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Because they were seriously seeking the scriptures,
They strove to maintain their brightness of spirit.
Setting out at dawn and not stopping till nightfall, they drank when thirsty and ate when hungry. Before they realized it spring and summer were over and it was autumn again. Late one day the Tang Priest reined in his horse and asked, “Where shall we spend the night, disciples?”
“Master,” said Monkey, “a man of religion shouldn't talk like a layman.”
“What is the difference in the way they talk?” Sanzang asked.
“At a time like this,” said Monkey, “a layman would be fast asleep in a warm bed wrapped up in a quilt with his child in his arms and a wife to keep his feet warm. We monks can't expect anything like that. We have only the moon and the stars to cover us with. We dine on the wind and sleep in the dew. We travel when we can find a way and only stop when there's no way forward.”
“Brother,” said Pig, “you only know half of the story. The trail is very steep now and I can barely manage my heavy load. We've got to find somewhere where I can get a good night's sleep and build myself up to carry my load tomorrow. Otherwise I'm going to collapse from exhaustion.”
“Let's go a little further in the moonlight,” said Monkey. “When we reach a house we can stay there.” Master and disciples had no choice but to carry on with Monkey.
They had not been going for long when they heard the sound of waves. “That's done it,” said Pig. “We've come to the end of the road.”
“There's a river in our way,” said Friar Sand.
“How are we going to get across?” asked the Tang Priest.
“Let me test it for depth,” said Pig.
“Don't talk nonsense, Wuneng,” said Sanzang. “How could you test the water for depth?”
“Find a pebble the size of a goose egg and throw it in,” Pig replied. “If it makes a big splash the water's shallow; and if it goes down with bubbles the water's deep.”
“Test it then,” said Monkey. The idiot then picked up a stone and threw it into the water; they heard the bubbles rising as the stone sunk.
“It's deep, too deep,” he said, “we'll never get across.”
“You have tested for depth,” said the Tang Priest, “but we don't know how wide it is.”
“I can't tell that,” said Pig.
“Let me have a look,” said Monkey. The splendid Great Sage sprang up into mid-air on his cloud and took a good look. What he saw was:
The light of the moon immersed in the vastness,
The floating reflection of the limitless sky.
The magical stream has swallowed Mount Hua;
Hundreds of rivers flow into its waters.
Waves in their thousands rise and then fall,
Towering breakers crash without number.
No fisherman burns his fire by the shore;
The herons are all now asleep on the sand.
It is as turbid and huge as the ocean,
And there is no end to its water in sight.
Monkey brought his cloud quickly down, put it away, and reported, “It's wide, Master, very wide. We'll never get across it. My fiery eyes with their golden pupils can see there hundred miles by day and distinguish good from evil too. By night they can see a hundred to a hundred and fifty miles. If even I can't see the other bank goodness only knows how wide it is.”
Sanzang was speechless with shock, then he sobbed, “What are we to do, disciples?”
“Don't cry, Master,” said Friar Sand. “There's someone standing by the river over there.”
“I expect it's a fisherman working his nets,” said Monkey. “I'll go and ask him.” Monkey took his iron cudgel in his hand and was before the man in two or three bounds, only to discover that it was in fact a stone tablet on which was inscribed in an ancient script three words in large letters and nine words in two rows of little ones underneath. The three words written large were RIVER OF HEAVEN, and the words in small writing were “ 250 miles across; few travelers have ever been here.”
“Master,” called Monkey, “come and take a look.”
When Sanzang read this he said through his tears, “Disciple, when I left Chang'an all those years ago I thought that the Western Heaven would be easy to get to. I never knew that so many evil monsters would block my way, or that there would be such enormous mountains and rivers to cross.”
“Listen, Master,” said Pig. “Where is that sound of drums and cymbals coming from? It must be people holding a religious feast. Let's go and get some of the food to eat and find out where there is a boat that will ferry us across tomorrow.” When Sanzang listened as he sat on the horse he could hear that it really was the sound of drums and cymbals.
“Those aren't Taoist instruments,” he said. “It must be some Buddhist monks performing a ceremony. Let's go there.” Monkey led the horse as they headed towards the music. There was no track to follow as they climbed and then lost height again and crossed sand banks until a village of some four or five hundred households came into sight. It was a fine settlement:
Protected by hills, beside the main road,
On the bank of the river, and watered by a stream.
All the wicket gates were shut;
Every household's bamboo fence was closed.
Clear were the dreams of the egrets on the strand,
Silent the song of the birds by the willows.
No sound came from the flute,
Nothing was heard of the chopping-board's rhythm.
The moon was rocked in stalks of knotweed;
The leaves of the rushes trembled in the wind.
Beside the fields the dogs barked through the fence;
The fisherman slept in his boat moored by the ford.
Few were the lights amid the stillness,
And the moon hung like a mirror in the sky,
A smell of duckweed wafted over
Carried by the wind from the Western bank.
When Sanzang dismounted he saw a house at the end of the road outside of which hung a silken ba
“Wukong,” said Sanzang, “this is much better than a mountain hollow or the bank of a stream. Under the eaves we will be able to relax and sleep soundly, protected from the chilly dew. You all keep out of the way while I go to the gates of the believer's house that is giving the religious feast to ask for shelter. If they invite me in I shall call you over. But don't start playing it up if they don't invite me in. If you show your ugly faces you might give them a terrible fright and cause trouble, and then we would have nowhere to stay.”
“You're right,” said Monkey. “You go ahead, Master, while we wait here.”
The venerable elder then took off his rain hat, straightened his habit, took his monastic staff in his hand and went bareheaded to the gates, which were ajar. Not venturing to walk in uninvited, Sanzang stood there for a while until a very old man with prayer-beads round his neck who was repeating the name of Amitabha Buddha came out to shut the gate.
Sanzang at once put his hands together before his chest and said, “I salute you, benefactor.” The old man returned his greeting then said, “You're too late, monk.”
“What do you mean?” Sanzang asked.
“You're too late to get anything,” the old man said. “If you had been here earlier we were giving each monk a good meal, three pints of polished rice, a piece of white cloth, and ten copper cash. Why have you only come now?”
“Benefactor,” Sanzang replied, “I am not here to collect offerings.”
“If you're not here for offerings, what are you here for then?” the old man asked.
“I have been sent by the Emperor of the Great Tang in the East to fetch the scriptures from the Western Heaven,” Sanzang replied. “It was already late when I reached this village, and I have come here to beg for a night's shelter because I heard the drums and cymbals. I will be on my way at dawn.”