Chapter 6: Dreaming Again of the Slanting Moon and Three-Star Cave

“Ignorant humans…” Hu Rong didn’t need to turn around to know that Tang Sanzang was reciting prayers for the dead tiger, and he couldn’t help but grumble inwardly. The doctrines of Buddhism were nothing but hypocrisy; their so-called exhortations to goodness were merely lessons in abandoning all emotion and desire, teaching people to become detached, unfeeling beings. If that’s the case, if everyone believed in Buddhism and forsook all passion and longing, then how would life ever continue? For life to go on, there must be mating, and mating would violate the precept against lust!

Without emotion and desire, creatures would cease to reproduce. Without reproduction, how would plants and trees bloom and bear fruit? Without the creatures and the greenery, how would the cycles of the heavens continue?

It was like a tiger eating a sheep—nature at work. The Taoists, upon witnessing a tiger devouring a sheep, would feel a fleeting pang of sympathy, but then resign themselves to the way of nature, mourning quietly and comforting the flock. Buddhists, on the other hand, would surely save the sheep and drive away the tiger, or even, to demonstrate the might of Buddhism, force the tiger to become a vegetarian—thus changing its nature and erasing its essence. But then, what would become of the order of heaven and earth?

“Bald monk, do as you please. I’m going to sleep,” Hu Rong muttered as the low chanting of scriptures continued, closing his eyes and slowly drifting into slumber…

Perhaps it was some communion of spirits, but that night Hu Rong had a dream. He dreamt that he was swaying and staggering back to the Cave of the Three Stars on Mount Fangcun in the land of Xiniu Hezhou…

…

Within his dream, Hu Rong’s gaze swept over layers of jade towers and crystal pavilions, through pearl-hung palaces and shell-adorned halls—too many tranquil chambers and secluded abodes to describe. Arriving at the foot of the Jade Terrace, he saw Patriarch Bodhi seated in majesty, thirty young immortals standing in attendance on either side.

“Wukong, why have you returned, abandoning Tang Sanzang’s pilgrimage to the West?” Patriarch Bodhi, his beard and hair white as snow, spoke with half-lidded eyes.

“Master… I… I miss you deeply… I no longer wish to fetch the scriptures, only to come back and study at your feet… Please, grant me this wish…” Hu Rong—or rather, Hu Rong’s version of the Monkey King—fell to his knees with a thud and wept.

“Foolish child!” Patriarch Bodhi opened his eyes, waved his whisk, and descended from the dais. After scrutinizing Hu Rong for a moment, he wore a strange expression, then asked after a moment’s silence, “Wukong, when did you become fearful?”

“Master… it is not fear… I only do not wish to be a pawn… I wish to roam freely under the sky, bound by nothing and no one—that was my original wish when I entered your gate…”

“To be born under the mandate of heaven, yet wish to escape it—how could it be so easy? Even sages must survive beneath the order of the heavens.” Patriarch Bodhi bent down and gently stroked Hu Rong’s monkey head, sighing, “Heaven and earth are impartial, treating all things as straw dogs; the sage, too, treats the people as straw dogs. Between heaven and earth, is it not like a great bellows? Empty yet inexhaustible, the more it moves, the more comes forth. Too many words lead to exhaustion; better to keep to the center. Wukong, you should go now—”

…

To the crisp sound of birdsong, Hu Rong slowly opened his eyes. Dawn was breaking in the east, a sliver of crimson sunlight rising to chase away the grayness of the sky.

At just that moment, Tang Sanzang was still wrapped in his blanket, sound asleep. Hu Rong carefully stretched his limbs, added a few sticks to the smoking embers, then took out a few flatbreads from his bundle to warm them over the fire. With a whisk of his magical hairs, he conjured a bucket, fetched fresh water from a clear spring, and returned.

First, he poured some water into the golden alms bowl, arranged the warm flatbreads beside it, then picked up his butcher’s knife and walked over to the tiger he’d slain the previous night.

Perhaps it was a skill Hu Rong had gained since his reincarnation, but with a few deft strokes, he skinned the tiger perfectly and set the pelt aside to dry. He chopped the meat into small pieces, skewered them on slender twigs, and set them to roast over the fire. The remaining bones and offal he buried, just in case Tang Sanzang woke to a scene of blood and gore and began to complain.

When all was done and he had made sure no divine beings were watching through his spiritual sense, Hu Rong glanced over at Tang Sanzang, still sleeping soundly, and a curious smile curled his lips.

He dipped his little finger in tiger’s blood, then, while Tang Sanzang wasn’t looking, flicked a drop into the golden bowl. Then he returned to tending the roasting tiger meat, turning the skewers and waiting for Tang Sanzang to wake up.

Soon, the aroma of smoked meat wafted through the air. Hu Rong quickly snatched a skewer, inhaled its fragrance, and bit into it.

At that moment, Tang Sanzang sat up. Seeing his eldest disciple already awake, he nodded with satisfaction. Then, noticing the warm flatbreads and a bowl of clear spring water by his robes, his face lit up with gratitude: what an excellent disciple he had chosen!

But in the next instant, Tang Sanzang realized he had been too quick to praise him. For there was his disciple, holding out a furry monkey paw, and in it a strange creation: “Good morning, Master! Try your disciple’s special treat—meat sandwich!”

Meat sandwich?! Meat sandwich?!

Tang Sanzang stared at the object in his disciple’s hand: two slices of warm flatbread stuffed with roasted meat, emitting an aroma—no, a wicked temptation.

“Wu—Wukong! Drop that at once! Don’t you know that we monks must never eat meat?!” Tang Sanzang raised his right hand, covering the sandwich with his wide sleeve as if to shield himself from its corruption.

“I didn’t know, Master! It’s my first day as a monk, after all,” Hu Rong replied, withdrawing the meat sandwich, glancing at Tang Sanzang, who still kept his face covered, and continued, “But as monks, shouldn’t we also avoid wasting food? How can we throw it away?

And I once heard a great monk say, ‘Wine and meat pass through the intestines, the Buddha remains in the heart.’ What do you think, Master?”

“That… is still wrong. That so-called great monk was just confusing right and wrong. Wukong, throw it away! Now that you are my disciple, you must follow the precepts! Leave other people’s words to them; you must neither heed nor imitate them!” Tang Sanzang’s tone was firm.

“All right, Master,” Hu Rong agreed, cheerfully tossing the meat sandwich aside. He then offered the alms bowl to Tang Sanzang. “Master, have some water.”

“Hmm… Wukong, you eat too, and we’ll set out as soon as we’re done,” Tang Sanzang said, accepting the bowl and picking up a flatbread. Gazing out at the lush greenery in the distance, he sighed, “Who knows when we’ll return to see the landscape of our homeland again on this journey to the West…

Let this bowl of clear water nourish the earth for me. When I return with the true scriptures, I’ll come again to admire these emerald hills!”

With deep feeling, Tang Sanzang tilted the alms bowl and poured its contents onto the ground. Then he ladled himself another bowl of fresh water, took a sip, and began to eat his flatbread.

Hu Rong stared, dumbfounded. Was this fate? He had gone to such lengths to make Tang Sanzang break the precepts, and yet, by some twist of destiny, Tang Sanzang, overcome by homesickness, had poured out the water tainted with tiger’s blood!

Damn it, monk, what was the point of that sentimental gesture? Wouldn’t it be more moving to drink deeply from the spring of your homeland? And even the tiger’s… well, never mind… are you sure you don’t want to try a taste, holy monk?