I collected my scriptures and took leave of the Buddha.
The Buddha asked me: Xuanzang, do you know what a Buddha is?
I said: I don't know. I only know there was once a green lamp that burned itself to illuminate all beings. On this westward journey, if I hadn't used that story to con my bunch of idiot disciples, they'd probably have eaten me alive long ago.
He said: How did you get them to believe you?
I said: I lied so many times I ended up believing it myself. I believed, and so they believed.
He said: Why do you refuse to let go?
I said: Believed long enough, it becomes truth.
He said: The mortal realm is brief.
I said: And yet.
Twenty-Three
I carried the scriptures on my back. The Arhats barred my path. They held my idiot disciples.
The Monkey stumbled and fell into my arms.
The Buddha said: Still not enlightened?
The Arhats said: Still not enlightened?
I knelt down and held the Monkey.
"Master, I miss Little Fox so much. Where is she?" The Victorious Fighting Buddha wailed in my arms: "Who am I? Who am I? Master, I can't remember my own name."
That day on the River of Passage, what floated downstream should have been Wukong's memories of Little Fox. But he'd chosen to forget himself instead.
I turned around. Pigsy, Sandy, the White Dragon Horse—they all stood behind me. Yesterday's Westward Five, today's Five Enlightened Buddhas, yet their eyes reflected the boundless mortal world. Hadn't we all done the same—abandoned ourselves, carrying our most precious talismans as we attained Buddhahood?
I stroked his head and said gently: Monkey, you are the Great Sage Equal to Heaven.
Twenty-Four
The Buddhas of heaven surrounded us.
I said: Brothers, grab your weapons.
Pigsy roared: Give my big brother back his Little Fox. And give me back my Gao Cuilan while you're at it.
Sandy roared: Give my big brother back his Little Fox. And give me back my Flowing Sands River while you're at it.
The White Dragon Horse roared: Neiiiigh!
Twenty-Five
Pigsy fell.
They all fell beside me.
I held Pigsy's head. His eyes had already grown dim. He looked at me and said: Master, I always wanted to try braised pig trotters, but I never had the nerve to tell you guys.
I said: Next time we meet, I'll treat you.
He said: I was useless. Couldn't help you achieve your dream. Couldn't help big brother get Little Fox back.
I said: Pigsy, you did great.
But Pigsy had already closed his eyes.
Twenty-Six
Behind me, Sun Wukong finally stood.
When he remembered his name once more, even the Western Heaven trembled.
He raised his golden staff and pointed it at all the Buddhas of heaven.
But Guanyin began reciting the spell, and Wukong crashed to the ground. He fell right in front of me, and I saw him biting his lip so hard his mouth was full of blood.
Guanyin said: Sun Wukong, as long as you wear that crown, you will forever be beneath the Mountain of Five Fingers.
Twenty-Seven
The Mountain of Five Fingers?
The scene suddenly flashed before my eyes—the Monkey and me on our very first day. The Monkey was trapped beneath the mountain, a towering peak pressing down on his body, staring at me blankly.
I patted his head and said: You little rascal, you're so cute.
So he gritted his teeth and threatened to chop me into eight pieces and feed me to the dogs.
Twenty-Eight
Let's make a deal, Monkey. That day beneath the mountain, I said to him. I'll get you out from under the mountain, and you accompany me to the Western Heaven.
Why do you want to go to the Western Heaven? the Monkey asked me blankly.
I said: To illuminate all beings.
Twenty-Nine
Monkey, Pigsy, Sandy, White Dragon Horse.
You chose to help me illuminate all beings. But who illuminates you?
I reached out, removed the Monkey's tightening crown, and placed it on my own head.
The Monkey shouted: Monk, you'll die!
The Bodhisattva reached toward me: You wicked creature!
Too late. The crown was firmly on my head. I pressed my palms together and began reciting the Tightening Crown Spell.
All right, Monkey. No wonder you got depressed. It really is excruciating.
Behind me, a single person's Buddha-light blazed, illuminating my clutch of idiot disciples.
Thirty
Monk, don't die. Monk, don't die.
Who was calling me monk, and who was crying? I saw a girl crouching by the river, long dark hair, tiny body. So beautiful it made me want to abandon all the Buddhas of heaven.
Monk, don't die. Monk, you haven't finished telling me the stories from the sutras.
I don't want to die. I haven't finished telling her the stories from the sutras.
Thirty-One
I snapped my eyes open, lying in a bed. The room smelled faintly of herbs. Outside the window was a familiar courtyard.
A familiar voice said: Monk, you're awake?
I turned my head. She was holding a bowl of congee, watching me quietly. The sunset poured through the window, outlining her in faint gold.
Thirty-Two
I hadn't died.
That day in the Western Heaven, my disciples had fought the Buddhas but could not prevail. In their dying moments, they used the last of their strength to push me into the River of Passage.
My body had floated on the river all this time. Old Wang kept it well preserved, though it was a bit waterlogged from soaking so long. I drifted downstream, through river after river, all the way to the doorstep of the girl's home.
And those bastards? The girl and I waited by the river day after day, but they never came.
Thirty-Three
Many years later, a monk who shared my name returned from afar, bringing the scriptures of the Western Heaven. Beside him walked a monkey, a pig, a horse, and a guy whose name no one could ever remember.
I raced over, joyous. I said: Monkey, do you remember me? I said: Pigsy, I can take you to eat braised pig trotters now. I said: Sandy, I'll show you the Flowing Sands River...
None of them spoke. They walked on in silence.
Thirty-Four
I finally understood. That monk wasn't me. And that wasn't the Westward Five.
Those were our golden bodies—no souls left, yet still holding on stubbornly to the mission of illuminating all beings. So they carried the scriptures, step by step, all the way back to Chang'an.
When they arrived, it snowed in Chang'an. They set down the scriptures and smiled quietly. In that snowstorm, they slowly closed their eyes.
Thirty-Five
Sometimes I tell the girl stories about our journey west. I tell her about a monkey who dated a little fox. I tell her about a pig who loved gnawing on his own trotters. I tell her about the White Dragon Horse and Sandy, who rarely spoke—I suspect they communicated by telepathy.
I tell her: I really miss them.
Thirty-Five [sic]
Another snowflake fell into the city of Chang'an.
I'd lost count of how many years had passed.
The Tang Emperor erected statues of the monk, the monkey, and the others. The scriptures they'd brought contained the answers the world sought. And so the snow fell, the spring breezes swept the willows, the four seasons were peaceful, and Chang'an prospered.
The girl and I married. We had a darling child. She grew old, but she still loved hearing me tell stories about the journey west.
Thirty-Six
One night, I suddenly heard the voices of the Monkey and the others.
I heard the Monkey say: Over this mountain, and we're one step closer to the Western Heaven.
I heard the Pig grumbling: I wonder if we'll be able to beg for any vegetarian meals.
I heard Little Fox say: Wukong, I'll go pick some peaches for you.
I heard Sandy say: The White Dragon Horse is tired. We should find some clean fodder before sunset.
I heard them laughing and shouting, heard them singing happy songs.
I scrambled outside.
There was nothing out there.
It was them. It had to be them.
Where were they?
I looked up. In the distance, I saw the young monk and his Westward Five, carrying their luggage, walking merrily under the setting sun.
Across the boundless dark night, they marched toward their own sunset.
They noticed me, turned back, and looked at me.
The young monk smiled and gave a gentle wave.
I waved back and whispered: Onward to the West.