who killed our chiefs came here for the night,” he replied, “and they’re asleep in the shed.”

“Lovely,” said the other bandits. “Let’s get those bald-headed donkeys. We can chop them all up and pickle them in soy sauce. We’ll have their things and their horse and be avenging the chiefs into the bargain.”

“Take it easy,” said Yang the bandit. “You lot go and sharpen your swords while we cook the rice. Let’s all have a good feed before we do them in.” Whereupon the bandits sharpened their swords and their spears.

The old man had heard all this, so he crept stealthily round to the back to tell the Tang Priest and his disciples, “That evil son of mine has brought the gang here. They know you’re here and they want to murder you. Knowing how far you’ve come I couldn’t bear to see you murdered, so please pack your bags as fast as you can. I’ll let you out through the back gate.”

Sanzang, now shivering with fright, kowtowed to the old man in thanks then told Pig to lead the horse while Friar Sand shouldered the carrying pole and Monkey took the nine-ringed monastic staff. The old man opened the back gate to let them out then made his way quietly back to the front to go to bed.

By the time the bandits had sharpened their weapons and eaten a good meal it was the fifth watch and almost dawn. They crowded into the backyard to find their intended victims gone. Quickly lighting lamps and fires they made a long search but could find no traces of them anywhere except that the back gate was open. “They’ve got away out the back,” they all exclaimed. “After them! Catch them!”

They all rushed along as fast as arrows, and when the sun rose in the East they finally saw Sanzang, who looked back when he heard shouts and saw a crowd of twenty or thirty men armed with spears and swords coming after him.

“Disciples,” he called, “the bandits have caught up with us. Whatever shall we do?”

“Don’t worry,” said Monkey. “I’ll finish them off.”

“Wukong,” said Sanzang, reining in his horse, “you’re not to hurt them. Just scare them off.”

Not a blind bit of notice did Monkey take of this as he swung his cudgel and turned to face them. “Where do you gentlemen think you’re going?” he asked.

“Bloody baldies,” they shouted back abusively, ringing Monkey in a circle, “give us back our chiefs.” When they started thrusting and hacking at him with their spears and swords the Great Sage whirled his cudgel once around, made it as thick as a ricebowl, and scattered the lot of them. Those who took the full impact of it were killed outright; glancing blows broke bones, and even a touch left an open wound. A few of the nimbler ones managed a getaway, but the slower ones all had to pay their respects to King Yama in the Underworld.

At the sight of so many people being struck down a panic-stricken Sanzang made his horse gallop West as fast as it could, with Pig and Friar Sand rushing along beside. “Which of you is old Yang’s boy?” Monkey asked the wounded bandits who were still alive.

“The one in yellow, my lord,” they groaned.

Monkey went over, took his sword from him, and sliced off his head. Holding the gory head in his hand he put his cudgel away and caught up with the Tang Priest by cloud. “Master,” he said, waving the head in front of the horse, “here’s the head of old Yang’s wicked son.”

Sanzang, pale with horror, fell out of the saddle. “Evil macaque,” he said, “you will be the death of me, terrifying me like that. Take it away at once.” Pig kicked the head to the side of the path and buried it with his rake.

“Do get up, Master,” said Friar Sand, putting down the carrying pole and supporting the Tang Priest. Pulling himself together as he sat there on the ground the venerable elder started to recite the Band-tightening Spell. Monkey’s skull was squeezed so tight that his face and ears turned bright red, his eyes bulged and his head ached. “Stop! Stop!” he pleaded, rolling around in agony, but even when Sanzang had said it a dozen times or more he still carried on.

In his unbearable agony Monkey turned somersaults and stood on his head, screaming, “Forgive me, Master. Say what you have to say. Stop, stop!” Only then did Sanzang stop reciting the spell.

“I’ve nothing to say to you,” he replied. “I don’t want you with me any more. Go back.” Kowtowing despite his pain, Monkey asked, “Master, why are you sending me away?”

“Wicked ape,” said Sanzang, “you’re too much of a murderer to fetch scriptures. I gave it to you yesterday for your cruelty in killing the two bandit chiefs on the mountainside. When we reached the old gentleman’s house late yesterday evening he gave us a meal and a night’s lodging, and we only got away with our lives because he helped us to escape through the back gate. Even though his son was a bad lot that was none of our business, and it was wrong of you to cut off his head, to say nothing of all the other lives you destroyed. Goodness knows how much you have damaged the harmony of heaven and earth. Despite my repeated advice there is not a shred of goodness in you. I do not need yon at all. Clear off at once if you don’t want me to say the spell again.”

“Don’t say it, don’t say it,” pleaded Monkey in terror, “I’m going.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than he disappeared without a trace on his somersault cloud. Alas!

When the mind is full of murder,

Cinnabar cannot be treated.

If the spirit is in disorder,

The Way stays uncompleted.

If you don’t know where the Great Sage had gone listen to the explanation in the next installment.