This is a fresh, complete English translation of Wu Cheng’en’s public-domain one-hundred-chapter novel, produced with GPT-5.3-Codex-Spark assistance. It is an AI-assisted first edition, not a reproduction of an existing translation.

Then Sun Wukong pressed the cloud down and told his master, in full, how the bodhisattva had borrowed the boy and how Lao Jun had taken the precious treasure away. Tripitaka thanked him again and again, with complete-hearted devotion, as if willing to give his life for the Western way. He climbed to the saddle, Zhu Bajie hoisted the baggage, Sha Wujing held the horse by the head, and Sun Wukong took up the iron staff, cut the road through the ridge, and marched straight down through the high mountains. One could never exhaust the hardships of riverbank nights and wind-breath meals: they pressed on through frost and dew.

After the pilgrims had gone on for some time, a mountain rose before them and blocked the way. Tripitaka called out from the saddle: “Disciples, look at that towering mountain mass; we must be very watchful, or another demon obstruction may assail us.” Wukong said, “Master, do not let your thoughts scatter. As long as you steady your intent and keep your spirit clear, nothing untoward will happen.” Tripitaka said, “My disciples, how hard is this road to the Western Heaven? From leaving Chang’an, I remember, after four or five years—spring came and ended, summer came, autumn went by, winter arrived—yet we still have not arrived.” Hearing this, Wukong laughed: “Too soon, too soon. We have not yet gone out the great gate.” Bajie said, “Brother, do not tell lies. Is there such a great gate in the human world?” Wukong said, “Brother, we are still inside the main hall circling around.” Sha Wujing said with a laugh, “Elder Brother, do not brag and frighten me with such words. If there were such a hall, there would still be nowhere to buy beams like these.” Wukong said, “Brother, if we count by my reckoning, this blue sky is the roof tile, the sun and moon are the window lattice, the Four Mountains and Five Peaks are the beams, and Heaven and Earth are like one open hall.” Bajie said, “Enough, enough. Let us just turn around for a while and go back.” Wukong said, “No need to talk wildly. Just keep following Wukong on the road.”

The Great Sage hoisted the iron staff sideways, fixed Tripitaka, broke open the mountain path, and went straight forward. The Master, riding and gazing afar, beheld a grand mountain scene indeed:

At the summit the peaks stood sheer and proud, and the treetops seemed to touch the cloud heights. In clotted green-blue smoke, now and again came the ape-cries from valley mouths; In chaotic emerald shade, one could hear cranes crying between the pines. Wind-whistling mountain fiends stood in the streams, teasing the woodcutters; Cunning foxes perched beside the cliffs, startling the hunters. Great mountain! See those eight-sided cliffs, all severe on all sides. Strange tall pines wound in spirals formed green canopies, and withered ancient trees hung down with tangled vines. Spring torrents leapt and poured, and the cold pierced through hair and flesh; At the peaks stood towering spires, while the clear wind shot through eyes and startled body and dream. At times one heard great-beast roars; at times mountain birds called. Sika deer, in herds, ran through brambles, darting back and forth; musk-deer made their bands to seek wild food, leaping ahead and behind. On the grass slopes one glance showed no passing travelers; entering deeper hollows, all around were jackals and wolves. It could not be a place where a Buddha patriarch practiced—only a realm of flying birds and roaming beasts.

The Master, trembling, rode deeper into this mountain with a sore heart and pulled back the horse, calling: “Wukong!

Since we made the Yizhi Mountain oath, King Wuliuxing sent us out of the city gate. On the road we met Sanlingzi; along the way he jangled the bell that urged the horse. Seeking slopes, turning ravines, we searched for jiegai; step by step over ridges and mountains, we bowed to Fuling. Safeguarded like bamboo rind all over, my body feels strained; when shall the fennel offer to court my worship?” Wukong heard this, then gave a cold laugh: “Master, do not let your thoughts cling. Do not worry, just calm yourself and move on; your attainment will come in time.” The companions wandered on through the mountain scene at ease; before they could notice it, the red wheel had already dropped to the west. Exactly thus: A ten-li long pavilion, no guest passes by; on ninefold heavens the stars appear. Boats on the eight rivers have all come into port; seven thousand prefectures and counties have shut their gates. Six palaces and five offices have returned their state officials; in the Four Seas and Three Rivers, the fishing-line is cast aside. On two tower tops, bells and drums sound; one bright full moon fills all heaven and earth.

At the horse’s height, the Master looked out for far as he rode and saw layered pavilion terraces in a mountain hollow, repeated palace halls one behind another. Tripitaka said, “My disciple, it is already late, and luckily there are pavilions not far away on that side. It must be a temple complex; we should stay there for one night and continue tomorrow.” Wukong said, “What you say is true. Do not hurry. Let me look carefully first.” The Great Sage leapt into the air and, with close inspection, it was indeed a mountain gate. He saw:

The brick walls were red-finished and earthen, with gold nails set on both gate doors. Layer upon layer of terraces and pavilions hid beside the ridge, and rank upon rank of palatial halls lay wrapped in the mountain. The Hall of Ten Thousand Buddhas faced the Tathagata Hall; the Morning-Sun Pavilion should correspond to the Great Hero Gate. A seven-story pagoda stood moored among clouds and mists; three Buddha forms shone with radiant splendor. The Wenshu Terrace stood opposite the monastery chamber; the Maitreya Hall stood near the Great Mercy hall. At the mountain tops one saw green light dancing, and at the Hall of Empty-Step, purple clouds rose. Pine passes and bamboo courts clung close in green; every abbot’s meditation hall was utterly clear. Elegant and hushed, they held music-offerings; every stream and roadway sounded with glad receptions. At the Chan chambers monks expounded; in the music rooms many instruments rang. From the Miagao platform, strange flowers fell; before the Dharma-pulpit, sacred leaves sprang up. Truly this was the land of the Three Jewels under woodland cover, a mountain embracing a Brahma king’s palace. Half the side was all flickering light of lamps and smoke; rows of incense formed a hazy vapor.

The Great Sage came down from his cloud and told Tripitaka, “Master, it truly is a temple. We may borrow it for the night. Let us go in.”

The Master dismounted and came straight to the outer gate. Wukong asked, “Master, what temple is this?” Tripitaka said, “Only now has my horse’s hoof really come to rest; my toes have not even left the stirrup, and you ask what temple this is. How little discernment you have.” Wukong said, “You have been a monk since childhood, and must once have lectured on the classics. You just preached the Dharma not long ago, your grasp of doctrine is complete, and then by Tang King’s favor you came. How can you not recognize those great characters hanging on the gate?” The Master retorted, “You unruly monkey! Your words are ignorant. I was just spurring the horse westward and the sunlight was glaring; though there are letters on the gate, dust and grime had dimmed them, so I could not see.” Wukong, hearing this, bent his waist and rose two chi and more, then with his hand wiped away the dust: “Please see.” On it were five large characters: "Diarchi Bao Lin Temple." Wukong folded away his Dharma body and said, “Master, who in this temple may receive us for lodging?” Tripitaka said, “I will go in. Your faces are ugly, your speech rough, your nature hard and proud; if you should clash with the monks here, they may not allow lodging, and that would not be good.” Wukong said, “In that case, please, Master, go in. Do not speak further.”

The Master dropped his robe, unfastened his cloak, adjusted his clothing, and folded his hands as he walked straight into the mountain gate. Within the red-lacquered railings sat two golden-armored figures, statues arranged with fearsome and ugly presence:

One had an iron face and steel beard, seeming as if truly alive; one had a bristled brow and round eyes, bright as crystal. To the left, the knotted fist stood out like raw iron; to the right, the broad palm rose like red copper. Gold scales of linked armor glinted fiercely, and bright helmets and embroidered belts flashed in the wind. To the west there was truly much worship offered to Buddha, and in the stone cauldron the incense fire burned red.

When Tripitaka saw them, he nodded and sighed deeply: “In my Eastern lands, if there were people who molded such great bodhisattvas from clay and burned incense to worship them, my disciples might not have gone to the Western Heaven at all.” Even as he was sighing, he had reached the second gate. There were images of the Four Heavenly Kings: Chiguo, Duo Wen, Zengchang, and Guangmu, arranged in meanings of wind, direction, rain, and order across the corners. After entering the second gate, he saw four tall cypresses; each was thick with a luxuriant green canopy like an umbrella. Raising his head, he saw the Great Hero Hall. The Master joined his palms in refuge and knelt in prostration. Rising, he stepped around the Buddha altar and came beneath the rear gate. He then saw an image of Guanyin seated upside down, universally saving all in the South Sea. On that wall all the well-voiced craftsmen had sculpted shrimp, fish, crabs, and turtles, with heads and tails protruding, leaping in waves like sea play. The Master nodded a few times and sighed, saying with a thousand pangs: “How pitiful! All scaled-beings bow to Buddha; why are human beings not willing to practice?”

While he was praising, a Daoist stepped out from within the third gate. Seeing Tripitaka’s rare appearance and exceptional countenance, he hurried forward, offered obeisance, and asked, “Master, where do you come from?” Tripitaka said, “My disciple has been sent under the seal of the Great Tang in the Eastern Capital to go west to pay Buddha and seek sutras. We have arrived at Baofang now, and evening is near; we ask to stay one night.” The Daoist said, “Master, do not be offended. I am not the head here. I am but the one who sweeps, rings the bell, and labors in the service. Inside there is still a steward, a master monk. I shall go in and report to him. If he allows you to stay, then I will come out and receive you; if he does not, I dare not delay you here.” Tripitaka said, “You have been put to trouble enough."

The Daoist hurried into the abbey hall and reported, “My lord, there is a man outside.” The monk-officer immediately rose, changed his clothes, pressed his Pilu cap into place, threw on his robe, and hurriedly opened the gate to receive him, asking the Daoist, “Where has he come from?” The Daoist pointed with his hand: “Is there not a man back behind the main hall?” Tripitaka had only his head uncovered, wore a robe of twenty-five dharma folds, and had on his feet a pair of muddy, water-dragging sandals, leaning askew at the back gate. Seeing this, the monk-officer grew furious. “Daoist, make less of your noise! Do you not know I am the monk-officer? I only come out to receive those from the city who arrive with incense. For a monk like this, why did you report him to me as if he were genuine? By the look on his face, he is no honest man, more one of those wandering monks of the roads. This late it is likely that he wants to borrow lodging. In our hall there is no place for such disturbance. Tell him to squat down under the front corridor—why come reporting him to me?” He turned away from the matter.

When the Elder heard, tears filled his eyes as he said, “Alas, alas! This is the disgrace of a man far from his homeland. My disciple left home as a child and took the monk’s robes, and never once did he attend a repentance rite with evil intent toward flesh, nor let anger over scripture-reading ruin his meditative mind; nor did he ever throw tiles or bricks and injure a Buddha hall, scraping the true gold from Arhat faces. Ah, alas! Who knows what offense in a former life has wounded heaven and earth, making me in this life always meet wicked men. “Monk, if you do not wish to lodge us, fine—do not. But why then speak this lazy, shameless thing and tell us to crouch under the front corridor? It would have been better not to tell me at all; if you told the monk Wukong, in he comes and with one iron staff stroke he will break your props and canes apart. The Elder said, “Enough, enough. As people say: ‘Ritual and courtesy take precedence.’ Let me go in and ask him once and see what he means.”

The Master followed his footsteps and entered the Dharma hall with him. The monk-officer had taken off his outer robe and sat there breathing hard. Whether he was chanting sutras or writing rites for a household, he seemed occupied; on the table and desk were a pile of slips and papers. Tripitaka did not dare to go further in and so stood in the courtyard, bowing low, calling out, “Abbot, my disciple gives his respects.” The monk-officer, somewhat impatient at his intent to step inside, half answered and half withheld, then returned a courtesy: “From where do you come?” Tripitaka said, “Your disciple is sent from Great Tang in obedience to the Son of Heaven, to go west to the Buddha World and beg the living Buddha for the scriptures. Passing through Baofang, it is late; please let us borrow one night’s lodging. We will leave before we offend the dawn. I beg the abbot to show favor.” The monk-officer rose slightly and asked, “Are you that Tang Sanzang?” Tripitaka replied, “I dare not claim more, but I am that disciple.” The monk-officer said, “If you have gone west for the scriptures, how is it you still do not know the road?” Tripitaka answered, “My disciple has never walked the route of the worthy.” He said, “If you go straight west, it is only four or five li away. There is a thirty-li inn there, a household selling rice with room for easy lodging. This place is not suitable. I cannot keep you here. Please stay elsewhere.” Tripitaka folded his hands. “Abbot, the ancients said: ‘Monasteries and temples are all inns for us monks; at the sight of a monastery gate, each gives three measures of rice.’ Why do you not keep me then? What reason is this?” The monk-officer shouted in anger, “You drifting monk, you speak with oiled tongue and oiled lips.” Tripitaka asked, “What do you mean by oiled tongue and lips?” The monk-officer said, “The ancients said: ‘A tiger enters the city and every house shuts its doors. Though he may not bite, by now his name is already spoiled.’” Tripitaka asked, “How can he be ‘spoiled by name’ if he has not bitten?” He said, “These past years some wandering monks came and sat down at the mountain gate. I saw how poor they were: torn robes, broken sandals, bald heads, bare feet; I pitied their tattered state and hastened to invite them into the hall, seated them, gave them alms meals, lent each old robe, and let them stay a few days. Who knew they were fond of free ease in food and bedding, so thought no thought of leaving, staying for seven or eight years. Staying might be one thing; yet they did many unjust deeds.” Tripitaka asked, “What unjust deeds?” The monk-officer said, “Listen to what I have to tell you:

In idle hours he hurls tiles along the wall, and when he grows bored he pries nails from the wall. In cold weather he leans fire toward the window lattice; in summer he drags the doors across the path. He tears banner cloth into leg straps and steals incense, swapping it for turnips. He often tips oil from crystal vessels and steals bowls and pots to win at gambling. Tripitaka thought to himself, “Alas! Is my disciple truly such a boneless monk?” He wished to weep, but fearing the old monks of the monastery would laugh at him, he quietly drew his sleeve and wiped his tears, swallowed his anger, and quickly went out to meet the three disciples. The Great Sage saw anger on the Master’s face and asked, “Master, did the monks here beat you?” Tripitaka said, “They did not beat me.” Zhu Bajie said, “They surely did. If not, why this sobbing tone?” Sun Wukong said, “Did they scold you?” Tripitaka said, “Not scolded me either.” Wukong said, “If not beaten and not scolded, why such distress? You are homesick, then?” Tripitaka said, “Disciple, this place is not convenient.” Wukong laughed, “Is this place of Daoists, then?” Tripitaka answered sharply, “There are only Daoists in the shrine; in a temple are only monks.” Wukong said, “You are helpless. Yet monks are, after all, like us. As people say: ‘Where one is in the Buddha assembly, there are all connected by destiny.’ Sit, and let me go in and see.”

The Great Sage, setting his golden hoop more firmly upon his head and tying up his waist cloth, took up the iron staff and went straight to the Great Hero Hall, pointing at the three Buddha images. He spoke: “You are merely clay figures with gilded bodies and hollow gold within; where is your sensitivity inside? I, Sun Wukong, escorting Tripitaka, the Holy Monk of Great Tang, am going west to bow to Buddha and seek the true scriptures. Tonight we have come here to lodge; report our names at once. If you do not keep us, then with one single staff-blow I will smash your gilt bodies and make you return to your native shape of mud.”

The Great Sage was still in front, raging and ranting and swinging his staff recklessly, when he saw a Daoist burning evening incense who had set several sticks in the brazier before Buddha. At Sun Wukong’s cry, the man started, staggered, and fell. He rose, saw his face again, and fell once more. Frightened, trembling and stumbling, he ran inside to the monk-official and reported, “My lord, a monk has come from outside.” The monk-officer said, “You Daoists all, be less noisy! You told him once to squat under the front corridor and now you report this again? Say that once more and I’ll strike twenty!” The Daoist said, “My lord, this monk is different from that one: fierce and unruly, without a backbone.” The monk-officer asked, “What sort of face?” The Daoist said, “Round eyes, slanting ears, face full of hair, and a thunder-mouth. He grips a staff in his hand, bares his teeth and, hard as iron, seems set on finding someone to beat.” The monk-officer said, “I will go out and see him.”

He opened the gate at once and saw Wukong bursting in. Truly he was ugly beyond measure: seven-bent and eight-high, a face twisted and lopsided, two yellow eyes, one swollen brow, and fangs jutting outward. He looked like some crab-like sort, flesh within and bones outside. Frightened, the old monk shut the hall gate. Wukong arrived at once, knocked down and split the gate leaves, and said, “At once clean one thousand pure rooms; old Sun will sleep.” The monk-officer, hiding in the room, said to the Daoist, “Can this be simply his ugly face? It is all that he has bragged into this kind of face, saying these wild words. Here my monastery has at most not even three hundred rooms—the monks’ quarters, Buddha hall, bell and drum tower, both corridors together. Yet he demands one thousand rooms to sleep in. From where did that come?” The Daoist said, “Master, I am frightened myself from fear. How can you answer him?” The monk-officer, in high, ragged voice, called out, “Monk, you are asking lodging. This poor wild hill is not convenient; I cannot dare to host you. Go elsewhere and find the night’s lodging.”

Sun Wukong made his staff thick as a basin and stood it upright in the courtyard against the wall, then said, “Monk, if this place is inconvenient, then carry your things out.” The monk-officer said, “The temple I have lived in since childhood was handed down from my ancestors to my teacher, from my teacher to my generation; it must be passed on to descendants far away. He does not know what affair brings him here. With his reckless and disorderly manner, he is telling us to move out.” The Daoist said, “My lord, it is very awkward, but to move out would still be fine; yet this is a place where even a single club-bearing one barges in through the gate.” The monk-officer said, “Do not make such speech. We have four or five hundred monks, young and old. Where should we move to? If we moved out, there would be nowhere for us to stay.” Hearing this, Wukong said, “No place to move—then call out one to test a staff blow.” The old monk called to the Daoist, “You, go outside and test a staff with me.” The Daoist, alarmed, said, “Sir! How can I go out and swing against one with such a great cudgel?” The monk-officer said, “‘To train an army for a thousand days is to use it in one dawn.’ Why do you not go out?” The Daoist said, “That staff, no need say swinging it to strike: if it falls, it will also crush me into paste.” The monk-officer said, “Do not speak only of crushing. It now stands upright in the courtyard; at nightfall while one walks, one might forget and strike a great pit in one’s head.” The Daoist said, “Master, now that you know how heavy this is, why still ask me to go out and fight what sort of staff?” He began to stir and bawl inside the hall.

The Walker heard and said, 'It cannot be prevented. If I were to strike once and kill a man with my staff, my Master, Tripitaka, would later accuse me of doing violence. Wait here while I find something else to strike you with and let you try it on.' He then lifted his head and saw a stone lion outside the abbot’s hall. He raised the staff, brought it down with a hard ping, and smashed it into a spray of powdery fragments. The monk watching from the window saw this, and from fright his bones turned to wax and cotton; in haste he crawled beneath the bed. The Daoist wriggled through the stove-door and kept crying, 'Grandpa, the staff is heavy, the staff is heavy, I cannot hold it back, spare me, spare me!' The Walker said, 'Monk, I am not going to beat you. Tell me: how many monks are in this temple?' Shivering, the monk-official answered, 'From front to back there are two hundred and eighty-five cells, with five hundred monks holding ordained certificates.' The Walker said, 'You go quickly and call all five hundred monks, in strict neat order, put on your long robes and go out to fetch my Master of Tang, then I will not beat you.' The monk-official said, 'Grandpa, if you do not strike, we will lift you in at once.' The Walker said, 'Go at once.' The monk-official called to the Daoist: 'Do not say you are so frightened that your courage breaks; if your heart is broken with fear, still come and call these men, and bring Lord Tripitaka here.'

That Daoist had no recourse. He gave over his life’s nerve, dared not strike the gate, and crawled out through the rear dog-hole, running straight to the main hall. He beat the drum to the east and struck the bell in the west. When the drum and bell rang together, the monks from both corridors, all big and small, were startled and came to the hall asking, 'It is still not very late; why ring the bell and drum?' The Daoist said, 'Change into proper robes at once. In rank with the teacher, go out past the mountain gate and receive the honored lord from the Tang dynasty.' Then all the monks truly assembled in neat order and stood in files to greet them. Some put on kasayas, some wore crosswise jackets, some were clothed in a plain bell-shaped coat; many were so poor that, lacking long robes, they simply pulled up two waist-sheets and draped them over themselves. The Walker saw this and said, 'Monk, what kind of garment is that?' The monk, seeing him grim and ugly, said, 'Grandpa, do not strike—let me explain. This is cloth made by our city folk; there is no tailor here, it is a rough homemade wrap from our poor lot.'

The Walker, hearing him, smiled inwardly and, with the monks under guard, went out beyond the gate and knelt. The monk-official knelt and called out loudly, 'Great Master Tang, please sit in the abbot’s quarters.' Zhu Bajie saw this and said, 'When you came in, Master, you were in no condition—eyes all watery, and oil hanging from your mouth. How could big brother have such wild wisdom as to bid them kneel and bow as a welcome?' Tripitaka said, 'You fool, you know no courtesy. It is said even ghosts fear wicked men.' Seeing their prostrations and bows, Tripitaka was displeased; he stepped forward and called, 'Please rise, all of you.' The monks knelt and said, 'If the lord were to tell your disciples a word of easing and keep the staff from moving, we would kneel for a full month.' Tripitaka said, 'Wukong, do not strike them.' The Walker replied, 'I have not struck. If I had, my staff would already be broken through the middle by now.' Only then did those monks rise. Those who handled the horses handled them, those who bore the poles bore them, lifted Tripitaka on high, carried Zhu Bajie, pulled Sha Wujing, and all together went into the mountain gate, then to the abbot’s rear chamber, and sat in order.'

The monks again performed the kowtow. Tripitaka said, 'Abbot, please rise; no need for formal ceremony. Though we are poor monks, I and you are both disciples in the Buddha’s way.' The monk-official said, 'Great Lord, you are the imperial envoy from the Central Kingdom; these young monks failed in the welcome. Now here in this wild mountain, common folk’s eyes do not know the proper observances, and by coincidence you met with him. Are you to tell us whether on the road you eat vegetarian food or meat, so we can prepare a meal?' Tripitaka said, 'Vegetarian.' The monk-official said, 'Disciple, this lord likes meat well.' The Walker said, 'We eat vegetarian too; all of us are of pure vegetarian making.' The monk said, 'Grandpa! Even such a fierce man eats vegetarian?' A brave monk stepped forward and asked again, 'Since this lord eats vegetarian, how much rice should be cooked to be enough?' Zhu Bajie said, 'Little temple monk, what kind of question is that? A single stone of rice cooked in one household is enough.' The monks all panicked and hurried to scrub pots and hearths, arranging tea and rice in every hall. They raised bright lamps, moved out tables and benches, and prepared a reception for Tripitaka.'

After the Master and disciples had finished the evening meal, the monks cleared the hearth. Tripitaka thanked them, saying, 'Elder abbot, forgive the disturbance to your treasure mountain.' The monk-official said, 'Please do not. I beg your pardon, pardon me, pardon me.' Tripitaka said, 'Where shall my disciples and I rest here?' The monk-official said, 'Master, do not rush. The young monks can make arrangements.' He called, 'Daoist, how many people in that wing can obey commands?' The Daoist said, 'Master, there are.' The monk-official ordered, 'You two go arrange fodder and bring it to feed Lord Tang’s horse. Send a few to the front to clean the three meditation halls, make them spotless, lay the bed-curtains, and hasten, please ask the lord to rest.'

The Daoists heard the order and made all things orderly and ready, then came to invite Lord Tripitaka to sleep. The disciples then, leading horse and poles, went out from the abbot’s hall directly to the entrance of the meditation hall and looked in. Inside, light burned bright; between the two sides were laid four cane-framed cots. When the Walker saw this, he called the Daoist in charge of straw-bedding and had him bring it in and place it in the hall, tied up the white horse, and sent the Daoists all out. Tripitaka sat in the middle. Beneath the lamp, five hundred monks stood in two lines, waiting and attending, not daring to leave. The monk-official came forward and told the crowd, 'Only after escorting and settling the lord should you return.' Tripitaka said, 'This is enough for settling; all of you may now go back.' Only then did they dare to depart.

Tripitaka stepped out of his door for a short bodily visit to the chamber, and when he stepped outside he saw the bright moon hanging in the sky. He called, “Disciples.” Sun Wukong, Zhu Bajie, and Sha Wujing all came out to stand in attendance. Feeling the moon’s pure, clear light and the deep brilliance of the jade heavens, he thought, “it is truly a single lantern high above, bright enough to lay the whole earth bare.” In homesick silence, he turned to the moon and spontaneously recited a long old-style verse. He said:

The white-moon disk hangs in mid-sky, a hanging treasure-mirror bright, mountains and rivers shiver in its shadow-reflection, complete in every part. A jade palaces and moonlit towers fill with clean radiance, an ice-lens, a silver tray, with crisp, circling light. Ten thousand li are all this one pure brilliance tonight; in all the year, this is the clearest and brightest. Whole it seems a frost-cake torn from the Blue Sea, yet it appears an ice-wheel set in the verdant sky. In the lone guest-chamber, at a cold window, the lonely traveler sits stifled, in hillside hamlets and wild roadside inns, old men sleep through the cold. Reaching the Han Court Garden, I startle at autumn-white temples, only at Qin Hall’s tower does evening hasten. Yuliang’s verse is carried in the Jin annals, and Yuan Hong cannot sleep, afloat upon a river boat. The reflected light lies weak upon the cup’s surface, cold and without force; it shines clear in the courtyard and the robust immortals seem awake. Everywhere the window pavilions sing of white snow, in every yard and court men of ice-strings tune their chords. I sit in stillness on this mountain temple to sport with this moon; when shall we all be together again, returning to our old homeland?

Hearing him speak, Sun Wukong stepped closer and replied: “Master, you notice only the moon’s beauty, and your heart clings to the old home, but you do not understand what the Moon itself means. It is the rule of pre-celestial signs and measures. On the thirtieth day of the lunar month, the yang qi of the sun-spirit is all exhausted, while yin qi of the moon-spirit fills the wheel, so it is utterly dark and without light, which is called the New Moon. At this point it joins with the sun; between the two days of dark and dawn, it receives sunlight and becomes pregnant. By the third day, one yang appears; by the eighth day, two yang energies arise; in the spirit of the orb, yang and yin are half each, and this evenness is called the Upper Crescent. By the fifteenth day there are three yang complete, therefore it is full, called the Full Moon. On the sixteenth day one yin arises, and on the twenty-second day two yin arise; then yin and yang in the disk are half and half, therefore level as a string, called the Lower Crescent. On the thirtieth day three yin are complete; again it is the New Moon. This is the sense of primordial refinement. If we can nurse the two and eight and perfect the nine-by-nine work, at that season it will be easy to behold Buddha and easy also to return to the old fields. The verse is:

Before first crescent and after the latter crescent, the medicine-flavor stays even and the atmospheric signs are whole. If it is gathered and carried back to the furnace to be refined, mind set with resolve, the fruit of practice truly reaches the Western Heaven.”

Hearing this, the abbot suddenly understood and saw through to the true teaching with perfect clarity. Joy filled him, and he thanked Sun Wukong with thanks.

Sha Wujing, standing nearby with a laugh, said: “What Brother Sun has said is valid, yet he spoke only that before the arc is yang and after it is yin, that within the shade half of yang remains and obtains the golden water. Yet he did not say:

Water and fire entangle each with each, each has its own affinity, all is by Mother Earth’s pairing and destined accord. Three lineages meet as one with no contention, water stays in the Yangtze; the moon abides in heaven.”

Hearing this, the Master also felt his fog of mind lifted. It was exactly thus:

One clear opening makes a thousand openings clear; to break through and speak of non-birth is already to be an immortal.

Zhu Bajie stepped forward and held the abbot’s sleeves: “Master, do not listen to this confusion and lose your sleep. As for this moon:

It is lacking and before long is whole again, like me, never born complete. If I eat, he says my belly is too big; when I lift a bowl he says it’s only because I have sticky saliva. He all has cleverness to cultivate his own blessings; I, being foolish and dull-witted, have only old debts of fate. I tell you, your scripture-taking still has all three realms’ karma to clear, tail wagging and head bobbing, rushing straight up to heaven.”

Tripitaka said, “Enough. My disciples have had a hard walk. Go lie down first. Let me take this scroll of scripture and recite it a little.”

Sun Wukong said, “You have missed the point. You left home young and became a monk. As a child those scriptures, were they not already not fully mastered? Yet you also accepted the imperial command of Tang the Great and go west to the Buddha for the true Great Vehicle canon. Your task is still unfinished; Buddha has not been seen; the scripture has not yet been obtained. Which very copy are you now reciting?”

Tripitaka replied, “Since leaving Chang’an, I have trudged at dawn and raced each day. The scriptures from childhood are surely gone stale in me. Now that I have a moment of leisure tonight, let me warm up and review them.”

Sun Wukong said, “If that is so, we shall go to sleep first.” The three disciples each lay down on separate rattan beds. The Master shut the Chan hall door, raised and stirred the silver censer, spread out the scripture text, and silently read and recited. Exactly then came:

At the head of the hall the first drum sounds, all households fall silent; on the wild riverbank, a fisherman’s boat extinguishes its fire.

In the end, it was still unknown how the abbot would leave the temple; listen to the next chapter for the full account.