Journey to the West (vol. 2) Page 27

  This was just what Pig wanted to hear: he went up and was just stretching out his hands to take a cake when Monkey, who had been taking a long, hard look at all this, shouted, “Stop! He's evil! Behave yourself!” He was now addressing the local god.

  “You're no local god, trying to fool me like that. Take this!”

  Seeing the ferocity of his attack, the local god turned round and transformed himself into a howling gust of negative wind that carried the venerable elder flying off through the air. Nobody knew where he had been taken. The Great Sage was desperate because he did not know where to look for the master, while Pig and Friar Sand stared at each other, pale with shock. Even the white horse was whinnying with fright. The three brother disciples and the horse were in utter confusion. They looked all around as far as they could see but without finding him.

  We will not describe their search but tell how the old man and his devil servant carried Sanzang to a stone house that was wreathed in mist and gently set him down. Holding him by the hand and supporting him the old man said, “Don't be afraid, holy monk. We aren't bad people. I am the Eighteenth Lord of Thorn Ridge. I have asked you here on this cool, clear moonlit night to talk about poetry and pass the time in friendship.” Only then did Sanzang calm down. When he took a careful look around this is what he saw:

  From where the banks of cloud set out

  Stood a pure house for immortals, a place

  To purify the self and refine elixir,

  To plant groves of bamboo and grow one's flowers.

  Cranes often came to the emerald cliff,

  And frogs called in the pool's blue waters.

  This was a match for the cinnabar furnace on Mount Tiantai,

  And made one think of the sunsets at Mount Huashan.

  Forget the vain effort of ploughing the clouds and fishing for the moon;

  Here there is admirable privacy and ease.

  Sit here for long enough and your mind becomes sea-vast;

  The rising moon can be half seen through the gauzy curtains.

  As Sanzang was looking around and noticing how brightly the moon and the stars were shining he heard the sound of voices saying, “The Eighteenth Lord has brought the holy monk here.” Sanzang looked up and saw three old men. The nearest one was white-haired and distinguished; the second one's temples had a green gloss and he was full of vigor; and the third had a pure heart and blue-black hair.

  Their faces and clothes were all different, and they all came to bow to Sanzang, who returned their courtesy, saying, “I have done nothing to deserve this great affection you are showing for me.”

  To this the Eighteenth Lord replied with a smile, “We have long heard, holy monk, of how you have found the Way and we've long been waiting for the good fortune of meeting you that we have enjoyed today. I hope that you will not be grudge the pearls of your wisdom, but will make yourself comfortable, sit and talk. Then we may learn about the true Dhyana teachings.”

  “May I ask the titles of the immortals?” Sanzang asked with a bow.

  “The one with white hair,” the Eighteenth Lord replied, “is known as the Lone Upright Lord; the one with green temples is Master Emptiness; and the one with a pure heart is the Ancient Cloud-toucher. My title is Energy.”

  “How old are you four venerable gentlemen?” Sanzang asked. To this the Lone Upright Lord replied,

  “I am already a thousand years old;

  I touch the sky and my leaves are always spring.

  Elegant are my fragrant branches

  Shaped like dragons and snakes;

  My shadow is broken into many parts;

  My body is covered in snow.

  Since childhood I have stood firm and endured;

  Now I am happy to cultivate the True.

  The birds and phoenixes that perch are not mere mortal ones;

  I am free and far from the dust of the normal world.”

  Master Emptiness spoke next with a smile:

  “I've borne wind and frost for a thousand years,

  Strong in my tall body and the vigor of my limbs.

  In the still of the night comes the sound of raindrops,

  And the shade spreads like a cloud in autumn sunlight.

  My gnarled roots have the secret of eternal life;

  I have been given the art of never aging.

  Storks stay here and dragons, not common creatures:

  I am green and full of life, as in immortals' land.”

  Then the Ancient Cloud-toucher said with a smile,

  “Over a thousand autumns have I passed in emptiness;

  Lofty is the view that grows ever purer.

  Here there is no commotion, but eternal cool and calm;

  I am full of spirit and have seen much frost and snow.

  The seven worthies come to talk about the Way;

  I sing and drink with my friends, the six men of leisure.

  Lightly beating the jade and the gold

  My nature is one with heaven; I roam with immortals.”

  Then Energy, the Eighteenth Lord, smiled as he said,

  “My age is also over a thousand,

  I am hoary, pure and natural.

  Rain and dew give admirable vigor;

  I borrow the creative power of heaven and earth.

  Alone I flourish in ravines of wind and mist,

  Relaxed and at my ease through all four seasons.

  Under my green shade immortals stay

  For chess and music and books on the Way.”

  “All four of you immortals have lived to most advanced ages.” Sanzang said, “and the old gentleman Energy is over a thousand. You are ancient, you have found the Way, you are elegant and you are pure. Are you not the Four Brilliant Ones of Han times?”

  “You flatter us too much,” said the four old men. “We're not the Four Brilliant Ones: we're the four from deep in the mountains. May we ask, worthy monk, what your illustrious age is?” Sanzang put his hands together and replied,

  “Forty years ago I left my mother's womb,

  Fated to disaster since before my birth.

  Escaping with my life I floated in the waves

  Until I reached Jinshan where I renewed my body.

  I nourished my nature and studied the sutras,

  Sincere in worship of the Buddha, not wasting time.

  Now that His Majesty has sent me to the West,

  I am deeply honoured by you ancient immortals.”

  The four ancients then praised him, saying, “Holy monk, you have followed the Buddha's teaching since you left your mother's womb. By cultivating your conduct from childhood you have become a lofty monk who has found the Way. We are very happy to see you and would like to ask you to teach us. Could you possibly tell us the rudiments of the Dhyana dharma? It would be a great comfort to us.” When the venerable elder heard this he was not at all alarmed, and this is what he said to them:

  “Dhyana is silence; the dharma is that which saves. Silent salvation can only come through enlightenment. Enlightenment is washing the mind and cleansing it of care, casting off the vulgar and leaving worldly dust. Human life is hard to obtain; it is hard to be born in the central lands; and the true dharma is hard to find. There is no greater good fortune than to have all three. The wonderful Way of perfect virtue is subtle and imperceptible. Only with it can the six sense-organs and the six forms of consciousness be swept away. Wisdom is this: there is no death and no life, no excess and no deficiency, emptiness and matter are all included, holy and secular both dismissed. It has mastered the tools of the Taoist faith and is aware of the methods of Sakyamuni. It casts the net of phenomena and smashes nirvana. Perception within perception is needed, enlightenment within enlightenment, then a dot of sacred light will protect everything. Light the raging fire to illuminate the Saha realm; it alone is revealed throughout the dharma world. Being utterly subtle it is firmer than ever: who crosses the pass of mystery through verbal persuasion? From the beginning I cultivated the Dhyana of great
awareness: I was fated and determined to attain enlightenment.”

  The four elders listened with cocked ears and were filled with boundless joy. Each of them kowtowed and was converted to the truth, saying with bows of gratitude, “Holy monk, you are the very root of the enlightenment to be found through Dhyana meditation.”

  The Ancient Cloud-toucher said, “Dhyana may be silence, and the dharma may well save, but it is necessary for the nature to be settled and the mind sincere. If one is a true immortal of great awareness one has to sit in the Way of no-life. Our mysteries are very different.”

  “The Way is not fixed; its form and function are one. How is yours different?” Sanzang asked. To this the Ancient Cloud-toucher replied with a smile:

  “We have been firm from birth: our forms and functions are different from yours. We were born in response to heaven and earth and grew through the rain and the dew. Proudly we laugh at wind and frost; we wear out the days and nights. Not one leaf withers, and all our branches are full of firm resolve. What I say has no emptiness about it, but you cling to your Sanskrit. The Way was China's in the first place and only later looked for more evidence in the West. You are wearing out your straw sandals for nothing: you don't know what you are looking for. You are like a stone lion cutting out its own heart, or a fox salivating so hard it digests the marrow of its own bones. If in your meditation you forget your roots you will pursue the Buddha's reward in vain. Your words are as tangled as the brambles on our Thorn Ridge and as confused as the creepers. How can we accept a gentleman such as you? How can one like you be approved and taught? You must reexamine your present state and find a life of freedom in stillness. Only then can you learn to raise water in a bottomless basket, and make the rootless iron-tree flower. On the peak of the Miraculous Treasure my feet stand firm; I return to the assembly at Longhua.

  When Sanzang heard this he kowtowed in thanks, and the Eighteenth Lord and the Lone Upright Lord helped him back to his feet, Master Emptiness said with a chuckle, “Cloud-toucher's remarks revealed things a little too clearly. Please get up, holy monk: you don't have to believe every word of it. We didn't intend to use the light of the moon for serious discussions. We should chant poems, feel free, and let ourselves relax.”

  “If we're going to recite poems,” said Cloud-toucher with a smile, pointing towards the stone house, “why don't we go into the hermitage and drink some tea?”

  Sanzang answered with a bow and went over to look at the hermitage, above which was written in large letters TREE IMMORTALS' HERMITAGE. They all then went inside and decided where to sit, whereupon the red devil servant appeared with a tray of China-root cakes and five bowls of fragrant tea. The four old men urged Sanzang to eat some cakes, but he was too suspicious to do so, and would not take any till the four old men had all eaten some: only then did he eat a couple. After they had drunk some tea it was cleared away. Sanzang then stole a careful look around and saw that everything was of a delicate and intricate beauty in the moonlight:

  Where waters flowed beside the rocks,

  And fragrant scents from the flowers curled,

  The scene was one of cultured peace,

  Free from the dust of a lower world.

  Sanzang took great pleasure in gazing on this sight: he felt happy, relaxed and exhilarated. He found himself saying a line of poetry: “The dhyana heart revolves in moonlike purity.”

  The couplet was completed by Energy, who said with a smile: “Poetic inspiration is fresher than the sky.”

  To this Lone Upright added: “By grafting on each line embroidery grows.”

  Then Emptiness said: “Pearls come when naturally the writing flows.”

  Cloud-toucher continued: “The glory is now over: Six Dynasties disappear. The Songs are redivided to make distinctions clear.”

  “I shouldn't have let those silly words slip out just now,” said Sanzang, “I was only rambling. Really, I am a beginner trying to show off in front of experts. Having heard you immortals talk in that fresh and free-ranging way I now know that you old gentlemen are true poets.”

  “Don't waste time in idle chat,” said Energy. “A monk should take things through to the end. You started the verse, so why don't you finish it? Please do so at once.”

  “I can't,” Sanzang replied. “It would be much better if you completed it for me, Eighteenth Lord.”

  “That's very nice of you, I must say!” commented Energy. “You started the verse so you can't refuse to finish it. It's wrong to be so stingy with your pearls.” Sanzang then had no choice but to add a final couplet:

  “Waiting for the tea lying pillowed in the breeze,

  Spring is in the voice now that the heart's at ease.”

  “I like 'Spring is in the voice now that the heart's at ease,'“ said the Eighteenth Lord.

  To this Lone Upright replied, “Energy, you have a deep understanding of poetry, and spend all your time savoring its delights. Why don't you compose another poem for us?”

  The Eighteenth Lord generously did not refuse. “Very well then,” he replied, “let's make up chain couplets. Each person has to start his couplet with the last word of the couplet before. I'll lead off:

  Without spring's glory there would be no winter's death;

  Clouds come and mists depart as if existing not.”

  “Let me tack another couple more lines on,” Master Emptiness said.

  “Not any breath of wind to rock the spreading shade;

  Visitors enjoy the Wealth and Long Life picture.”

  Cloud-toucher now joined in with his couplet:

  “Picture it like the strong old man of the Western hills,

  Pure as the hermit of the South, the heartless man.”

  Lone Upright added his two lines:

  “The man is a roof-beam as he has side-leaves

  To build the office of the censorate.”

  When Sanzang heard all this he could only sigh and say, “Indeed, your superb poems have a noble spirit that rises up to the heavens. Despite my lack of talent I would like to add a couplet to that.”

  “Holy monk,” said Lone Upright, “you are one who has found the Way and a man of great cultivation. You need not add another couplet. Instead you can give us a whole verse so that we can try as best we can to match the rhyme pattern.” Sanzang had no choice but to recite the following regulated verse with a smile:

  “Travelling West with my staff to visit the Dharma King

  I seek the wonderful scriptures to spread them far and wide.

  The golden magic fungus blesses the poetry circle;

  Under the trees is the scent of a thousand flowers.

  One must go higher from the top of a hundred-foot pole,

  Leaving one's traces in ten regions' worlds.

  Cultivate the jade image and majestic body:

  Before the gate of bliss is the monastery.”

  When the four old men had heard this they were full of high praise for it. “Although I'm stupid and untalented,” the Eighteenth Lord said, “I'll take my courage in both hands and try to match your rhymes:

  Vigorous and proud, I smile as king of the trees:

  Not ever the tree of heaven can match my fame.

  A dragon and snake shadow for a thousand feet in the mountains;

  The spring has flowed for a thousand years with its amber fragrance.

  My spirit is at one with heaven and earth:

  I gladly cover my traces in the wind and rain.

  Now I am old I regret having no immortal bones

  And rely on China-root alone to maintain my years.”

  “That poem started off heroically, and the next couplet had some strength,” said the Lone Upright Lord. “But the last line was too modest. Admirable! Most admirable! Let me try rhyming one too:

  “I happily give a perch in the frost to the king of the birds;

  My talent is displayed before the Hall of Four Perfections.

  The pearly tassels of heavy dew obscure the green carpet;
<
br />   In the light breeze stone teeth crush chilly fragrance.

  A delicate voice intones in the corridor at night;

  Pale autumn shadows are put away in the ancient hall.

  I used to be offered for long life at the New Year;

  In old age I stand proudly on the mountain.”

  “What a fine poem, what a fine poem,” said Master Emptiness. “Truly, the moon was working together with heaven to write it. How could such a clumsy fool as I am hope to match its rhymes? But I must try to patch a few lines together: I don't want to waste this chance:”

  “The timber of roofbeams is close to kings;

  Its fame is spread in the Palace of Great Purity.

  The sunlit hall seems filled with azure blue;

  Green fragrance always pervades the dark wall.

  Strong, cold and ancient in my beauty,

  My roots go down to the Underworld's nine springs.

  My spreading shade gives cover like cold clouds.

  I don't compete in prettiness with flowers.”

  “You three gentlemen's poems,” said Cloud-toucher, “are elegant and pure, like a whole sackful of embroidery and brocades being opened out. Although I have neither strength nor talent you three gentlemen have removed the block for me. If you insist I'll put a few lines of doggerel together. I hope they won't make you laugh:

  In the bamboo grove I delight wise kings;

  A hundred acres of me by the Wei brings fame.