“Why won't you meet them?” the Taoist asked.
“I have come here on my wanderings for two reasons,” said Monkey. “One is to make a living, and the other is to find a relation.”
“What relation?” the Taoist asked.
“I have an uncle,” Monkey replied, “who left home to have his head shaved and become a Buddhist monk when he was very young. During a famine years ago he went away to beg. He hasn't been back since, and I'm looking for him out of a sense of duty to our forebears. I expect he's been detained here and can't escape, but there's no way of knowing. If I could just have a look for him and see him I'd be able to go into town with you after that.”
“No problem,” said the Taoist. “We'll sit here while you go down to the sand and check them over for us. Just make sure there are five hundred of them. See if your uncle is among them. If he is, we'll release him as you're a fellow Taoist. Then we can go into town together.”
Monkey was very grateful indeed. He bowed to them with his hands raised and headed straight for the sandbank, playing his bamboo drum. Once he was through the two sets of gates and had gone down the ridge the monks all knelt and kowtowed to him.
“Master,” one of the monks said, “we're not slacking. Every one of the five hundred of us is here and all pulling that cart.”
At this Monkey smiled to himself and thought with a grin he did not show, “Those Taoists have got them so scared that they're even frightened of an imitation Taoist like me. If I were a real Taoist they'd die of fright.”
Then Monkey said aloud with a wave of his hands, “Don't kneel, and don't be afraid. I'm not the supervisor. I'm here to look for a relation.” Once they heard him talk about looking for a relation, the monks all crowded round, craning forward, coughing and making other noises in their eagerness to be picked out.
“Who's his relation?” they all wondered. Monkey looked them all over for a while then started chuckling aloud.
“My lord,” the monk said, “if you can't find your relation among us, what is there to laugh about?”
“Do you know why I'm laughing?” Monkey asked. “It's because all you monks are failures. You were born under unlucky stars. Your parents were only prepared to let you become monks because you brought them bad luck or because you were destined to have no sisters. Why ever are you working for Taoists like slaves instead of honoring the Three Treasures, respecting the Buddha's Dharma, reading sutras and performing ceremonies of repentance?”
“You put us to shame, my lord,” the monk replied. “You must be a stranger here, sir, who doesn't understand the situation.”
“Indeed I am,” Monkey replied, “and indeed I don't.”
“Our king,” said the Buddhist monk in tears, “is prejudiced and unreasonable. He only likes the followers of Lao Zi, and he hates us Buddhists.”
“Why?” Monkey asked.
“Because three immortals came here to call up wind and rain,” the monk replied. “They ruined everything for us and won the king's confidence. He has destroyed our monasteries, revoked our ordination licenses, and refused to let us return to our homes. And the form of forced labor he imposed on us was to give us to the immortals to work for them. It's unbearably hard. When you come here, wandering Taoist, you will only have to call on the king to be richly rewarded. But any Buddhist monk who comes, whether from around here or from far away, is arrested and put to work for the immortals.”
“I suppose the Taoists must use some magic powers to worm their way into the king's confidence,” said Monkey. “Calling up winds and rain is small-time magic used by unorthodox sects, and hardly enough to win a king's heart.”
“They can refine mercury from cinnabar, sit in meditation, turn water into oil, and change stones into gold,” the monk replied. “They have now built a Temple of the Three Pure Ones where they read scriptures and perform ceremonies to heaven and earth night and day to obtain eternal life for His Majesty. That is why the king's heart has been moved.”
“So it's like that, is it?” said Monkey. “You may all go now.”
“But, my lord, we can't get away,” the monk replied. “The immortals persuaded the king to have pictures of monks painted, and these have been sent to be displayed in every ward and by every river. Tarrycart is a big country, but in every city, prefecture, county town, village, hamlet, inn and market-place there hangs a picture of Buddhist monks with this notice on it in the king's own handwriting:
Any official who captures a monk will be promoted three grades. Any commoner not holding office who captures a monk will receive a reward of fifty ounces of silver.
That's why we can't escape. It's not just us Buddhist monks. Anyone who's had a short haircut or who's bald or whose hair is thinning finds it hard not to get arrested. Agents and policemen are everywhere. There's no way we can possibly escape. We have no choice: we can only suffer here.”
“In that case you'd all better die,” said Monkey.
“My lord,” said the Buddhist monk, “many of us have already. There were over two thousand of us altogether, both us local monks and those arrested from elsewhere. Six or seven hundred of us have died and about the same number have killed themselves because they could not bear the pain, the searing heat, the bitter cold, or the local conditions. We five hundred are the only survivors.”
“How have you managed to stay alive?” Monkey asked.
“The rope broke when we tried to hang ourselves, or it did not even hurt when we tried to slit our own throats, or we floated and did not drown when we jumped into the river, or the poison we took didn't harm us.”
“You're all very lucky then,” said Monkey. “Heaven has given each of you perpetual life.”
“Sir,” said the monk, “you've left one word out. It's a perpetual life sentence. For our three meals every day all we get is a thin gruel of brown rice. At night we have to sleep on the sandbank in the open. Luckily spirits come to protect us when we close our eyes.”
“I expect you see ghosts because you're so exhausted,” said Monkey.
“No,” said the Buddhist monk. “They're the Six Dings, the Six Jias, and the Guardians of the Faith. But they can only protect us at night, except when they come to save the life of any of us who is on the point of death.”
“That's very wrong of the spirits,” said Brother Monkey. “They shouldn't be protecting you like that. They should let you die and be reborn in the Western Heaven as soon as possible.”
“They come to us in our dreams,” said the monk, “and give us advice like, 'Don't try to die. Hole out till a holy priest comes from the East, and arhat who will go to the Western Heaven to fetch the scriptures. He has a disciple of immense magical powers, the Great Sage Equaling Heaven. He has a good and loyal heart, he rights wrongs, he saves those in distress and he helps widows and orphans. Wait till he shows his divine powers, wipes out the Taoist priests, and restores our Dhyana faith to its proper respect.'”
This pleased Monkey, though he did not show it as he thought,
“Whoever said that Monkey had no powers to his name?
Before I even got here gods and spirits spread my fame.”
He then hurried off, taking his leave of the monks and beating his bamboo drum as he headed for the city gates to see the Taoist priests again. “Which of them is your respected uncle?” they asked.
“All five hundred of them are my relations,” Monkey replied.
“How can you possibly have so many?” they asked again.
“A hundred were my neighbors who lived to the left of us,” Monkey replied, “and another hundred lived to the right. A hundred are my father's kin, and a hundred are related to my mother. The last hundred are my own friends and acquaintances. If you are willing to release them all, I'll go into the city with you; but if you won't, I won't.”