Then does a backward somersault called “crossing the sea.”
After lightly taking a pass like a lump of clay
A single spear is hard pressed by a pair of sticks.
A shining pearl is put on the Buddha's head
And held between the tips of their fingers.
Skillfully they hold the ball as a narrow brick,
Twisting their feet in the sleeping fish position.
Their backs held level, they squat with bended knee;
Turning their necks they kick their heels in the air.
They can make benches fly around;
Very stylish are the capes upon their shoulders.
Their trouser-legs are bound with tapes to let them move,
While their necklaces swing as they sway.
They kick the ball like the Yellow River flowing backwards.
Or goldfish purchased on the beach.
When you mistake one of them for the leader
Another one turns to carry the ball away.
They all hold their calves so trimly in the air,
Pointing their toes to catch the ball.
They raise their heels to spin straw sandals,
Planting them upside-down and picking them up in a turn.
As they step back their shoulder-capes spread out
Fastened only with a hook.
The peddler's basket comes down long and low,
Then they grab for the goal.
At the really magnificent footwork.
All the beauties shout with admiration.
The silken clothes of all are soaked in sweat;
Feeling tired and relaxed they ended their game.
The description could go on and on. There is another poem that tells more:
Kicking the ball in the April weather,
Beauties blown along by the magical wind.
Sweat stained their powdered faces like dew on a flower;
The dust on their moth eyebrows was mist hiding willows.
Their turquoise sleeves hanging low covered jade fingers;
Trailing embroidered skirts showed golden lotus feet.
After kicking the ball many times they were charmingly tired;
Their hair was disheveled and their topknots askew.
After watching for a long time Sanzang could only go to the bridge and call loudly, “Bodhisattvas, fate brings me here as a poor monk to beg for the gift of some food.” As soon as the women heard him they cheerfully put aside their needlework and balls to come out smiling and giggling through the gates to greet him.
“Reverend sir,” they said, “we're sorry we didn't welcome you sooner. As you have come to our poor farm we couldn't possibly feed you on the path. Please come inside and sit down.”
When Sanzang heard this he thought, “Splendid, this is splendid. The West really is Buddha's land. If even these womenfolk are so diligent about feeding monks the men are bound to be pious followers of the Buddha.”
Sanzang stepped forward to greet the women and followed them into the thatched cottages. As he passed the pavilion and looked he saw that on the other side of it there were no buildings. All that could be seen were:
Towering mountain-tops,
Distant ranges of the earth.
The towering mountain-tops touch the clouds;
The distant ranges of the earth lead to peaks in the ocean.
From the stone bridge by the gates
One looks on a stream that bends nine times;
The peach and plum trees in the orchard
Vie in abundance of blossom.
Creepers and vines hang from three or four trees;
The fragrance of orchids is spread by thousands of flowers.
From afar this retreat rivals Penglai's fairyland;
Seen from close to the mountain beats Tai and Hua.
This is truly a retreat for demon immortals,
An isolated house with no neighbors around.
One woman came forward to push the stone gates open and invite the Tang Priest to come in and sit down. All he could do was go inside. When he looked up he saw that the tables and seats were all of stone, and the atmosphere was oppressively cold. This alarmed the venerable elder, who thought, “This is a thoroughly sinister place. I'm sure it's evil.”
“Please sit down, venerable elder,” the women all said with simpering smiles. He had no choice but to sit down. A little later he found himself shuddering.
“What monastery are you from, reverend sir?” the women asked. “For what purpose are you collecting alms? Are you repairing roads and bridges, founding monasteries, worshipping at pagodas, or having Buddha statues made and sutras printed? Won't you show us your donation book?”
“I am not a monk collecting donations,” the venerable elder replied.
“If you're not here to ask for charity then why are you here?” the women asked. “We have been sent by Great Tang in the East to the Thunder Monastery in the Western Heaven to fetch the scriptures,” Sanzang replied. “As our stomachs were empty when we happened to be passing this distinguished place I have come to beg a vegetarian meal from you in your kindness. After that we poor monks will be on our way again.”
“Splendid, splendid,” the women all said. “As the saying goes, monks from afar most love to read the scriptures. Sisters! We must treat them well. Let's give them some vegetarian food as quickly as we can.”
While three of the women kept him company, talking about such matters as primary and secondary causation, the other four went into the kitchen, where they tucked up their clothes, rolled up their sleeves, fanned the fire and scrubbed the cooking pots. Do you know what it was they prepared? They were frying in human fat, and what they cooked was human flesh, stewed into black paste as if it were wheat gluten, and human brain cut out to fry like pieces of beancurd.
Then they placed the two dishes on a stone table and said to Sanzang, “Do eat. We were too rushed to prepare anything good, so please make do with this. It'll stave off the pangs of hunger. There will be some more dishes to follow.”
As soon as Sanzang used his nose and smelled the stench of flesh he would not eat, but bowed with his hands together be; re his chest and said, “Bodhisattvas, I have been a vegetarian since birth.”
“But this is vegetarian food, reverend sir,” the women all replied with smiles.
“Amitabha Buddha!” exclaimed Sanzang. “If as a monk I ate vegetarian food like that I would never have any hope of seeing the Buddha or fetching the surras.”
“Reverend sir,” the women said, “as a monk you shouldn't be so choosy about what you're given.”
“I never could be,” Sanzang said, “I never could be. I am under the orders of the Great Tang emperor to harm not even the tiniest life, to save all I see suffering, to put all the food-grain I am given into my mouth with my fingers, and to cover my body with the threads of silk that come my way. I would never dare pick and choose among my benefactors' gifts.”
“Even if you're not picking and choosing,” the women replied with smiles, “you do seem to have come here to complain. Please eat some of the food and don't mind if it's a little coarse and flavorless.”
“It's not that I don't want to eat it,” Sanzang said, “it's that I'm afraid I'd be breaking my vows. I hope that you Bodhisattvas will remember that setting living beings free is better than keeping them with you and let me go on my way.”
As Sanzang struggled to get out the women blocked the gateway and refused to let him go. “Business bringing itself to our door!” they all said. “You've no more chance of getting away from here than of covering up a fart with your hands. Where do you think you're going?”
They were all quite skilled in the martial arts and quick movers too, and after they had grabbed Sanzang they dragged him like a sheep and threw him to the ground. Then they all held him down, tied him up, and suspended him from the rafters. There is a special name for the way they hung him up there: The Immortal Shows the Way. One hand was strung up by a rope so that it pointed forward. The other hand was fastened to his waist by another rope that was also holding him aloft, and his legs were both held up by a third rope behind him. The three ropes had him suspended from a beam with his back on top and his belly pointing down.