The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 2 (68 page)

That king was in truth a confused man: he would side with the east when they mentioned east, and with the west when they mentioned west. Indeed, putting away the travel rescript, he said, “State Preceptors, what sort of contest do you wish to wage with them?” “A contest of meditation,” said the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal. “That’s no good,” said the king, “for the monk is reared in the religion of meditation. He must be well trained in such mysteries before he dares receive the decree to acquire scriptures. Why do you want to wage such a contest with him?” “This contest,” said the Great Immortal, “is not an ordinary one, for it has the name of the Epiphany of Saintliness by the Cloud Ladder.” “What do you mean by that?” asked the king. The Great Immortal said, “We need one hundred tables, fifty of which will be made, by piling one on top of the other, into an altar of meditation. Each contestant must ascend to the top without using his hands or a ladder, but only with the help of a cloud. We shall also agree on how many hours we shall remain immobile while sitting on the top of the altar.”

When he learned that it was to be such a difficult contest, the king put the question to the pilgrims, saying, “Hey, monks! Our State Preceptor would like to wage with you a contest of meditation, called the Epiphany of Saintliness by the Cloud Ladder. Can any one of you do it?” When Pilgrim heard this, he fell silent and gave no reply. “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules,
“why
aren’t you saying anything?” “Brother, to tell you the truth,” said Pilgrim, “I’m quite capable of performing such difficult feats as kicking down the sky or overturning wells, stirring up oceans or upending rivers, carrying mountains or chasing the moon, and altering the course of stars and planets. I’m not afraid, in fact, of even having my head split open or cut off, of having my stomach ripped apart and my heart gouged out, or of any such strange manipulations. But if you ask me to sit and meditate, I’ll lose the contest even before I begin! Where could I, tell me, acquire the nature to sit still? Even if you were to chain me to an iron pillar, I would still try to climb up and down. I can never manage to sit still.”

“But
I
know how to sit and meditate,” the Tang Monk blurted out suddenly. “Marvelous! Just marvelous!” said Pilgrim, highly pleased. “How long can you do this?” “I met some lofty Chan masters when I was young,” said Tripitaka, “who expounded to me the absolutely crucial foundation of quiescence and concentration in order to preserve my spirit. Shut up alone in the so-called Life-and-Death Meditative Confinement, I had managed to sit still for two or three years at least.” “If you do that, Master,” said Pilgrim, “we won’t need to go acquire scriptures! At most, I don’t think it will be necessary for you to sit for more than three hours here before you will be able to come down.” “But Disciple,” said Tripitaka, “I can’t get up there.” “You step forward and accept the challenge,” said Pilgrim. “I’ll send you up there.” Indeed, the elder pressed his palms together before his chest and said, “This humble priest knows how to sit in meditation.” The king at once gave the order for the altars to be built. Truly, a nation has the strength to topple mountains! In less than half an hour, two altars were built on the left and right of the Hall of Golden Chimes.

Coming down from the hall, the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal went to the middle of the courtyard. He leaped into the air and at once a mat of clouds formed under his feet and took him up to the altar to the west, where he sat down. Pilgrim meanwhile pulled off one strand of his hair and caused it to change into a spurious form of himself, standing down below to accompany Eight Rules and Sha Monk. He himself changed into an auspicious cloud of five colors to carry the Tang Monk into the air and lift him to sit on the altar to the east. He then changed himself into a tiny mole cricket and flew to alight on Eight Rules’s ear to whisper to him, “Brother, look up and watch Master with care. Don’t speak to the substitute of old Monkey!” Laughing, Idiot said, “I know! I know!”

We tell you now about the Deer-Strength Great Immortal sitting on the embroidered cushion in the hall, where he watched the two contestants for a long time and found them quite equally matched. This Daoist decided to give his elder brother some help: pulling a stubby piece of hair from the back of his head, he rolled it with his fingers into a tiny ball and filliped
it
onto the head of the Tang Monk. The piece of hair changed into a huge bedbug and began to bite the elder. At first, the elder felt an itch, after which it changed to pain. Now, one of the rules in meditation is that one cannot move one’s hands; when one does, it is an immediate admission of defeat. As the elder found the itch and pain to be quite unbearable, he sought to find relief by wriggling his head against the collar of his robe. “Oh dear!” said Eight Rules. “Master is going to have a fit!” “No,” said Sha Monk, “he might be having a headache.” Hearing this, Pilgrim said, “My master is an honest gentleman. If he said he knew how to practice meditation, he would be able to do it. A gentleman does not lie! Stop speculating, the two of you, and let me go up to take a look.”

Dear Pilgrim! He buzzed up there and alighted on the head of the Tang Monk, where he discovered a bedbug about the size of a bean biting the elder. Hurriedly, he removed it with his hand, and then he gave his master a few gentle scratches. His itch and pain relieved, the elder once more sat motionless on the altar. “The bald head of a priest,” thought Pilgrim to himself, “can’t even hold a louse! How could a bedbug get into it? It must be, I suppose, a stunt of that Daoist, trying to harm my master. Ha! Ha! Since they haven’t quite reached a decision yet in this contest, let old Monkey give him a taste of his own tricks!” Flying up into the air until he reached a height beyond the roof of the palace, he shook his body and changed at once into a centipede at least seven inches in length. It dropped down from the sky and landed on the Daoist’s upper lip before his nostrils, where it gave him a terrific bite. Unable to sit still any longer, the Daoist fell backwards from the altar head over heels and almost lost his life. He was fortunate enough to have all the officials rush forward to pull him up. The horrified king at once asked the Grand Preceptor before the Throne to help him go to the Pavilion of Cultural Florescence to be washed and combed. Pilgrim, meanwhile, changed himself again into the auspicious cloud to carry his master down to the courtyard before the steps, where he was declared the winner.

The king wanted to let them go, but the Deer-Strength Great Immortal again said to him, “Your Majesty, my elder brother has been suffering from a suppressed chill; when he goes up to a high place, the cold wind he’s exposed to will bring on his old sickness. That was why the monk was able to gain the upper hand. Let me now wage with them a contest of guessing what’s behind the boards.” “What do you mean by that?” asked the king. Deer-Strength said, “This humble Daoist has the ability to gain knowledge of things even if they were placed behind boards. Let’s see if those monks are able to do the same. If they could outguess me, let them go; but if not, then let them be punished according to Your Majesty’s wishes so that our
fraternal
distress may be avenged and that our services to the kingdom for these twenty years may remain untainted.”

Truly that king is exceedingly confused! Swayed by such fraudulent words, he at once gave the order for a red lacquered chest to be brought to the inner palace. The queen was asked to place a treasure in the chest before it was carried out again and set before the white-jade steps. The king said to the monks and the Daoists, “Let both sides wage your contest now and see who can guess the treasure inside the chest.” “Disciple,” said Tripitaka, “how could we know what’s in the chest?” Pilgrim changed again into a mole cricket and flew up to the head of the Tang Monk. “Relax, Master,” he said, “let me go take a look.” Dear Great Sage! Unnoticed by anyone, he flew up to the chest and found a crack at the base, through which he crept inside. On a red lacquered tray he found a set of palace robes: they were the empire blouse and cosmic skirt. Quickly he picked them up and shook them loose; then he bit open the tip of his tongue and spat a mouthful of blood onto the garments, crying, “Change!” They changed instantly into a torn and worn-out cassock; before he left, however, he soaked it with his bubbly and stinking urine. After crawling out again through the crack, he flew back to alight on the Tang Monk’s ear and said, “Master, you may guess that it is a torn and worn-out cassock.” “He said that it was some kind of treasure,” said Tripitaka. “How could such a thing be a treasure?” “Never mind,” said Pilgrim, “for what’s important is that you guess correctly.”

As the Tang Monk took a step forward to announce what he guessed was in the chest, the Deer-Strength Great Immortal said, “I’ll guess first. The chest contains an empire blouse and a cosmic skirt.” “No! No!” cried the Tang Monk. “There’s only a torn and worn-out cassock in the chest.” “How dare he?” said the king. “This priest thinks that there is no treasure in our kingdom. What’s this worn-out cassock that he speaks of? Seize him!” The two rows of palace guards immediately wanted to raise their hands, and the Tang Monk became so terrified that he pressed his palms together and shouted, “Your Majesty, please pardon this humble priest for the moment. Open the chest; if it were indeed a treasure, this humble priest would accept his punishment. But if it were not, wouldn’t you have wrongly accused me?” The king had the chest opened, and when the attendant to the throne lifted out the lacquered tray, sitting on it was indeed one torn and worn-out cassock! “Who put this thing here?” cried the king, highly incensed, and from behind the dragon seat the queen of the three palaces came forward. “My lord,” she said, “it was I who personally placed the empire blouse and the cosmic skirt inside the chest. How could they change into something like this?” “Let my royal wife retire,” said the king, “for we are well aware of the fact that all the things used in the palace are made of the finest silk and
embroidered
materials. How could there be such a shabby object?” He then said to his attendants, “Bring us the chest. We ourselves will hide something in it and try again.”

The king went to his imperial garden in the rear and picked from his orchard a huge peach, about the size of a rice bowl, which he placed in the chest. The chest was brought out and the two parties were told to guess once more. “Disciples,” said the Tang Monk, “he wants us to guess again.” “Relax,” said Pilgrim. “Let me go and take another look.” With a buzz, he flew away and crawled inside the chest as before. Nothing could have been more agreeable to him than what he found: a peach. Changing back into his original form, he sat in the chest and ate the fruit so heartily that every morsel on both sides of the groove was picked clean. Leaving the stone behind, he changed back into the mole cricket and flew back onto the Tang Monk’s ear, saying, “Master, say that it’s a peach’s pit.” “Disciple,” said the elder, “don’t make a fool of me! If I weren’t so quick with my mouth just now, I would have been seized and punished. This time we must say it’s some kind of treasure. How could a peach’s pit be a treasure?” “Have no fear,” said Pilgrim. “You’ll win, and that’s all that matters!”

Tripitaka was just about to speak when the Goat-Strength Great Immortal said, “This humble Daoist will guess first: it is a peach.” “Not a peach,” said Tripitaka, “but a fleshless peach’s pit.” “It’s a peach we put in ourselves,” bellowed the king. “How could it be a pit? Our third Preceptor of State has guessed correctly.” “Your Majesty,” said Tripitaka, “please open the chest and see for yourself.” The attendant before the throne went to open the chest and lifted up the tray: it was in truth a pit, entirely without any peel or flesh. When the king saw this, he became quite frightened and said, “O State Preceptors, don’t wage any more contests with them. Let them go! The peach was picked by our own hands, and now it turns out to be a pit. Who could have eaten it? The spirits and gods must be giving them secret assistance.” When Eight Rules heard the words, he grinned sardonically to Sha Monk, saying, “Little does he realize how many years of peach eating are behind this!”

Just then, the Tiger-Strength Great Immortal walked out from the Pavilion of Cultural Florescence after he had been washed and combed. “Your Majesty,” he said as he walked up the hall, “this monk knows the magic of object removal. Give me the chest, and I’ll destroy his magic. Then we can have another contest with him.” “What do you want to do?” asked the king. Tiger-Strength said, “His magic can remove only lifeless objects but not a human body. Put this Daoist youth in the chest, and he’ll never be able to remove him.” The youth indeed was hidden in the chest, which was then brought down again from the hall to be placed before the steps. “You, monk,” said the king, “guess again what sort of treasure we have inside.”
Tripitaka
said, “Here it comes again!” “Let me go and have another look,” said Pilgrim. With a buzz, he flew off and crawled inside, where he found a Daoist lad. Marvelous Great Sage! What readiness of mind! Truly

    
Such agility is rare in the world!

    
Such cleverness is uncommon indeed!

Shaking his body once, he changed himself into the form of one of those old Daoists, whispering as he entered the chest, “Disciple.”

“Master,” said the lad, “how did you come in here?” “With the magic of invisibility,” said Pilgrim. The lad said, “Do you have some instructions for me?” “The priest saw you enter the chest,” said Pilgrim, “and if he made his guess a Daoist lad, wouldn’t we lose to him again? That’s why I came here to discuss the matter with you. Let’s shave your head, and we’ll then make the guess that you are a monk.” The Daoist lad said, “Do whatever you want, Master, just so that we win. For if we lose to them again, not only our reputation will be ruined, but the court also may no longer revere us.” “Exactly,” said Pilgrim. “Come over here, my child. When we defeat them, I’ll reward you handsomely.” He changed his golden-hooped rod into a sharp razor, and hugging the lad, he said, “Darling, try to endure the pain for a moment. Don’t make any noise! I’ll shave your head.” In a little while, the lad’s hair was completely shorn, rolled into a ball, and stuffed into one of the corners of the chest. He put away the razor, and rubbing the lad’s bald head, he said, “My child, your head looks like a monk’s all right, but your clothes don’t fit. Take them off and let me change them for you.” What the Daoist lad had on was a crane’s-down robe of spring-onion white silk, embroidered with the cloud pattern and trimmed with brocade. When he took it off, Pilgrim blew on it his immortal breath, crying, “Change!” It changed instantly into a monk shirt of brown color, which Pilgrim helped him put on. He then pulled off two pieces of hair which he changed into a wooden fish and a tap. “Disciple,” said Pilgrim, as he handed over the fish and the tap to the lad, “you must listen carefully. If you hear someone call for the Daoist youth, don’t ever leave this chest. If someone calls ‘Monk,’ then you may push open the chest door, strike up the wooden fish, and walk out chanting a Buddhist sūtra. Then it’ll be complete success for us.” “I only know,” said the lad, “how to recite the
Three Officials Scripture,
the
Northern Dipper Scripture
, or the
Woe-Dispelling Scripture.
I don’t know how to recite any Buddhist sūtra.” Pilgrim said, “Can you chant the name of Buddha?” “You mean Amitābha,” said the lad. “Who doesn’t know that?” “Good enough! Good enough!” said Pilgrim. “You may chant the name of Buddha. It’ll spare me from having to teach you anything new. Remember what I’ve told you. I’m leaving.” He changed back into a mole cricket and crawled out, after which he flew back to the ear of the Tang Monk and said, “Master, just
guess
it’s a monk.” Tripitaka said, “This time I know I’ll win.” “How could you be so sure?” asked Pilgrim, and Tripitaka replied, “The sūtras said, ‘The Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sa
ṅ
gha are the Three Jewels.’ A monk therefore is a treasure.”