virtue, worthy disciple. Do it quickly; delay a little, and it may be too late.” The Pilgrim roused his godlike might, rose, and charged Bajie and Sha Monk: “Sit with the master. Wait till I work; watch: if a dark wind stirs, the children have left the city.” And the three of them together recited: “Homage to the Healing Buddha, savior of lives! Homage to the Healing Buddha, savior of lives!”

The Great Sage passed out the gate, whistled, rose into mid-air, pinched the spell-sign, murmured the true words, and cried “Om, purify the dharma realm!”—and summoned the city god, the earth god, the local gods, the true officers, the guardians of the five quarters, the duty officers of the four watches, the six Ding and six Jia, and the sangha-guardians of the faith, all of them, up into the air, where they saluted him: “Great Sage, you call us by night—what urgent business?” The Pilgrim said: “Passing just now through the Kingdom of Piqiu: the king has lost the Way, believes a demon, and means to take the hearts and livers of little children as the guide to his drug, hoping for long life. My master cannot bear it, and would save the lives and destroy the monster. So Old Sun begs you gentlemen, each with his powers, to spirit the children out of every street and household in this city, cages and all, out beyond the walls to the mountain hollows or deep in the woods; keep them a day or two, give them fruit to eat, let none starve; guard them secretly too, so no panic or crying comes to them. When I have destroyed the evil, settled the country, and turned the king to the right, at my going send them back to me.”

The gods took the order and worked their powers each, pressing their clouds down. Through the whole city rolled a dark wind and a dreary fog:

The dark wind blew the stars of all the sky to blackness; the baleful fog dimmed the moon a thousand li. At first it drifted, soft and slow; then it came roaring, loud and strong.Soft and slow, each sought out doors to save the children; loud and strong, they made for the goose cages to rescue flesh and blood.The cold air pressed on men—how could they show their heads? The chill pierced the body, clothes like iron.Fathers and mothers stood dumbstruck; brothers and sisters-in-law grieved bitter.Over the whole ground the dark wind rolled, and the cages were carried off by the gods.Though this night be desolate, at dawn all shall rejoice.

There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

In the Buddha's gate mercy has abounded from of old; right and good, bringing works to perfection, is called the Great.The ten thousand sages, the thousand true ones, all heaped up virtue; the three refuges and the five precepts must be kept in harmony.One kingdom of Piqiu, not the king's to throw into disorder; a thousand boys of Boy City, their allotted lives gone wrong.The Pilgrim, for his master's sake, joined in the saving: this hidden merit outruns the paramitas.

That night at the third watch the gods carried the goose cages off and hid them each in his place.

The Pilgrim pressed down his auspicious light, came straight to the lodge court, and heard the three of them still reciting “Homage to the Healing Buddha, savior of lives!” He rejoiced in secret, came up close, and called: “Master, I am back. How did you like the rising of the dark wind?” Bajie said: “A fine dark wind.” Tripitaka said: “And the saving of the children—how does it stand?” The Pilgrim said: “Saved and sent out, one by one; they will be returned when we take the road.” The elder thanked him again and again, and then they went to bed.

At daybreak Tripitaka woke, made himself ready, and said: “Wukong, I will go with the morning court to have the rescripts countersigned.” The Pilgrim said: “Master, to go alone may not serve; let Old Sun go with you and see what the Father-in-Law is, evil or true.” Tripitaka said: “You will never bow properly, and the king may take offense.” The Pilgrim said: “I will not show myself; I will follow you unseen, as your guard.” Tripitaka rejoiced, charged Bajie and Sha Monk to watch the baggage and the horse, and set out. The lodge master came again to see him off, and marked the elder's dress—strangely different from yesterday. Behold him:

On his body a brocade cassock of the Buddha, a treasure past price; on his head the Vairocana cap with its golden crown.In his hand the tin staff with its nine rings; at his breast a point of wondrous holy light.The travel rescripts carried close upon him; in the bundle-bag a brocade wrapping.He walked like an arhat descended into the world—truly the living face of a Buddha on earth.

The lodge master, his courtesy done, whispered in his ear: meddle in no man's business. Tripitaka nodded. The Great Sage slipped beside the door, murmured a charm, shook himself once, changed into a tiny cicada, and with a whine flew and lighted on the Tang monk's cap. Out of the lodge, straight to the court.

At the gate of the court was the Yellow Gate officer. The traveler saluted: “This poor monk was sent by the Great Tang of the eastern lands to seek scriptures in the Western Heaven. Come to your honorable country, my rescripts ought to be countersigned, and I beg audience; I pray you present my request.” The Yellow Gate officer truly presented it. The king rejoiced: “A monk come from so far must have cultivation.” He ordered him brought in. The Yellow Gate officer, bearing the decree, led the elder in. The elder made his obeisance at the foot of the steps and was invited up into the hall and given a seat. The elder thanked the grace and sat. He saw the king wan and wasted, his spirit listless: when he lifted his hand his salute went awry; when he opened his mouth his voice broke off and came again. The elder offered up the rescripts. The king's eyes were dim; he looked and looked again before taking the precious seal, signing his flowered mark, and handing the papers to the elder, who received them.

The king was about to ask the reason of the scripture-seeking when he heard the officer of the carriage announce: “His Excellency the Imperial Father-in-Law is come!” The king, leaning on a young attendant, struggled down from the dragon bed and bowed in welcome. The elder sprang up in haste and stood aside. He turned and looked: an old Taoist, swaying in, up the jade steps. Behold him:

On his head a kerchief of pale gosling yellow, cloud-brocade gauze of the nine gifts; on his body a crane-feather mantle of plum and aloes-wood silk, crowned high as a hairpin.At his waist a blue-stitched sash of three twisted cords; on his feet cloud-toed shoes of hemp warp and kudzu weft.In his hand a dragon-coiled staff of nine-jointed withered rattan; at his breast a brocade sachet stitched with dragons, embroidered with phoenixes, wreathed in flowers.His jade face glossy with light; his gray beard drifting below the chin.Gold pupils darting flame; long eyes arching past the brows.In his walking, cloud followed step; at his ease, a ring of incense mist about him.The officers below the steps pressed forward with cupped hands, all crying as the Imperial Father-in-Law entered the court.

The Father-in-Law reached the foot of the jeweled hall, made no salute at all, but came striding and swaying straight up into the hall. The king bowed slightly: “Your Excellency's immortal steps—happy that you come so early.” And he asked him to a brocade stool at the left hand.

Tripitaka stepped forward one pace, bowed, and saluted: “Your Excellency the Father-in-Law, this poor monk salutes you.” The Father-in-Law sat on high, made no return of courtesy, but turned his face to the king: “From where comes this monk?” The king said: “Sent by the Tang of the eastern lands to the Western Heaven for scriptures; come now to have his rescripts countersigned.” The Father-in-Law laughed: “The road to the West—a stretch of black dark. What good is in it?” Tripitaka said: “From of old the West has been the blessed land of highest bliss—how can it not be good?” The king asked: “I have heard it said of old: ‘The monk is the Buddha household's disciple.’ Tell me truly: can being a monk keep one from death? Can turning to Buddha bring long life?” Tripitaka heard and pressed his palms together in haste, answering:

“To be a monk is to let all ties go; to know one's nature is to find all things empty. Great wisdom sits at ease, serene within the unborn; the true spring works in silence, ranging free within extinction. When the three realms are seen as void, the hundred disorders settle; when the six roots are pure, the thousand wants are spent. For steadfast, honest awakening one must know the heart: the heart pure, a single light shines alone; the heart kept, the ten thousand scenes are clear. The true countenance lacks nothing and has nothing over—it may be seen in life; the illusory form, having shape, will come to ruin—beyond that, what would you seek? Practice and seated meditation are the wellspring of entering samadhi; spreading kindness, bestowing grace, are truly the root of cultivation. Great skill seems clumsy—know that in all things is non-action; good planning is no reckoning—every head must be set down. Only let the one heart be unmoved, and the ten thousand works are whole of themselves. As for drawing on yin to supply yang—that is truly nonsense. To take elixirs for long life—empty words indeed. Only cast off every tie of every dust, see every thing and every form as void; plain and pure, sparing of love and desire, and you will enjoy length of years without end.”

At this the Father-in-Law laughed it off. He pointed his finger at the Tang monk: “Ho, ho, ho! Monk, your mouth is full of chips and shavings. In the school of extinction one must speak of knowing one's nature—and you do not know from where that nature is extinguished. Sitting rigid at your chan—blind practice, dark cultivation, all of it. The proverb says: ‘Sit, sit, sit, till your rump wears through; the fire seethes and boils, and turns to bane.’ And you know nothing of my—

They who cultivate immortality: the strongest, finest of bone; they who reach the Way: the subtlest spirit of all. With bowl and gourd they enter mountains to visit friends; they gather the hundred drugs and come into the world to heal men.They pluck immortal flowers to thatch their hats, break fragrant orchid to spread for mats. They sing, clapping hands; when the dance is done, they sleep on clouds.They set forth the law of the Way, upholding the orthodox teaching of the Supreme Lord; they give talisman-water, cleansing the world of demon miasma.They wrest the pure breath of heaven and earth, gather the shining essence of sun and moon.They turn yin and yang and the elixir congeals; they square water and fire and the embryo quickens.The yin of sixteen melts away—half trance, half drift; the yang of three nines waxes far—dim, deep, and dark.According to the four seasons they gather their drugs, nourish the nine turnings, and the elixir is made.Bestriding the blue luan they rise to the Purple Palace; bestriding the white crane they mount the Jasper Capital.They take their part in the shining splendors of all the sky and show the diligence of the subtle Way.Compare your quiet chan of the Buddha's teaching, your extinct and ghostly spirit, your nirvana's reeking husk, still not out of the dust: among the three teachings there is no rank above it—from of old the Way alone is called supreme.”

The king heard and was delighted. The officers of the whole court cheered: “Fine words—‘the Way alone is called supreme’! ‘The Way alone is called supreme’!” The elder, hearing all praise the other, burned with shame. The king further ordered the Court of Imperial Entertainments to set out a vegetarian meal, to speed the monk come from afar on his way out the west gate. Tripitaka thanked the grace and withdrew. Hardly down from the hall, walking out, the Pilgrim flew down from the cap's crown, came to his ear, and called: “Master, this Father-in-Law is a demon, and the king is steeped in demon breath. Go first and wait at the lodge for the meal; let Old Sun stay here and listen for what comes.” Tripitaka, apprised, went out the court gate alone—no more of that.

And the Pilgrim: one beat of wings and he flew into the kingfisher screen of the golden throne hall and stuck fast. He saw an officer of the five city wards step from the ranks and report: “Sovereign: last night a cold wind stripped every household in every ward of its cage children, cages and all, and left no trace.” The king heard and was frightened and vexed together, and said to the Father-in-Law: “This is heaven destroying me. Months ill and grave, the physicians helpless; happily Your Excellency gave the immortal prescription, fixed for the hour of the horse today to open the blade and take the children's hearts and livers for the guide—and a cold wind has swept them off. If heaven is not set on destroying me, what is it?” The Father-in-Law laughed: “Your Majesty, do not fret. The children's sweeping off is heaven itself sending you long life.” The king said: “The children in the cages are swept away—why say heaven sends long life?” The Father-in-Law said: “Coming to court just now I saw a medicine guide of supreme perfection, better than the hearts of those one thousand one hundred and eleven children. Those children's hearts would buy Your Majesty only a thousand years; this guide, taken with my immortal drug, will stretch them to ten thousand myriads of years.” The king, blank, did not know what guide; he asked again and again before the Father-in-Law said: “That monk sent from the eastern lands to fetch scriptures: I marked him—his bearing clean and quiet, his face regular and whole—a true body refined through ten lifetimes, a monk from childhood, the primal yang never yet spent, ten thousand times beyond those children. If we simmer his heart and liver into a broth and he takes my immortal drug, it will guarantee him ten thousand years of life.” The benighted king heard and believed utterly. He said to the Father-in-Law: “Why not say so at once? If it works so, we should have kept him then, and never let him go.” The Father-in-Law said: “What difficulty is that? Just now he was told to have his meal from the Court of Entertainments; he must eat before he leaves the city. Send the decree at once: shut every gate, pick troops to ring the Gold Pavilion Lodge, take the monk, and treat him with courtesy in begging his heart. If he consents, cut it out that instant, bury his body with royal rites, raise him a shrine for offerings; if he refuses, give him the rough side of force: bind him on the spot, cut, and take it. What difficulty is in that?” The benighted king did as he said, sent the decree at once, closed every gate, and detached officers and men of the Feathered Forest Guards, great and small, to surround the lodge.

The Pilgrim heard this news and flew, one beat of wings, to the lodge, showed his true form, and said to the Tang monk: “Master, disaster! Disaster!” Tripitaka was at the meal of alms with Bajie and Sha Monk when he heard it; he was so frightened his three corpse-souls scattered and smoke rose from his seven apertures; he fell to the ground, bathed in sweat, eyes unfixed, mouth unable to speak. Sha Monk hurried to hold him up, crying: “Master, come to yourself! Master, come to yourself!” Bajie said: “What disaster? What disaster? If you had spoken slower it had been better—you have frightened the master out of his wits.” The Pilgrim said: “Since the master left the court, Old Sun watched on: the Father-in-Law is a demon. Presently the commander of the five wards came to report how a cold wind had swept off the children. The king was sore vexed—and the demon turned it to joy: ‘This is heaven sending you long life.’ He wants the master's heart and liver for his medicine guide, to buy him ten thousand years. The fool believes the slander, and so he musters his picked troops to ring the lodge and sends an officer of the Embroidered Guard to invite the master—begging for his heart.” Bajie laughed: “Fine mercy you have shown, fine children you have saved, fine dark wind you have raised—and now the trouble breaks!”

Tripitaka clambered up trembling, took the Pilgrim's arm, and pleaded: “Worthy disciple, what is to be done?” The Pilgrim said: “If you would have it well, the great must play the small.” Sha Monk said: “What is ‘the great must play the small’?” The Pilgrim said: “If we would save his life, master must play disciple and disciple master; only so can he be kept whole.” Tripitaka said: “If you can save my life, I am willing to be your disciple's disciple and disciple's grandson.” The Pilgrim said: “In that case, no delay.” He ordered: “Bajie, quick, mix some mud.” The Idiot dug up some earth with his rake; not daring to fetch water from outside, he gathered up his robe, pissed, and kneaded a clod of stinking mud, and handed it to the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim, helpless, flattened the mud into a sheet, laid it on his own face, and molded the features of a monkey face. He had the Tang monk stand and be still, and say nothing more, pressed it onto the Tang monk's face, murmured the true words, blew a breath of immortal air, and cried, “Change!”—and the elder was changed into the Pilgrim's likeness. He stripped off the elder's clothes and put the Pilgrim's clothes on him; then the Pilgrim put on the master's clothes, pinched the spell-sign, murmured a charm, shook himself, and changed into the Tang monk's very face. Bajie and Sha Monk could hardly tell them apart.

Just as they had dressed the part, heart set to heart, gongs and drums sounded together and spears and blades crowded in: the officers of the Feathered Forest Guards with three thousand men had ringed the lodge. And an officer of the Embroidered Guard walked into the lodge court asking: “Where is the elder of the Tang of the eastern lands?” The lodge master, trembling, knelt and pointed: “In the guest room below.” The officer went at once into the guest room: “Elder Tang, our king invites you.” Bajie and Sha Monk stood guard to left and right of the false Pilgrim. The false Tang monk came out and saluted: “Lord officer of the Embroidered Guard: his Majesty summons this poor monk—what is his pleasure?” The officer stepped up and seized him: “You come to court with me; no doubt there is a use for you.” Ah! And it is justly said:

The demon's slander prevails over mercy and good; mercy and good, in turn, call ruin down.

But whether his life would truly stand when he came to it—listen to the next chapter to find out.

The Monks of Bhikshu Pity the Children and Send Out the Dark Spirits; In the Golden Hall the Demon Is Known and the Way and Its Virtue Discussed

One thought springs up, and a hundred demons stir; against it, the bitter work of self-culture can do nothing.Only by washing till no speck of dust remains, and by reining in and polishing the mind, does it avail.Sweep away the ten thousand ties and come back to quiet and extinction; wash out the thousand monsters, and let no time be lost.Then you will leap the cage and the snare for certain; the work complete, you fly aloft to the Great Empyrean.

The story tells how the Great Sage Sun spent all his wits, begged the Tathagata to take the demons, and freed the Tang monk and his disciples from their trouble, and they left Lion-Camel City and went west. After some months more it was winter already. See how it was:

On the ridges the plum is near breaking into jade; the pond water is turning to ice.Red leaves have all drifted down; the green pines are fresher in color.Thin clouds fly, and snow is coming; withered grass lies flat along the hills.Cold light fills the eye to the far sky; the dark chill pierces to the bone.

Master and disciples braved the cold and slept in rain and fed on wind. As they went, they saw another city. The Tripitaka asked: "Wukong, what place is that over there?" Pilgrim said: "We shall know when we reach it. If it is a royal seat of the west, we must have the papers changed; if a prefecture or county, we go straight through."

Before master and disciples had done speaking, they were at the city gate. The Tripitaka got down, and the four of them went into the moon-gate of the outer wall. They saw an old soldier asleep in the wind at the foot of a wall in the sun. Pilgrim came up, shook him, and called: "Officer." The old soldier woke with a start, opened his eyes in a blur, saw Pilgrim, hurried to his knees, knocked his head, and cried: "Grandfather!" Pilgrim said: "Do not work yourself into such frights. I am no evil spirit; why call me grandfather?" The old soldier knocked his head: "You are the Thunder God, grandfather." Pilgrim said: "Talk! I am a monk from the Land of the East, going to the Western Heaven for the scriptures. I have just arrived and do not know the name of the place, and came to ask you." The old soldier heard, gathered his wits, yawned, got up, stretched his waist, and said: "Elder, elder, forgive this low one. This place was first called the Kingdom of Bhikshu; now it is changed to Boys' City." Pilgrim said: "Is there a king in the kingdom?" The old soldier said: "There is, there is." Pilgrim turned to the Tang monk: "Master, this place was first the Kingdom of Bhikshu and is now changed to Boys' City; but why the name was changed, I do not know." The Tang monk puzzled: "If it is Bhikshu, 'monk,' why also 'boys'?" Bajie said: "I suppose the Bhikshu king has died, and a boy has been set on the throne; so they call it Boys' City." The Tang monk said: "There is no sense in that, no sense. Let us go in and ask in the streets." Sha Monk said: "Right. The old soldier, first, does not know; second, our big brother frightened him into talking nonsense. Let us go into the city and ask."

They went in through the third gate, out into the great thoroughfares and markets, and looked: the dress was neat, the people comely. See:

Wine towers and singing houses are loud with talk; the dyers' stalls and tea houses hang their curtains high.Ten thousand households, a thousand doors, and trade is good; six streets and three markets, wealth flowing wide.They that buy gold and sell brocade are thick as ants; for gain and name they strive — all for money.Manners grave and stately, the scene in full glory; the rivers clear, the seas calm — a year of peace.

The four, leading the horse and carrying the load, walked the streets a long while, never done gazing at the signs of wealth; but at every house door they saw nothing but a goose cage. The Tripitaka said: "Disciples, the people here all set goose cages at their doors. Why?" Bajie heard, and looked left and right: truly goose cages, ranged in rows, hung over with colored silks of five hues. The Idiot laughed: "Master, today must be a lucky day of the yellow path — a fine day for weddings and meeting friends; they are all performing the rites." Pilgrim said: "Nonsense! How could every house be holding rites? There is a reason in it somewhere. Let me go and look." The Tripitaka held him: "Do not go; your face is ugly — people will take you for a strange one." Pilgrim said: "Then I will change and go."

The good Great Sage pinched a sign, murmured a spell, shook himself, and changed into a bee; he spread his wings, flew near, slipped under the curtain, and looked: inside sat a little child. He went to a second house's cage and looked: a little child again. He looked at eight or nine houses, and in every one a little child — all boys, never a girl. Some sat in the cages at play; some sat inside crying; some ate fruit; some sat or slept. When Pilgrim had seen enough, he showed his true form, came back, and reported to the Tang monk: "In the cages are little children, the oldest not yet seven, the youngest only five. Why, I do not know." The Tripitaka heard, and could not settle his troubled thoughts.

Then, turning a corner, they saw a government office — the Gold Pavilion Post. The elder rejoiced: "Disciples, let us go into this post: first, to ask about the place; second, to rest the horse; third, the day is late, and we lodge here." Sha Monk said: "Right, right; let us go in quickly." The four went in gladly. The officers in charge truly reported to the postmaster, who received them at the gate, and all exchanged greetings. When they were seated, the postmaster asked: "Elder, from what quarter do you come?" The Tripitaka said: "Your poor monk is sent by the Land of the East, the Great Tang, to the Western Heaven for the scriptures. Now that I have reached your honored place, my papers should be examined, and I beg the loan of your lofty office for a rest." The postmaster at once ordered tea. When the tea was done, he had supplies made ready and told those on duty to prepare entertainment. The Tripitaka thanked him, and asked: "May we enter the court today and see the king, to have the papers examined?" The postmaster said: "Not tonight; it must wait for tomorrow's morning court. Tonight rest at ease one night in this humble office."

In a little while all was ready, and the postmaster asked the four to share the vegetarian meal. Then he told his people to sweep the guest rooms for their lodging, and the Tripitaka thanked him without end. When they had sat down, the elder said: "Your poor monk has a matter he does not understand, and begs to be instructed. How do you people here rear children?" The postmaster said: "Heaven has no second sun, and man has no second principle. To rear a child: the father's seed and the mother's blood, ten months in the womb, born in its time; then nursed at the breast three years, and little by little it takes its shape. How could we not know that?" The Tripitaka said: "By your words it is no different from our country. But when your poor monk entered the city, he saw in every street and house a goose cage set out, with a small child hidden inside. This I do not understand, and so I ask." The postmaster bent to his ear and whispered: "Elder, do not meddle with it, do not ask about it, do not touch it or speak of it. Go to rest; at dawn go on your way." The elder heard, and seized the postmaster by the arm — he would have it out. The postmaster shook his head and wagged his finger, saying only: "Mind your words." The Tripitaka would not let go; he was fixed on asking to the bottom. The postmaster, having no choice, sent away all the officers present, and by the lamplight, in a low voice, said: "The goose cages you ask of are the work of our present king, who is without the Way. Why do you go on asking?" The Tripitaka said: "What is 'without the Way'? You must teach me plainly, or I cannot set my mind at rest." The postmaster said: "This kingdom was first the Kingdom of Bhikshu; lately there has been a ballad among the people, and it is changed to Boys' City. Three years ago an old man came, dressed as a Daoist, leading a young girl just sixteen, whose face was delicate and fair, her beauty like Guanyin's, and presented her to the present king. His Majesty loved her beauty, doted on her in the palace, and styled her the Beautiful Queen. Of late he has not given one proper glance to the ladies of the three palaces and six courts, but day and night, without pause, he ransacks his pleasure. Now he is worn thin and weary, his body shriveled, his appetite small, and his life hangs by a moment. The imperial physicians have tried every good prescription and cannot cure him. The Daoist who presented the girl has received our lord's patent and is called the National Father-in-Law. The National Father-in-Law has a secret prescription from over the seas that can greatly lengthen life. Some time ago he gathered drugs from the ten isles and three islets, and all is complete. Only the drug's messenger is terrible: it wants the hearts and livers of one thousand one hundred and eleven little children, to boil with the drug. Taken after, it works the deed of not growing old for a thousand years. Those little ones in the goose cages were all chosen out and are kept there. Their fathers and mothers, in fear of the king's law, dare not weep aloud, and so a rumor was spread, and it is called Boys' City. Elder, tomorrow morning at court, go only to have your papers changed, and do not breathe a word of this." And with that he drew back and left.

The elder's bones went soft and his sinews slack; the tears fell from his cheeks without stopping. Suddenly he cried out: "Blind king, blind king! For your love of pleasure and beauty you have bred this sickness — and must you wrong so many little children of their lives? Bitter, bitter! It breaks my heart!" There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

The blinded lord, unknowing, lost the true and right; doting on pleasure, he never marked the hidden hurt to self.To seek unending life he cuts down the lives of children; to rid himself of heaven's stroke he slaughters the common folk.The monk's mercy rises, and he cannot let it go; the officer tells the pros and cons, too bitter to hear.By the lamp he spills his tears and sighs long sighs — the man of meditation and Buddha is felled with grief.

Bajie came near: "Master, what is the matter with you? You are forever carrying other people's coffins home to weep over. Do not trouble yourself. There is a common saying: 'If the king bids the minister die, and the minister does not die, he is disloyal; if the father bids the son perish, and the son does not perish, he is unfilial.' He is wronging his own subjects — what is that to you? Come and loosen your clothes and sleep, and do not grieve for the men of old." The Tripitaka dropped tears: "Disciple, you have no pity. We who have left home pile up merit and deeds, and the first of all is to show kindness. How can this blind king run on so wildly? From the beginning of time it was never heard that eating hearts and livers lengthens life. At such a thing, how should I not grieve?" Sha Monk said: "Master, do not grieve yet. Tomorrow morning, when the papers are changed, let us speak with the king face to face. If he will not listen, then we shall see what manner of National Father-in-Law this is. Or perhaps that Father-in-Law is a demon, who wants men's hearts and livers, and so has laid this snare — who can say?"

Pilgrim said: "Wujing's word is good. Master, go to sleep; tomorrow old Sun will go to court with you, and we shall see the good or evil of this Father-in-Law. If he is a man, I fear he has strayed into side paths, not knowing the true way, taking drug-gathering for the whole truth; then old Sun will teach him the essentials handed down from before heaven began, and turn him to the right. If he is a demon, I will take him and show him to the king, and teach the king to curb his appetites and nurse his health — and never shall those children's lives be touched." The Tripitaka heard, bowed low at once, and returned Pilgrim's salute: "Disciple, this plan is excellent, excellent. Only, when we see the blind king, do not open this matter at once, for fear the fool, not weighing far from near, should count it slander and punish us — what then?" Pilgrim laughed: "Old Sun has his own arts. First I will spirit the cage children out of this city, so that tomorrow they have nothing to take the hearts from; the local officers will naturally memorialize the throne. The blind king will surely issue some decree, or take counsel with the Father-in-Law, or order a new levy. Then, on the strength of that memorial, no blame can fall on me." The Tripitaka rejoiced greatly, and said: "But how are the children to be gotten out of the city? If they can truly be saved, it is the virtue of a worthy disciple as high as heaven. Do it quickly; if you linger, it may be too late." Pilgrim stirred up his might, rose, and told Bajie and Sha Monk: "Sit with Master and wait while I work; watch — when a dark wind stirs, that is the children leaving the city." The three together murmured: "Homage to the Life-Saving Medicine Buddha! Homage to the Life-Saving Medicine Buddha!"

The Great Sage went out the door, gave a whistle, rose into mid-air, pinched a sign, murmured the true word, and cried "Om, pure is the realm of law," and summoned the city god, the earth gods, the local spirits, the true officers, the guardians of the five quarters, the duty officers of the four watches, the Six Dings and Six Jias, and the Sangharama guardians of the faith, all of them, into the air, where they saluted him: "Great Sage, you call us in the night — what is the pressing matter?" Pilgrim said: "Today we passed the Kingdom of Bhikshu. The king is without the Way; he listens to a demon and means to take the hearts and livers of little children as the messenger of his drug, hoping for long life. My master cannot bear it, and means to save the living and destroy the monster. So old Sun begs you gentlemen, each to use his art, to spirit the children, cages and all, out of every street and house in this city, to the hollows of the hills outside, or the depths of the woods, and keep them a day or two, giving them fruit to eat, so they do not starve; and guard them secretly, so that they are not frightened into crying. When I have rooted out the evil and set the kingdom right, and turned the king to the right way, then, as I go, bring them back to me."

The spirits took the order, and each at once worked his art and pressed down his cloud. Through the whole city rolled a dark wind and a ghastly fog:

The dark wind blew the stars of all the sky to darkness; the ghastly fog beclouded the moon for a thousand li. At first it drifted soft and slow; then it roared and raged. Soft and slow, each sought the doors where children slept; roaring, raging, every eye was on the goose cages, the flesh and blood of homes. The cold pressed in on men — how could they show their heads? The freezing might went through the body, and clothes were iron. Fathers and mothers could only stare in terror; brothers and sisters-in-law were all grief and pain. Over the whole ground rolled the dark wind; the cages were spirited away by the gods. This night, forlorn though they were, at daybreak all would rejoice.

There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:

Mercy in the gate of the Buddha, from of old abundantly shown; the true and good, perfected, is preached as the Great Word.The ten thousand sages, the thousand perfected, all heaped up virtue; the three refuges and five bonds must be kept in harmony.In the kingdom of Bhikshu it was no king's disorder; the thousand children called Boys were lives misnamed.Pilgrim, for his master's sake, joined in the rescue; this hidden virtue outshines the far shore itself.

By the third watch of that night the spirits had spirited the goose cages away and hidden them in their several places.

Pilgrim let down his auspicious light and came straight to the post courtyard, and heard the three still murmuring "Homage to the Life-Saving Medicine Buddha." His heart was glad in secret. He came near and called: "Master, I am back. And how was the dark wind?" Bajie said: "A fine dark wind." The Tripitaka said: "And the saving of the children — what of it?" Pilgrim said: "I have saved them all, one by one, and brought them out; when we set out, they will be sent back." The elder thanked him over and over, and then went to his rest.

At daybreak the Tripitaka woke, made himself ready, and said: "Wukong, while the morning court sits, I go to have the papers changed." Pilgrim said: "Master, if you go alone, I fear it will not serve; let old Sun go with you, and we shall see whether this Father-in-Law is fiend or no." The Tripitaka said: "If you go, you will not bow, and the king may take offense." Pilgrim said: "I will not show myself; I will follow you unseen, and be your guard." The Tripitaka rejoiced greatly, told Bajie and Sha Monk to watch the baggage and the horse, and set out. The postmaster came again to see him, and this elder, dressed for the court, was quite another man from yesterday. See him:

On his body a brocade cassock, a rare treasure, the Buddha's own ragged robe; on his head a gilt-topped cap of Vairocana.The tin staff with nine rings in his hand; in his breast a point of divine light and mystery.The traveling papers of passage close at his side; in the bundle bag, wound in a brocade sling.He walks like an arhat come down into the world — truly the face and form of a living Buddha.

The postmaster, having paid his respects, whispered in his ear: only, meddle in no man's business. The Tripitaka nodded. The Great Sage slipped aside at the door, murmured a spell, shook himself, changed into a tiny cicada, and with a whine flew to the Tripitaka's cap. Out of the post they went, straight to the court.

At the gate of the court they found the gate official of the yellow door, and Pilgrim's master bowed: "Your poor monk is sent by the Land of the East, the Great Tang, to the Western Heaven for the scriptures. Having reached your land, my papers should rightly be changed; I wish to see the king, and beg you to report it." The official truly carried the word in. The king rejoiced: "A monk come from so far must have some measure of the Way." He told them to bring him in. The official brought the elder in by the king's word. The elder paid his court below the steps, and was asked up into the hall and given a seat; the elder thanked the grace and sat. The king's person was wasted and weak, his spirit dull: when he lifted his hand, his bows went awry; when he opened his mouth, his voice broke off and began. The elder offered the papers; the king's eyes were dim and bleared, and he read them over and over before he took the jeweled seal, set his signature flourish, and handed them back. The elder took them.

The king was just going to ask the reason of the scripture-seeking when he heard the officer of the car announce: "His Honor the National Father-in-Law has come." The king, holding on a young page in attendance, struggled down from the dragon bed and bowed to receive him; the elder, in a flurry, rose and stood aside. He turned and looked: it was an old Daoist, swaying and rolling in from the jade steps. See him:

On his head a pale goose-yellow gauze kerchief of cloud brocade, such as the Nine Bestowals allow; on his body a plum-scented aloes-wool crane cloak, crowned at the crown.At his waist a three-strand woven sash of threaded blue; on his feet a pair of hemp-warp, kudzu-weft cloud-toe shoes.In his hand a nine-jointed withered vine staff wound like a coiling dragon; at his breast a brocade purse figured with dragons and embroidered phoenixes.His jade face full of soft light; his gray beard drifting below the chin. Golden eyes that scatter flame; long eyes that reach past the brow.As he moves, cloud follows his steps; at ease, sweet mist wreathes him. The officers below the steps all bow and receive him, crying with one voice: the National Father-in-Law enters the royal court.

The Father-in-Law reached the great hall and, without so much as a bow, came striding proudly straight up into it. The king bowed slightly: "The immortal steps of the National Father-in-Law — happy that you have come so early." He asked him to a brocade stool on the left.

The Tripitaka stepped forward one pace, bowed, and said: "Lord Father-in-Law, your poor monk salutes you." The Father-in-Law sat high and unmoved, returned no courtesy, but turned to the king: "Where does this monk come from?" The king said: "He is sent by the Land of the East, the Great Tang, up to the Western Heaven for the scriptures, and has come to have his papers changed." The Father-in-Law laughed: "The western road — dark and long; what good is in it?" The Tripitaka said: "From of old the West has been the blessed realm of highest bliss; how can it not be good?" The king asked: "We have heard the ancients say: 'The monk is the Buddha's disciple.' Truly — can a monk escape death? Can he who turns to Buddha live forever?" The Tripitaka heard, and hastened to answer with palms joined:

"The monk lets fall the ten thousand ties; the knower of nature finds all laws empty. Great wisdom sits at ease, tranquil within the unborn; the true spring works in silence, roaming in quiet extinction. When the Three Realms are seen as empty, the hundred troubles are ordered; when the six roots are pure, the thousand passions are spent. If one would know firmly and wake truly, one must know the heart: when the heart is pure, the single light shines alone; when the heart is kept, the ten thousand states are all clear. The true face wants nothing and has nothing over; it may be seen in this life. The illusory form has shape, and shape at last decays — what is there beyond to seek? The work of practice and seated meditation is the wellspring of absorption; giving alms and bestowing grace is truly the root of self-culture. Great skill looks like clumsiness — know that in all things it is not-doing; good planning is no contriving — one must let go at every point. Only let the one heart be unmoved, and the ten thousand deeds are whole of themselves. To speak of gathering yin to mend the yang is truly idle talk; to swallow drugs for length of days is empty words. Only cast off ties upon ties, and see that things upon things are empty. Pure and plain, scant in love and lust — then of itself one enjoys years that never end."

The Father-in-Law heard it, and laughed it away. He pointed his finger at the Tang monk: "Ho, ho, ho! Monk, your mouth is full of sticks and straw. In the gate of quiet extinction one must speak of knowing nature — and you do not know from where that nature is extinguished. Sitting stiff and meditating — it is all blind practice and dark refining. The common saying goes: 'Sit and sit, till your rump wears through. The fire simmers and stews, and turns to ruin.' And you know nothing of my:

"The maker of immortals, whose bones are firm and graceful; the arriver at the Way, whose spirit is the most numinous. With bowl and gourd he goes into the hills to visit friends; he plucks the hundred drugs and comes into the world to heal men. He picks immortal flowers to thatch his hat; he breaks fragrant orchid to spread his mat. He sings and claps his hands; his dance done, he sleeps in the clouds. He opens the law of the Way and raises the true teaching of the Most High; he gives talisman-water and sweeps the demon air from the world of men. He seizes the fine breath of heaven and earth, and gathers the essence of sun and moon. He turns the Yin and Yang and the cinnabar forms; he squares the water and fire, and the embryo congeals. As the yin of twice eight melts away — dimly, dimly; as the yang of thrice nine waxes — darkly, darkly. He gathers his drugs as the four seasons answer, nurses the nine turnings, and the elixir is made. He bestrides the blue luan and mounts the purple court; he rides the white crane and ascends the jasper capital. He gathers the shining flowers of all the sky, and shows the earnest care of the wondrous Way. Compared with your quiet meditation of the Buddha's teaching, your extinguished dark spirits, your nirvana that leaves a stinking shell and does not slip the dust of the world — among the three teachings it has no high place; from of old the Way alone has been called sovereign."

The king heard, and was delighted; all the courtiers cheered: "Fine words — 'the Way alone has been called sovereign'! 'The Way alone has been called sovereign'!" The elder, hearing them all praise the other, was ashamed past bearing. The king ordered the Court of Imperial Entertainments to prepare a vegetarian meal, to speed the far-come monk out of the city and west. The Tripitaka thanked the grace and withdrew. He had only come down from the hall and was walking out when Pilgrim flew down from the cap top, came to his ear, and called: "Master, this Father-in-Law is a demon, and the king is soaked in demon breath. Go first and wait for the meal at the post; old Sun will stay here and listen for news." The Tripitaka, told, went out the court gate alone — but no more of that.

See Pilgrim: with one wing-flick he flew into the kingfisher screen of the golden throne hall and stuck there. From the ranks of the court stepped out the officer of the five-city guards, who reported: "My lord, tonight a cold wind has carried off the goose cages, children and all, from every ward and house, and left never a trace." The king heard the report, both startled and vexed, and said to the Father-in-Law: "This is heaven destroying me. Months I have lain sick, and the imperial physicians can do nothing; happily the Father-in-Law bestowed his immortal prescription, and we waited only for today at the hour of the Horse to open the blade and take the hearts of these children for the drug's messenger. And now a cold wind has swept them off — is this not heaven's mind to destroy me?" The Father-in-Law laughed: "Your Majesty, do not vex yourself. The children swept away — that is heaven itself sending you long life." The king said: "The children in the cages are just swept away — why turn and say heaven sends me long life?" The Father-in-Law said: "Coming to court just now, I saw a drug's messenger finer than all — better than the hearts of one thousand one hundred and eleven children. The hearts of those children would only add a thousand years to Your Majesty; but this messenger, with my immortal drug taken after, will stretch it to ten thousand myriads of years." The king, in a haze, had no notion what messenger this was; he begged again and again, and only then did the Father-in-Law say: "That monk the East sent to seek the scriptures — I marked his presence, clean and quiet, his face regular and fine. He is a true body refined through ten lifetimes, a monk from childhood, his first yang never yet spent — ten thousand times beyond those children. If we boil his heart and liver for the broth and take my immortal drug after, it will surely keep you ten thousand years." The blind king heard, and believed it utterly. To the Father-in-Law he said: "Why did you not say so before? If it is truly so effective, we should have kept him just now and not let him go." The Father-in-Law said: "What difficulty is that? We just now told the Court of Entertainments to prepare a meal for him; he will be sure to eat the meal before he leaves the city. Send the word quickly to shut every gate, and muster troops to ring the Gold Pavilion Post, and take that monk; then sue humbly for his heart. If he consents, cut it out at once and take it, bury his body with royal rites, and build him a shrine to receive offerings. If he will not, then give him the rougher courtesy: bind him on the spot, cut, and take it. What difficulty is in that?" The blind king did as he said, and sent the word to close the gates; he also sent officers and men of the Feathered Forest Guard to ring the post.

Pilgrim heard this news, flew with one wing-flick to the post, showed his true form, and said to the Tang monk: "Master, it is trouble, it is trouble." The Tripitaka had just gone with Bajie and Sha Monk to receive the imperial meal when he heard this: his three corpse-spirits scattered, smoke rose from his seven openings, and he fell to the ground, his whole body sweating, his eyes unset, his mouth unable to speak. Sha Monk hurried to hold him, crying: "Master, come to yourself! Master, come to yourself!" Bajie said: "What trouble? What trouble? You might have said it slowly, instead of frightening Master so." Pilgrim said: "Since Master left the court, old Sun watched behind. That Father-in-Law is a demon. A little later the five-city guard came to report how a cold wind carried off the children. The king had just vexed himself when the other turned him glad, saying: 'This is heaven sending you long life' — that he would take Master's heart and liver for the drug's messenger, to stretch your years to ten thousand. The blind king believed the slander, and so has picked his finest troops to ring the post and sent an official of the brocade guard to beg for Master's heart." Bajie laughed: "A fine mercy you have shown, a fine job of saving children, a fine dark wind you raised — and now the trouble breaks out!"

The Tripitaka scrambled up trembling, seized Pilgrim, and pleaded: "Worthy disciple, what is to be done?" Pilgrim said: "If you would have it well, the great must play the small." Sha Monk said: "What is this 'great plays small'?" Pilgrim said: "To keep our lives, the master must play the disciple and the disciple the master; only so can all be saved." The Tripitaka said: "If you can save my life, I will gladly be your disciple's disciple and grandson's grandson." Pilgrim said: "Then, no more delay. Bajie, mix some mud quickly." The Idiot dug up some earth with his nail rake, dared not go out for water, so pulled up his skirts and made water, and mixed a lump of rank-smelling mud, and handed it to Pilgrim. Pilgrim, having no choice, patted the mud flat, set it on his own face, and molded a monkey-faced mask. He told the Tang monk to stand still and not stir, and say never a word more; he pressed it on the Tang monk's face, murmured the true word, blew a mouthful of magic breath, and cried: "Change!" And the elder became the very likeness of a Pilgrim. He stripped off his own clothes and put on the clothes of Pilgrim; and Pilgrim put on the master's clothes, pinched a sign, murmured a spell, shook himself, and took on the face of the Tang monk, so that Bajie and Sha Monk could hardly tell them apart.

Just as they had finished dressing with one heart, gongs and drums sounded together, and spears and blades came crowding: it was the officer of the Feathered Forest Guard, at the head of three thousand men, ringing the post. And an official of the brocade guard walked into the post courtyard asking: "Where is the elder of the Land of the East, the Great Tang?" The postmaster, trembling, knelt and pointed: "In the guest room below." The brocade official came to the guest room: "Elder Tang, my king bids you come." Bajie and Sha Monk stood guard at either side of the false Pilgrim. The false Tang monk came out the door, bowed, and said: "Lord of the brocade guard, the king summons your poor monk — what is his pleasure?" The brocade official came up, seized him by the arm: "Come with me to the court; there is like to be use for you." Ah! This is truly:

The demon slanders and beats true mercy; true mercy, in return, draws down ruin.

Whether he goes from here to lose his life or no — listen to the next chapter to find out.