by Unknown
The workers obeyed and each of them finished the preparation before returning to invite the Tang Monk to go take his rest. Master and disciples led the horse and toted the luggage; they left the abbot chamber and went to the door of the Chan halls, where they saw inside brightly lit lamps and four rattan beds with bedding all laid out. Pilgrim asked the worker who brought the hay to haul it inside the Chan halls, where they tied up the white horse also. The workers were then told to leave. As Tripitaka sat down beneath the lamps, two rows of monks—all five hundred of them—stood on both sides and waited upon him, not daring to leave. Tripitaka got up and said, “Please go back, all of you. This humble cleric can then rest comfortably.” The monks refused to retire, for the monk-official had given them this instruction: “Wait upon the Venerable Father until he retires. Then you may leave.” Only after Tripitaka said, “I’m all cared for, please go back,” did they dare disperse.
The Tang Monk stepped outside the door to relieve himself, and he saw a bright moon high in the sky. “Disciples,” he called out, and Pilgrim, Eight Rules, and Sha Monk all came out to wait on him. Moved by the bright, pure light of the moon—a round orb loftily hung to illumine the great Earth—and filled with longing for his homeland, Tripitaka composed orally a long poem in the ancient style. The poem said:
The bright soul, mirror-like, hangs in the sky,
Her radiance pervades the whole, vast world:
Pure light fills jasper towers and jade halls;
Crisp air swaths an ice tray, a silver pan.
Ten thousand miles are all made luminous;
Her beams tonight are this year’s brightest—
Like a cake of frost leaving dark blue sea,
Or an ice-wheel hung on the jade-green sky.
When one guest pines by an inn’s cold transoms,
Or an old man sleeps in a mountain lodge,
She comes to the Han court to shock grey hair13
And hastens late makeup, reaching towers of Qin.14
For her Yu Liang15 has verse for History of Jin,
And Yuan Hong16 stays up to sail his river skiff.
Floating on cup rims she’s a cold, weak gleam;
Lighting the yard, she’s brilliant as god.
By each window one can sing of white snow17
And press in every house the icy strings.18
Now her pleasure comes to a monastery.
When will she join me to return back home?
When Pilgrim heard these words, he approached him and said, “Master, all you know is that the moonlight fills you with longing for home, but you don’t understand that the moon may symbolize the rules and regulations of nature’s many modes and forms.19 When the moon reaches the thirtieth day, the metal [phase] in its yang spirit is completely dissolved, whereas the water [phase] of its yin soul is filled to the brim of the orb. This is the reason for the designation of that day with the term Obscure,20 for the moon is completely dark and without light. It is at this moment also that the moon copulates with the sun, and during the time of the thirtieth day and the first day of the month, it will become pregnant by the light of the sun. By the third day, one [stroke]21 of the yang will appear, and two [strokes] of the yang will be born by the eighth day. At this time, the moon will have half of its yang spirit in the middle of its yin soul, and its lower half is flat like a rope. That is the reason why the time of the month is callled the Upper Bow. By the fifteenth day, all three [strokes] of the yang will be ready, and perfect union will be achieved. That is why this time of the month is called To Face.22 On the sixteenth day, one [stroke] of the yin will be born, and the second stroke will make its appearance on the twenty-second day. At that time half of the yin soul will be in the middle of the yang spirit, and its upper half is flat like a rope. That is the reason why this time of the month is called the Lower Bow. By the thirtieth day, all three [strokes] of the yin will be ready, and the moon has then reached the state of obscurity once more. All this is the symbol of the process of cultivation practiced by nature. If we can nourish the Two Eights23 until we reach the perfection of Nine Times Nine,24 then it will be simple for us at that moment to see Buddha, and simple also for us to return to our home. The poem says:
After the First Quarter and before the Last:
Medicine well-blended, the outlook’s perfect.
What you acquire from picking, smelt in the stove—
Determination’s fruit is Western Heaven.”25
When the elder heard what he said, he was immediately enlightened and understood completely these words of realized immortality. Filled with delight, he thanked Wukong repeatedly.
On one side, Sha Monk smiled and said, “Though Elder Brother spoke most appropriately concerning how the first quarter of the moon belonged to the yang and the last quarter belonged to the yin, and how in the midst of yin and in the middle of yang one could obtain the metal of water, he did not mention
Water and fire mixed—each to the other drawn—
Depend on Earth Mother to make this match.
Three parties thus fused face no war or strife:26
Water’s in Long River, the moon’s in the sky.”
When the elder heard that, his dull mind was again opened up. Thus it was that
Truth, grasped by the heart’s one hole, clears up a thousand.
Once you solve the riddle of no birth, you are a god.
Then Eight Rules walked up to the elder and tugged at him, saying, “Master, don’t listen to all their babblings and delay your sleep. This moon,
After it wanes, will soon grow round again.
Like me it was born none too perfectly!
At meals I’m disliked for too large a maw;
I drool too much, they say, on bowls I hold.
They have their blessings earned through cleverness;
I have affinity stocked by foolishness.
I tell you that
Fetching scriptures will end your three karmic paths.
Wagging head and tail you’ll go up to Heav’n!”
“All right, Disciples,” said Tripitaka, “you must be tired from all this journeying. You may go to sleep first, and let me meditate on this roll of scripture.”
“Master, you must be mistaken,” said Pilgrim. “You left the family in your youth to become a monk. How could you not be completely familiar with all the scriptures you studied when you were young? Then you received the command from the Tang emperor to go to the Western Heaven and see Buddha for the True Canon of Mahāyāna. But at this moment, your merit has not been perfected, you have not seen the Buddha, and you have not yet acquired the scriptures. Which roll of scripture do you want to meditate on?” Tripitaka said, “Since I left Chang’an, I have been traveling day and night, and I fear that the scriptures I learned in my youth might slip away from me. Tonight there’s a little time, and I want to do some reviewing.” “In that case,” said Pilgrim, “we’ll go to sleep first.” The three disciples indeed lay down on three of the rattan beds. Closing the door of the Zen hall and turning up the lamp, the elder opened his roll of scripture and began to read and meditate in silence. Truly it was that
First watch struck from a tower, human bustle ceased,
When fishing-boat fires by wild banks went out.
We don’t know how that elder will depart from the monastery; let’s listen to the explanation in the next chapter.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The ghost king visits Tripitaka Tang at night;
Wukong, through wondrous transformation, leads the child.
We were telling you about Tripitaka sitting in the Chan hall of the Precious Grove Monastery. He meditated for awhile beneath the lamps on the Water Litany of King Liang,1 and he read for awhile the True Sūtra of the Peacock. Not until about the hour of the third watch did he wrap up the scriptures again in his bag. He was just about to get up and walk over to his bed when he heard the weird moan of a strong gust outside the door. Fearing that it might blow out the lamp, he tried hurriedly
to shade it with the sleeve of his gown. When he saw the lamp flicker, he began to tremble, but at the same time, he was overcome by fatigue and soon dozed off with his head resting on the reading desk. Though his eyes were closed, he still seemed to be half conscious, able to hear all the time the continuous sighing of the dark wind outside his window. What a wind! Truly it
Whistled and whiffled—
It swayed and scattered—
It whistled and whiffled as fallen leaves flew;
It swayed and scattered the floating clouds.
Heaven’s stars and planets were all darkened;
The whole Earth’s dust and sand were strewn afar.
For awhile it was fierce;
For awhile it was mild.
When mild, bamboos and pines beat out their pure rhymes;
When fierce, waves of lakes and rivers heaved and churned.
It blew till mountain birds grew restless, their voices choked,
And sea fishes had no peace as they tossed and turned.
Windows and doors fell off in both east and west halls;
Gods and ghosts glowered in hallways front and back.
The Buddha Hall’s flower vase was blown to the ground;
The oil chalice tumbled and wisdom-lamp grew faint;
The incense urn turned over and ashes spilled out;
The candlesticks were tilted as flames changed to smoke.
Banners, sacred canopies were all awry.
Bell-and-drum towers were shaken to the roots!
In his dream the elder seemed to hear, after the wind had passed, a faint voice outside the Chan hall crying, “Master!” He raised his head in his dream to look and discovered a man standing outside the door who was soaked from head to toe. As tears rolled down from his eyes, he kept calling, “Master!” Tripitaka rose up and said, “Could you be a goblin or a ghost, a fiend or a demon, coming to mock me at the depth of night? I am neither a rapacious nor a wrathful person, but rather an honest and upright priest. Having received the imperial decree from the Great Tang in the Land of the East, I am on my way to the Western Heaven to seek scriptures from Buddha. I have three disciples under my command, all valiant men able to tame tigers and subdue dragons, heroic warriors capable of repelling demons and extirpating monsters. If they see you, you will be reduced to powder and dust. Take note, therefore, of my compassionate intent and my mind which knows how to use skillful means.2 Leave this place, go somewhere far away while there’s still time, and don’t come up to the door of our Chan hall.”
Reclining firmly by the door of the hall, the man said, “Master, we are not a demon or monster, nor are we a goblin or bogie.” “If you are not that kind of a creature,” said Tripitaka, “why are you here so late in the night?” “Open wide your eyes, Master,” said the man, “and look at us.” The elder indeed fixed his gaze on his visitor. Ah!
His head had on it a rising-to-Heaven cap;
A green-jade belt he tied around his waist.
He wore on his body a reddish brown robe with dancing phoenixes and flying dragons;
His feet trod on a pair of carefree boots of embroidered cloud pattern;
His hands held a white jade token adorned with planets and stars.
His face seemed the immortal King of Tai Mountain;
His form was like the civilized Lord Wenchang.3
When Tripitaka saw this figure, he paled with fright and hurriedly bowed low before his visitor, shouting, “Which dynasty do you belong to, Your Majesty? Please take a seat.” He then tried to take hold of his visitor’s hands, only to find that he succeeded in grasping nothing but thin air. Spinning around, he sat down and looked: there was the man again. The elder asked once more, “Your Majesty, in what region are you a king? Of what empire are you a ruler? Could it be that there is strife in your kindgom and you are so oppressed by treacherous ministers that you have to flee for your life and arrive here at night? What do you have to say? Please tell me.” Only then did the man,
As tears rolled down his cheeks, describe events of old;
As sorrow knitted his brow, disclose the former cause.
“Master,” he said, “our home is located due west of here, only about forty miles away, where there is a city, the place we founded our kingdom.” “What is its name?” asked Tripitaka. “To tell you the truth,” said the man, “when we established our reign, we gave it the name Black Rooster Kingdom.”
“Why is it that Your Majesty seems so frightened,” said Tripitaka, “and for what reason did you come to this place?” The man replied, “O Master! Five years ago we had a drought here, so severe that no vegetation could grow and the people were all starving to death. It was dreadful.” When Tripitaka heard these words, he nodded and smiled, saying, “Your Majesty, the ancients said, ‘When the kingdom is upright, then even the Mind of Heaven is agreeable.’ You must not have been treating your subjects with compassion. If there were drought and famine in the land, how could you forsake your domain? You should have opened up your warehouses in order to bring relief to the people; you should repent of all the sins you have committed and try to do good henceforth. When you have freed and pardoned those who were unjustly accused and condemned, then the Mind of Heaven will be pacified and the winds and the rains will become timely and auspicious once more.”
“The warehouses in my kingdom,” said the man, “were all empty and both our revenue and food were exhausted. The salaries for our civil and military officials had to be stopped, and there was not meat in our royal diet. I attempted to imitate the way King Yu conquered the flood, by suffering with our people, by ritual cleansing, maintaining a vegetarian diet, and practicing abstinence. Night and day we offered prayers and incense to Heaven. This went on for three years, but all we had as a result were parched rivers and dried wells. As we reached our most desperate moment, there came to us suddenly from Zhongnan Mountain a Daoist of the Complete Truth Order,4 who was able to summon the wind and call for rain, to transform rock into gold.5 He first presented himself to the civil and military officials, and then he met with us. We, of course, invited him to ascend the liturgical platform and offer prayers, which were indeed efficacious. As he struck aloud his ritual placard, torrential rain came down in a moment. We thought that three feet of rain would be quite sufficient, but he said that since the drought had been so severe for such a long time, he would ask for an extra two inches. When we saw how magnanimous he was, we went through the ceremony of Eight Bows with him and became bond-brothers.”
“This,” said Tripitaka, “had to be the greatest joy for Your Majesty.” “What joy was there?” asked the man.
Tripitaka said, “If the Daoist had that kind of abilities, you could tell him to make rain when you wanted rain, and to make gold when you wanted gold. What need was there that made you leave the city and come here now?”
“Indeed, we became so intimate with him that we shared our food and rest together for two years,” said the man, “when it was the time of spring again. As flowers bloomed seductively on the apricot and peach trees, every household in the kingdom was going out to enjoy the lovely scenery. At the time when our officials retired to their residences and our consorts to their chambers, we walked hand-in-hand with the Daoist into the imperial garden. When we came near our well with octagonal marble walls, he threw something in it that emitted myriad shafts of golden light and tricked us into approaching the side of the well to see what sort of treasure was in it. Moved to treachery all at once, he pushed us into the well, which he then covered with a slab of stone. He sealed off the entire well with mud and dirt, and he even transplanted a plantain tree on it. Alas, pity us! We have been dead now for three years,6 a ghost who lost his life in the well and whose wrong has yet to be avenged.”
When the Tang Monk heard that the man was in fact a ghost, he turned numb with fear as his hairs stood on end. He had, however, no choice but to question his visitor further, saying, “Your Majesty, there is something unreasonable in what you have just said. I
f you have indeed been dead for three years, how could those civil and military officials, those consorts of three palaces, not miss you and seek you when they had to attend court once every third morning?”
The man said, “Master, when one speaks of the Daoist’s abilities, they are truly rare in the world. Since he murdered us, he shook his body once in the garden and transformed himself into an exact image of us. Then and there he took over our empire and usurped our kingdom. Our two divisions of civil and military officials—some four hundred court ministers—and the consorts and ladies of three palaces and six chambers now all belong to him.”
“Your Majesty,” said Tripitaka, “you are too timid.” “Why timid?” asked the man. Tripitaka said, “Your Majesty, that fiend indeed must have some magic powers in order to change into your form and usurp your kingdom. The civil and military officials might not recognize him, and the consorts might not realize what has happened. But you understand, even though you have died. Why didn’t you file suit against him before King Yama in the Region of Darkness? You can at least give an account of the wrongs perpetrated.” “His magic powers are great indeed,” said the man, “and he’s intimate with most of the divine officials. The city’s tutelary guardian drinks with him frequently; the ocean’s dragon kings are his relatives; Equal-to-Heaven of the Tai Mountain7 is his dear friend, and the Ten Kings of Hell happen to be his bond-brothers. That’s why we have no place to go even to file suit.”