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“What happened in the sacrifice, Wukong?” Sanzang asked Monkey, who related how he had told the monster who he was and chased him into the river, to the immense delight of the two old gentlemen, who ordered that the side rooms were to be swept out and furnished with beds. Here the master and his disciples were invited to spend the night.
Having escaped with his life back to the river the monster sat brooding silently in his palace while his river clansmen asked him, “Why are you so upset this year, Your Majesty? Usually you are very happy when you come back from eating your sacrifice.”
“In ordinary years I bring you back some left-overs after the sacrifice,” said the monster, “but I did not even have anything to eat myself today. My luck was out. I met enemies who all but killed me.”
“Who, Your Majesty?”
“Disciples of a holy priest from Great Tang in the East who is going to the Western Heaven to worship the Buddha and fetch the scriptures. They had turned themselves into a boy and a girl and were sitting in my temple. When they turned back into themselves they almost killed me. I've long heard people tell of Tang Sanzang, a holy man who has cultivated his conduct for ten lifetimes: one piece of his flesh will make you immortal. But I never expected he would have disciples such as those. He's ruined my reputation and stopped them worshipping me any more. I wish I could capture that Tang Priest, but I don't think I can.”
From among the watery tribe there slipped forward a female mandarin fish in patterned clothes. She advanced with small, respectful steps towards the monster, bowing frequently as she said, “Your Majesty, there will be no problem about catching the Tang Priest. But if you do capture him will you reward me with a feast?”
“If you have a plan we shall combine our efforts to catch the Tang Priest,” the monster said. “I shall take you as my sworn sister, and we shall eat his flesh together.”
The mandarin fish bowed in thanks then said, “I have long known that Your Majesty has the powers to call up wind and rain, or to throw rivers and sea into turmoil. But can you make it snow?”
“Yes,” the monster replied. “As you can make it snow,” the mandarin fish continued, “can you also cause cold and make ice?”
“I'm even better at that,” the monster said. The fish then clapped her hands with delight and said, “In that case it will be very, very easy.”
“Will you tell me this very easy way of succeeding?” the monster asked.
“Your Majesty must lose no time,” the fish replied. “It's now the third watch, about midnight. You must make magic to cause a cold wind and a heavy fall of snow at once. The River of Heaven must be frozen solid. Those of us who are good at transformations will make ourselves look like people and appear at the end of the track with packs on our backs, carrying umbrellas and luggage poles and pushing carts. We shall walk across the ice in an endless stream. That Tang Priest is so impatient to fetch the scriptures that when he sees all those people walking along he's bound to want to cross the ice himself. All Your Majesty needs to do is to sit quietly in the middle of the river until you hear his footsteps, then crack the ice apart so that he and his disciples all fall into the water. They'll all be caught in one package.”
“Marvellous, marvellous,” exclaimed the monster, who was utterly delighted at the suggestion. He left his watery palace and went up into the sky, where he caused winds and snow, and made it so cold that the river froze.
The Tang Priest and his three disciples slept in the Chen house. Shortly before dawn they all began to feel very cold in their bedding. Pig was shivering, unable to get back to sleep, so he called, “Brother, it's cold.”
“Idiot,” said Monkey, “you've got no sense of how to behave. Monks are not affected by summer or winter. You shouldn't mind the cold.”
“Disciple,” said Sanzang, “it really is cold. Look:
Double quilts now give no warmth,
Hands put in sleeves find only ice.
Strands of frost grow from withered leaves,
Frozen bells hang from frozen pines.
The cold is so intense the earth splits open;
The water in the pond is a solid block.
No old man can be seen in the fisherman's boat;
No monk is to be met with in the mountain temple.
The woodman wishes he could gather more fuel;
The prince is glad to pile more charcoal on the flames.
Travelers' beards are turned to iron;
The poet's brush is water-chestnut hard.
Even a fur jacket now seems too thin;
A marten coat feels much too light.
The monk on his hassock is frozen rigid;
Behind the paper screen the traveler is scared.
Even in many a layer of bedding
One shivers and shakes from top to toe.
As neither master nor disciples could sleep they rose and dressed. When they opened the door to look outside they saw to their astonishment a vast expanse of white. It was snowing. “No wonder we were so cold,” said Monkey, “if it's been snowing so heavily.” When the four of them looked they saw that it was a splendid fall:
Dark masses of cloud,
Chilling, dreary mists.
Under dark masses of cloud
The North wind howls cold;
Through chilling, dreary mists
A heavy snowfall blankets the ground.
Indeed:
The six-sided snowflakes
Are flying jewels;
In the great forest
Jade hangs from every tree.
First like flour, then like salt.
The white parrot loses its whiteness,
The crane's feathers no longer stand out.
It adds to the waters of a thousand rivers,
Outdoes the plum-trees in the Southeast.
As if three million dragons of jade were defeated,
The sky is filled with fragments of armor and scales.
Here you will not find Dongguo's soleless sandals,
The bed where Yuan An froze to death,
The place where Sun Kang studied in the snow's reflected light,
The boat that Wang Ziyou took one snowy night,
Wang Gong's cloak,
Or the rug that Su Wu had to eat.
All you will see are village houses set like inlaid silver,
Three thousand miles of jade-like river and hills.
What splendid snow,
Sprinkling the bridge with willow catkins,
Covering the cottage with pear blossom.
When the bridge is sprinkled with willow catkins,
The fisherman beside it dons his cape of straw;
When the cottage is covered with pear blossom
The old man inside bums his firewood.
The traveler is hard put to it to buy a drink;
The slave ca
The heavy fall of snow takes off the butterfly's wings,
The howling blizzard strips the goose of its feathers.
Rolling drifts are blown by the winds;
Layer upon layer hides the road.
Freezing gusts come through the curtains,
A chilly wind blows into the bed.
This is Heaven's promise of a good harvest,
Good news that is cause for celebration.
The snow was falling in abundance like fragments of jade or cotton wool. When master and disciples had sighed in admiration of it for a long time the two old Chen brothers told two servants to sweep a way through the snow and two more to bring the monks hot water with which to wash their faces. A little later boiling hot tea, cheesecakes and a charcoal stove were all carried out to the side room, where master and disciple sat around them.
“Venerable benefactor,” the Tang Priest asked, “could you tell me if you distinguish between the seasons of the year here?”
“This may be a remote place,” said the old man, “and our customs and people may be different from those in your distinguished land, but our crops and animals grow under the same sky, so of course we distinguish between the four seasons.”