“I tell you frankly,” the old man said, “that we can only put three pints of rice in the pot for the six or seven members of the family, and it's still cooking. Try somewhere else first.”
“There is an old saying,” Monkey replied, “that it's better to stay in one house than to call on three. I'm staying put.” The old man lost his temper with Monkey for being so persistent and raised his stick to hit him. This did not worry Monkey at all, who allowed the old man to hit him on his shaven pate seven or eight times: it felt like having the itches on his head scratched.
“You're a monk who likes being hit on the head,” said the old man.
“Hit me as much as you like, oldy,” said Monkey. “I'm keeping the score and you'll have to give me a pint of rice for every blow.”
When the old man heard this he dropped his stick, rushed inside, shut the gate and shouted: “A demon, a demon.” This made the whole household shake with fear as they shut the front and back gates in a great hurry. Watching the gates being shut Monkey thought, “I wonder if the old villain was telling the truth about the amount of rice they cook. As the saying goes, the good are converted by Taoism and the stupid by Buddhism. I'm going in to take a look round.” With that the splendid Great Sage made a spell with his hands to make himself invisible and went straight to the kitchen to look. He saw that the pot was steaming and half filled with grain, so he thrust his begging bowl into it, filled it to the brim, and went back on his cloud.
The Tang priest meanwhile, who had been sitting in the circle for a long time waiting for Monkey to come back, stretched, looked around and said, “Where has that ape gone to beg for food?”
“Goodness only knows where he is-probably fooling around,” said Pig with a laugh beside him. “Begging for food, indeed! He's left us here in a pen.”
“What do you mean, in a pen?” Sanzang asked.
“That's something else you wouldn't know, Master,” Pig replied. “In the old days people used to draw circles on the ground to make pens. He draws a circle with his cudgel and says it's stronger than a wall of bronze or iron. But how could it possibly keep out any tigers, wolves or evil monsters that came here? We'd be a meal served up to them on a plate.”
“What should we do about it, Wuneng?” Sanzang asked him.
“We're not sheltered from the wind or the cold here,” Pig said. “If you ask me we should carry on West along the trail. Monkey went off begging on his cloud, so he's bound to be back soon. He'll catch up with us. If he's got any food we can eat it before going on. All we've got from sitting here so long is cold feet.”
These words were to be Sanzang's undoing: he followed the idiot's advice and they all left the circle. The Tang Priest walked along the trail with Pig leading the horse and Friar Sand carrying the luggage. They soon reached the house with high towers, which was a South-facing compound. Outside the gates was a whitewashed wall, above which rose a multicolored gatetower shaped like lotuses leaning together. The gates stood half open. While Pig tethered the horse to a stone drum by the threshold Friar Sand put the luggage down and Sanzang sat on the doorsill out of the wind.
“Master,” said pig, “this looks like a nobleman or a minister's house. There's nobody at the gates, so I suppose they're all inside warming themselves up by the fire. Sit down and let me take a look.”
“Do be careful,” said the Tang Priest. “Don't go charging into their house.”
“I know,” said the idiot. “I'm a lot better mannered now I'm a Buddhist. I'm not a village yokel any more.”
The idiot tucked his rake in his belt, straightened his black brocade tunic, and went in through the gate in a very affected way. He saw a large hall with high, curtained windows that was completely quiet and deserted. There were no tables, chairs or other furniture. When he went round the screen and further into the house he found himself in a passageway at the end of which stood a multi-storied building with upstairs windows half open through which yellow damask bed-curtains could be glimpsed. “I suppose they're still in bed because it's so cold,” thought Pig, whereupon he marched up the stairs without worrying about the propriety of invading the private quarters of the house. When the idiot lifted the curtain and looked inside he almost collapsed with shock: on the ivory bed inside the curtains was a pile of gleaming white bones, with a skull the size of a bushel measure and thighbones some four or five feet long.
When the idiot calmed himself the tears poured down his cheeks as he nodded to the skeletons and said with a sigh, “I wonder:
For what great dynasty you once were a marshal
In what country's service did you hold high command?
Then you were a hero fighting for mastery,
But now you are only a pile of old bones.
Where are the widow and child making offerings?
Do no soldiers burn incense to honour your memory?
The sight is enough to make one sigh deeply:
Alas for the man who once was a conqueror.”
As pig was sighing with grief there was a flicker of fire behind the curtain, “I suppose there must be attendants at the back to offer him incense,” the idiot thought. When he rushed round the bed-curtain to look he saw that it was the daylight shining through the windows, beside which stood a coloured lacquer table. On it were thrown some padded clothes in brocade and embroidery. When the idiot picked them up to look at them he saw that they were three quilted brocade waistcoats. Not worrying about whether it was right to do so the idiot took them downstairs and went out through the main hall and the gates.
“Master,” he shouted, “there's no sign of life here-it's a house of the dead. I went inside and went upstairs, where I found a pile of bones behind a yellow bed-curtain. On one side of the upper floor were three quilted brocade waistcoats, look-I've brought them back with me. We're really in luck as they're just what we need now that the weather has turned cold. Take your habit off, Master, and put one of these on underneath. You'll be a lot more comfortable: it'll keep the cold out.”
“No,” said Sanzang, “it's forbidden. The law says, 'Taking, whether openly or in secret, is always theft.' If anyone found out, came after us and handed us over to the authorities we would definitely be found guilty of theft. You had better take them back in and put them where you found them. We shall just sit here for a while to shelter from the wind and carry on along our way as soon as Wukong is back. Monks should not be looking out for easy pickings like that.”
“But there's nobody around who could know,” said Pig, “not even a chicken or a dog. The only people who know are ourselves. Who's going to sue us? There's no evidence. It's just the same as if we'd picked it up. Taking or stealing just doesn't come into it.”
“Nonsense,” said the Tang Priest. “Even if nobody else knew about it Heaven cannot be fooled. As the Lord of Origin teaches us, 'Do no evil in a dark house: the eyes of the gods are like lightning.' Take it back at once and stop hankering after what you have no right to.”
The idiot was having none of this. “Master,” he said to the Tang Priest with a grin, “I've worn several waistcoats in my life, but never have I seen quilted brocade ones like this before. Even if you don't want to wear one, please let me just try one on to warm my back up. When Monkey comes back I'll take it off and we can be on our way again.”
“In that cast,” said Friar Sand, “I'd like to try one too.” The two of them took off their outer tunics and put the waistcoats on instead. As soon as they had tightened the belts they collapsed, unable to stay on their feet. The waistcoats were even worse than bonds. In an instant both of them had their hands tied together behind their backs. Sanzang stamped his foot in despair and indignation and rushed forward to untie them, but to no avail. The three of them set up endless yells that soon disturbed a demon king.