A thousand peaks brandishing halberds,
Screens ten thousand measures tall.
In the sunlight the mountain haze is lightly touched with blue;
After the rain the black rocks look coldly green.
Withered creepers coil round ancient trees,
And the old ford marks the bounds of the mysterious.
Strange flowers and precious plants,
Flourishing in all four seasons, rivaling fairyland.
The nearby cry of a hidden bird,
The clear running of a spring.
Valley upon valley of mushroom and orchid,
Lichen grows all over the cliffs.
The range rises and dips in dragon-like majesty.
Surely there mush be lofty hermits here.
As he was looking at the view the Monkey King heard a human voice coming from the depths of the forest. He rushed into the trees, and when he cocked his ear to listen he heard a song:
“Watching the chess game I cut through the rotten,
Felling trees, ding, ding,
Strolling at the edge of the cloud and the mouth of the valley,
I sell firewood to buy wine,
Cackling with laughter and perfectly happy.
I pillow myself on a pine root, looking up at the moon.
When I wake up it is light.
Recognizing the old forest
I scale cliffs and cross ridges,
Cutting down withered creepers with my axe.
When I've gathered a basketful
I walk down to the market with a song,
And trade it for three pints of rice.
Nobody else competes with me,
So prices are stable.
I don't speculate or try sharp practice,
Couldn't care less what people think of me,
Calmly lengthening my days.
The people I meet
Are Taoists and Immortals,
Sitting quietly and expounding the Yellow Court.”
The Monkey King was overjoyed to hear this, and he said with glee, “So this is where the Immortals have been hiding.” He bounded deeper into the woods for a closer look and saw that the singer was a woodcutter cutting firewood. He was wearing the most unusual clothes:
On his head he wore a hat
Woven from the first skin shed by new bamboo shoots.
The clothes on his body
Were made of yam from the wild cotton-tree.
The belt round his waist
Was of silk from an old silkworm.
The straw sandals under his feet
Had straps torn from rotten sago trees.
In his hand he held a steel axe
On his back he carried a hempen rope
At climbing pines and felling dead trees,
Who was a match for this woodcutter?
The Monkey King went closer and called to him. “Old Immortal, your disciple greets you.”
The woodcutter dropped his axe in astonishment and turned round to say, “No, no. I don't even have enough to eat or drink, so how can I possibly let you call me an Immortal?”
“If you're not an Immortal,” the Monkey King said, “why do you talk like one?”
“I don't talk like an Immortal,” the woodcutter said.
“At the edge of the wood just now,” the Monkey King replied, “I heard you say, 'The people I meet are Taoists and Immortals, sitting quietly and expounding the Mantingfang.' The Mantingfang contains the truth about the Way, so if you're not an Immortal, what are you?” The woodcutter laughed.
“It's quite true that the song is called 'The Fragrance of the Mantingfang,' and an Immortal who lives near my hut taught me it. He said he saw how hard I had to work and how I was always worried, so he made me sing this song when things were getting me down. It lightens my cares and makes me forget my weariness. I was singing it just now because I had some problems on my mind, and I never imagined that you would be listening.”
“If you've got an Immortal for a neighbour, you ought to learn from him how to cultivate your conduct and get him to teach you a recipe for eternal youth.”
“I've had a hard life,” the woodcutter replied. “My mother and father brought me up till I was about eight, and just when I was beginning to know about life my father died. My mother remained a widow, and I had no brothers or sisters. As I was the only child I had to look after my mother morning and night. Now she is old that I can't possibly leave her. Our land is so overgrown that I can't grow enough to feed and clothe both of us, so I have to cut a couple of bundles of firewood to sell in the market for a handful of coppers to buy the few pints of rice that I cook for myself and for my mother. That's why I can't cultivate my conduct.”
“From what you say,” the Monkey King replied, “you're a filial son and a gentleman-you're bound to be rewarded for it one day. But I'd be grateful if you could show me where that Immortal lives, so that I can go and pay him my respects.”
The woodcutter said, “It's not far from here. This mountain is the Spirit Tower Heart Mountain, and in it there is the Cave of the Setting Moon and the Three Stars. In that cave lives an Immortal called the Patriarch Subhuti. I don't know how many disciples he has trained-there are thirty or forty of them cultivating their conduct with him at the moment. If you take that path South for two or three miles you'll reach his home.”
The Monkey King tugged at the woodcutter and said, “Take me there, Elder Brother. If I get anything out of this, I won't forget your kindness.”
“You idiot,” the woodcutter replied, “didn't you understand what I told you just now? If I went with you I wouldn't be able to earn my living, and who would look after my poor old mother then? I've got to get on with my woodcutting. Go by yourself.”
After hearing this the Monkey King had to take his leave. He came out of the forest and found the path, which led up a mountain slope for two or three miles, when he saw the cave. He pulled himself up to his full height to take a look, and it was a really magnificent place:
Misty clouds scattered colours,
Sun and moon shimmered bright.
A thousand ancient cypresses,
Ten thousand lofty bamboos.
A thousand ancient cypresses,
A soft green drawing the rain from the sky.
Ten thousand lofty bamboos,
And a misty valley is azure blue.
Outside the gate rare flowers spread brocade;
Beside the bridge wafts the scent of jade flowers.
Rocky crags jut, glossy with green moss;
On overhanging cliffs blue lichen grows.
Sometimes the call of the crane is heard
And often you see the phoenix soar.
The call of the crane
Echoes beyond the Ninth Heaven and the Milky Way.
When the phoenix soars,
The brilliance of its wings colours the clouds.
Black apes and white deer can be just made out;
Golden lions and jade elephants prefer to keep hidden.
If you look closely at this happy land,
You will see that it rivals paradise.
He saw that the doors of the cave were shut fast, and that everything was still, with no signs of any people. He turned round and noticed that there was a stone tablet about thirty feet high and eight feet wide at the top of the cliff. On it was carved in enormous letters: SPIRIT-TOWER HEART MOUNTAIN, CAVE OF THE SETTING MOON AND THE THREE STARS. The Monkey King exclaimed with delight, “The people here really are honest. The mountain and the cave do exist.” He took a good long look, but did not dare to knock on the door. He climbed to the and of a pine branch and ate some pine seeds to amuse himself.