Listen well, dear audience!
My surname is Zhu, and my given name is Yinxiao. I am a man of meager talent who has relied on the protection of my elder brothers to scrape by under the empty title of the Master of Constellations. It is a misfortune of my house that recently, my unfilial niece committed a breach of the law for personal gain, pilfering a most extraordinary object from her place of work.
It is said that during the Zhenguan era of the Great Tang, this object once bore the signature of the Victorious Fighting Buddha himself. With a single stroke, all manner of creatures across the nine underworlds were struck from the records of death. For a time, the monkeys of the mortal realm became undying monsters. This was a great blessing, yet also a great curse; the monkeys found no joy in their longevity. Driven mad, they spent their nights leaping into the water to catch the moon—not for that silver wafer in the sky, but in a desperate search for a death that would not come.
Those monkeys also accomplished one other great feat: they tricked the Immortal of Wine into sharing their deluded ecstasy. With a single leap beneath the moon of Dangtu, the poet departed for his own pleasures, leaving the instigator abandoned in the mortal world.
Later, it was a certain ancestor of my wretched niece who spent nights toiling by candlelight to restore the names of the monkey kind to the registers. To bring those wasted souls back to the desk of judgment, the ghost officials of the underworld turned out in full force—a reception more grand than any mortal emperor had ever received. It is said that the monkeys, having lived so long they had forgotten the taste of life, became so enamored with the "tender village" of the underworld that the capital of Fengdu was nearly turned into a zoo, though it was a pity the only attraction would have been a mountain of monkeys.
Now, within this Vermilion Building, I see a group of youngsters brimming with excitement, eager to reenact the youthful follies of the Victorious Fighting Buddha. I cannot help but lament that Old Fourth was too soft-hearted. He hacked through thorns and braved death, yet when it came to his juniors, he was as gentle as a spring rain, spoiling them until they became utterly lawless. A moment later, I realize he has simply shoved another hot potato into my mouth—just as he used to feed me the worst scraps in the study, expecting me to spit out a mess of rotten words to dampen the mood.
I suppose my fate is better than Old Fourth’s; it is only right that I play the villain in his stead. Yet there is one area where he surpassed me a thousand times over.
*Kudzu grows in the wild, the brocade quilt is worn; on a winter's night, a gentleman comes with a bundle of firewood.*
In his life, he gained a Rakshasa; what I encountered was a Guanyin. One might think my lot more magnificent, but the Victorious Fighting Buddha has already personally tested the logic of such things—all a Guanyin can give a man is a Golden Tightening Fillet.
The explanation? To put it simply: He had his Gentleman Shuxin; I had my Heartless Beauty.
Listen well, dear audience! If I were a storyteller in a common wine shop, I would now commit a most rebellious act of fabrication! Consider the origins of the *Journey to the West*: the first meeting of heroes at the Peach Banquet, followed by Guanyin’s journey to Chang'an on imperial decree. She manifested as the Golden Cicada, subdued the Great Taisui, and bound the Red Boy. Piece by piece, deed by deed, though the name was Tang Sanzang, the reality was Sun Wukong. Look at that face like a lotus, look at that mercy that saves all from suffering—how could she not have subdued the heart of that unruly monkey?
Dear audience! How could it not have been mutual affection? Otherwise, how could the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, ever bow his head to authority, only to return time and again with such devotion to the Precious Lotus Throne?
Listen well! This is the *Journey to the West* I wish to tell! This book began its strokes at the Ginkgo Study of the White Water Temple, spanning over a hundred years. Generals and Rakshasas, immortals and ghost messengers—every manner of character is present. Yet today, I speak not of the most clamorous peaks of the plot, but of a romantic appendix following the fall of the curtain: a tale concerning that long-departed Guanyin, and the longest-lived monster on the road to the West—one who lacked the grand destiny of a stone-born monkey, being nothing more than a head of livestock raised in the wild, waiting for the slaughter.
Since I am telling a romantic history, I must begin with the most macabre of plots. Dear audience, have you ever heard of a ghost wedding? Coincidentally, my book contains one. A gentleman carved out his bones to birth a Rakshasa, never regretting his nine deaths for the sake of his beloved. But that red thread of fate between the living and the dead was pulled too long; it tripped up a heaven-shaking strategy. With the wood already carved into a boat, the general had to be swapped at the front lines. The gentleman who should have been carefree took up a debt of blood, while the phoenix who should have bathed in fire retreated to the chicken coop, continuing to play the role of an ignorant child beneath the seat of Guanyin with a clear conscience.
That was the twenty-seventh year of the Republic. The twenty-seventh year of the Republic—what a time that was! War raged and the people suffered, yet what a wondrous year it was! I still remember the Water-Sky Realm of those days, the Vermilion Building rising high amidst ten thousand acres of blue waves. Guanyin preached before the screens of the Seven Families, from ancient times to the present day. When he reached the height of ecstasy, he would draw his blade and strike the pillars, singing loudly and dancing with abandon. The twenty-seventh year of the Republic—what a paradise it was! We knew not of the Han, let alone the Wei or Jin. We cared not for war or parting, nor for the ethics of brotherhood or the schemes of Yin and Yang. We simply stole a fragment of time and tailored it into a youthful heart. The young are not permitted white hair; every moment was worth a thousand pieces of gold.
But who was the one preaching? It was the Bodhisattva Guanyin seated upon the lotus throne! How could he not see through the simple heart of a child? He merely spoke, laughed, drank, feigned, and let things be. A thousand matters could be granted, a thousand requests could be allowed, but this one affection had no place to rest. Why did the Stone Monkey never break the vow of celibacy? Because the one he loved was the Great Merciful, Great Compassionate, Infinite Bodhisattva Guanyin!
Bodhisattva! Bodhisattva! Amitabha! Why is it that you deliver the world, deliver all living beings, subdue demons and slay monsters, holding the power of life and death, yet you refuse to show a single drop of pity for me?
Even if it were to kill me!
You might say it was a heart's devotion misplaced. But I never even spoke the words aloud. Why? Because the Buddha said: *It is indescribable.*
After Old Fourth died, I grew up. The first thing I learned was that things are "indescribable."
The divination of the national fate, the heaven-shaking transformation—indescribable.
The ghost wedding, the union of red and white—indescribable.
Indescribable, unspeakable, unnecessary to say.
To speak is to err; to harbor the thought is a sin.
Dear audience! Do you think this tale ends with a sigh of regret? Naturally not! Otherwise, how could it be a romantic history of a thousand twists? At that time, I was frivolous, ignorant, and fearless. I dared to think and dared to act. Such is the beauty of youth. If the monkey of old could endure eighty-one tribulations for Guanyin, what was the difficulty in me waiting a hundred or eighty years? The word "affection" allows the dead to live and the living to die. What does it matter if we burned the incense of the condemned in our past lives and are burdened by old debts in this one? We agreed on a hundred years; if one of us dies at ninety-seven, they shall simply wait three more years at the Bridge of Helplessness.
I held onto such a resolute heart, watching him play the role of the kind brother, watching him live half a life of elegance, watching him meet death with composure. *In this life, we are brothers; in the next, we shall settle the unfinished cause.* I fulfilled his duties to our elders, I guarded his gates and established his legacy, I stood watch over his coffin. Finally, on the day he died, I wept and then laughed. Great Merciful and Great Compassionate Bodhisattva Guanyin, you spent your life delivering others, and at last, you have delivered yourself!
I went to the Bridge of Helplessness to wait for him. He delivered humans, ghosts, gods, buddhas, demons, and monsters—surely, he could finally come to deliver me.
Yet I waited three years, then another three. Finally, one day, the Yama King gave his daughter away in marriage again. I watched the ten miles of red dowry pass by the bridge and reached a great awakening—Guanyin points the way to destiny, but not to fulfill the monkey's worldly desires. He does it so the monkey may become the Great Victorious Fighting Buddha of Absolute Freedom.
I reached a great awakening, a state of great joy and great sorrow. Amidst the sound of suona horns, I snatched the bride’s ceremonial cape, overturned Mother Meng’s soup, and sang *The Romance of the Western Chamber* like a madman for three days and nights. I was like the Master of Constellations from the Tang Dynasty, singing all eleven hundred of Li Bai’s poems, drinking eleven hundred cups of the Wine of Longevity. I sang the *Western Chamber* three thousand times and drank three hundred cups of the past, until even the Yama Kings came to the bridge to point and stare. Their various expressions were more human than humans themselves. *Look,* they said, *the last of this generation of the Seven Families has finally gone mad!*
Finally, my elder brother arrived in person. At that time, Old Fourth had not yet awakened. The Rakshasa revealed his fierce visage, dealing with the idle onlookers before pulling up a chair to sit at the bridge. I sang the opera, and he played the strings—two lonely shadows, a pair of bereaved relatives bound by blood and grief.
He waited until my voice could no longer make a sound before he finally spoke, using a single sentence to coax me back.
He said: *He left something for you in the Mirage Building.*
This was my life-saving straw, and also the final connection of bone and sinew before the blade of the executioner fell. Within the Mirage Building’s five million, eight hundred and four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-seven rooms, I searched year after year in my madness. The monkey toppled the lotus throne and wreaked havoc on Mount Loka, but the traces of Guanyin were nowhere to be found. All that remained was a golden hoop upon my head, constricting until my skin tore and my eyes bled. Later, I simply cut off my own head. A Vermilion Bird cannot die unless its soul is damaged; I could not die a peaceful death. This body of a thousand hands and a thousand eyes was riddled with a thousand holes. You may kiss my skull, or you may take it to play a game of kickball.
Later, I ceased my madness. The monkey finally learned some manners. Sorrow, bitterness, greed, and anger were used to haphazardly paint a skin, a crude mask of a human face. I began to learn how to calmly push open the next unknown door. Time is a blunt knife carving flesh; I slowly and methodically killed one day and night after another. The Mirage Building is forty-eight thousand zhang high, a landscape of flowers in a mirror and the moon in water. I have not lived a long life, but I am not the one who has wasted the most time here, nor am I the maddest of the madmen. Compared to the Rakshasas beneath six feet of bronze, I am at most a sick man.
They say one must be obsessed to truly live. My elder brother sacrificed himself to change fate; he was fulfilling his own desires. I finally realized I was not nearly mad enough, which is why I could neither live nor die. Dear audience! You might ask me: *Since affection arises without origin and runs so deep, why not simply let the soul shatter once and for all?* Dear audience! That is the cold indifference of an outsider! If you had personally seen such a person, brilliant as fire, with skin of gold and jade and a spine of steel—he made me feel ashamed of my own existence, making even madness seem like a form of affectation. If you had been taught by such a person, if even the wind from his blade had forced your eyes open to see this vast mortal world, you would stubbornly guard this land for him until the end.
He made me afraid to be a coward.
*Bowing beneath the nine-grade lotus throne, how could I dare to lower my brow and serve the demons of my heart?*
Dear audience! Perhaps this will be the most bland romantic history you have ever seen, from beginning to end nothing more than the delusional ravings of a sick man. But you have already seen the most vibrant and flourishing scenes; how could my thin appendix hope to stand beside them? Surely you remember the climax of the finale—the Vermilion Bird delivering the bride, the Judge as the master of ceremonies, the Yama Kings as witnesses. What a soulful and magnificent play that was. But today, I speak not of lovers finally becoming a couple, but of the wedding dress upon the bride—it was as if it were the final legacy left by Guanyin, destined to be found by me after the affairs of Penglai were settled.
On that day, the Water-Sky Realm was more bustling than ever before. The Taisui bowed to play with a ball, and all living beings sat in clamorous joy. As was my custom, I opened a new door, only to find a ceremonial cape hanging inside.
I recognized that wedding dress. Years ago, when he and I took refuge here during the war, he spent every day telling me the anecdotes of the Seven Families depicted on the screens. The very last fold of the Mohist screen, where the previous Mohist Master met the courtesan at the bridge—that was the origin of this dress. I still remember him telling me that if there ever came a day when Old Fourth and my elder brother could truly be together, this cape should be given to him for his wedding. I still remember his teasing tone: *The in-laws have taken all the glory; the bride's family must have a dowry worth showing off.*
But.
But.
That ceremonial cape had no phoenix crown. We all knew he would never craft a phoenix crown in this life.
When he told me the stories of the previous Mohist Master and brought out this cape, I asked him if he would add a phoenix crown. He sneered: *Leaving the clothes for Old Fourth is enough; he doesn't have a face that big.* At that time, my heart was only half-open. I mischievously put on the wedding dress, pretending not to understand as I asked him: *Does it look good?* He studied me seriously for a long time before saying: *It’s still missing something.*
I had exhausted my courage; I did not ask the question: *Missing what?*
Only now do I understand.
In the room, the red clothes were radiant, the whole chamber brilliant, but there was now an additional phoenix crown.
I think at that moment, I truly went mad. But it was not a surrender to cowardice; it was him walking out from beyond the boundary of Yin and Yang to repay this ancient debt. I burst out the door, meeting my elder brother halfway. He looked startled, then understood.
"Congratulations," he said.
At that moment, I truly looked like a madman. I ran through the long corridors wearing that golden phoenix crown, thinking of how Old Fourth used to mock my "unique appearance," calling me an anomaly among Vermilion Birds. So be it. If he is Guanyin, I am the Monkey; if he is the Mohist, I am the Star. He gathered herbs in the deep clouds, and I asked the boy beneath the pines. Now that he has gifted me this phoenix crown, I shall truly be a phoenix for once—five colors complete, my cry moving the winds from all directions. The Mirage Building is forty-eight thousand zhang high, yet it cannot match the length of a single one of my feathers.
I landed before the Mohist screen. For years, I had memorized the entire long screen backward and forward. The lives and deaths of the Seven Families were recorded there, yet I could never find the one fold I sought. Now, wearing the phoenix crown that shone like day, like a bride who could not wait to pledge herself, the end of the screen finally opened amidst a flow of light, like gold and stone yielding.
I laughed, and then I wept.
Upon the screen, carved with ten thousand strokes, was a painting—it was the Bridge of Helplessness.
*In that instant, heaven allowed us to stay; we slept upon the grass and flowers.*
Dear audience! Now I watch the youngsters huddling before the Book of Reincarnation, eager to reenact the youthful follies of the Victorious Fighting Buddha. I remember when I was the same, my heart full of deep hatred and love, wanting to tear apart that single sheet of blue paper—just as I could not find him at the Bridge of Helplessness, I could not find him among the names on the page. If a mere monkey could strike names from the book, how much more so a Bodhisattva?
But in the end, I finally saw him at the Bridge of Helplessness.
*The crow’s head turns white and the horse grows horns; in the end, we save each other.*
He still possesses that bright and arrogant spirit. If I want him to fulfill my heart, I must fulfill his. I know all too well what he intends to do. Now, the youngsters are like the ginkgo trees of those years; they still have such a long stretch of time ahead of them. But one day, the spring banquet will grow late, the matters of the heart will be exhausted, and An Ping will grow old. I will still sit at his bedside holding a rose, accompanying him as we talk by the fire, watching one last flash of brilliance together. That will be the true moment the storyteller’s gavel falls.
Wait for me to dress,
To finish my wine and poetry before I leave the stage.
When we meet again in the next life, the ginkgo leaves will be yellow, the Vermilion Bird flowers will bloom, and we shall say it is but an ordinary day.
***
