The Flaming Mountains

T he four of them had patched up their quarrels and were making good time west when the weather stopped making sense. It was deep autumn, frost season, and yet the road kept getting hotter — not summer-hot, oven-hot, the air shimmering off the stones. Sanzang began to sweat through his robes and asked what kind of country cooked like this in the tenth month. None of them knew. They came to a farmstead of red brick with a red-tiled roof, everything the color of banked coals, and knocked to ask the way and the season, because something here had its seasons badly wrong. Sanzang, obeying the bodhisattva's instruction, had taken back Wukong, and with Bajie and Sandy had cut off the two minds and chained the ape and the horse, and with one heart and joined strength pressed on toward the Western Heaven. Time flies like an arrow; the sun and moon shuttle past. They had passed through the burning heat of summer, and now it was the third month of autumn, the frost season — yet the road grew hotter, the ground scorching, and Sanzang reined in and said, it is autumn, why has it turned so hot? They came to a farmstead whose walls were red brick and tiles, the bricks all the color of fire.

An old farmer told them the bad news plainly. This is the country of the Flaming Mountains, he said, sixty li on. No spring, no autumn here — all four seasons are fire. Eight hundred li of mountain burning without a break, nothing growing on any of it, and your road west runs straight across the middle. A man cannot pass. Even a brass head and an iron body would melt to syrup. Sanzang went pale. Wukong, who had walked out of a furnace once, only narrowed his fiery eyes and asked the obvious question — so how does anyone get through at all. The old man said, this place is called the Flaming Mountains. There is no spring and no autumn; all four seasons are hot. He said, the mountains are sixty li from here, and they are the only road to the west — eight hundred li of flame, with not a blade of grass for miles around. If you go, even a bronze skull and an iron body would melt away. Sanzang heard this and was greatly alarmed and dared not ask further. Wukong said, then how does one cross.

There was one way, the locals said, and only one. Somewhere southwest lived a being called the Iron-Fan Immortal, who owned a Banana-Leaf Fan — a palm-leaf fan with strange powers. One wave of it killed the fire. A second raised a wind. A third brought down rain, and then the land would turn green and you could plant and harvest. Without that fan nothing grew here and nothing crossed here. Get the fan, said the old man, and the road opens. So Wukong told the others to sit tight, sprang onto his cloud, and went to find the one person in the world who could put out a mountain. The old man said, if you wish to cross, you must get the Banana-Leaf Fan from the Iron-Fan Immortal. One wave of it puts out the fire, a second raises wind, a third brings rain — and then we sow and reap in season, and live by the five grains. Without it, not a sprout will grow. Wukong said, where does this Iron-Fan Immortal dwell? The old man said, on Mount Cuiyun, in the Plantain Cave. Wukong said, sit and rest, and do not fear; I will go and borrow the fan, and put out the fire, and we shall cross. He sprang onto his cloud and was gone.

“Eight hundred li of fire across the only road west, and the one fan that could quench it belonged to a woman with every reason to want the monkey dead.”

At the Plantain Cave he found her, and learned exactly who he was dealing with. The Iron-Fan Immortal was a demoness called Raksasi — and she was the wife of the Bull Demon King, which made her the mother of Red Boy, the fire-spirit child Wukong had once gotten subdued and carried off to serve Guanyin. When she heard the name Sun Wukong her face went up like oil poured on a flame. You, she said. You are the one who lost me my son. She did not reach for the fan. She reached for two swords. Wukong came to the Plantain Cave and called for the fan. The woman within was the Raksasi, also called Princess Iron Fan, wife of the Bull Demon King. When she heard the name Sun Wukong, it was as if salt were thrown into fire, as if oil were poured on flame — her face flushed red with fury, and her heart burned. She cried, you are the wretch who caused my son to be taken. Where is my Red Boy now? Wukong said, your son serves the bodhisattva Guanyin as her page; he has the better life. The Raksasi would not hear it. She took up her pair of blue-steel swords and came at him.

They fought all afternoon and she could not put him down, so she stopped trying. She pulled out the fan — a little leaf-shaped thing, far too small to matter — and gave it one flick. The wind off it did not hurt him. It simply picked him up like a dry leaf and threw him out of the world. He tumbled head over heels through the whole night, eighty-four thousand li, and fetched up at last against a mountain a long way from anywhere. Wukong sat up, rubbed his head, and revised his estimate of the fan upward. They fought from morning until evening, and the Raksasi, fearing she could not stand against him, took out the Banana-Leaf Fan and with one wave fanned Wukong away. He could not steady himself — he went tumbling and rolling, borne on the wind, unable to stop, like a leaf in a whirlwind, all that night, until at dawn he came to rest against a mountain and grasped a rock with both hands. When he had collected himself, he saw it was Little Mount Sumeru, and reckoned he had been blown eighty-four thousand li.

Luck, or providence, had landed him near a Buddhist sage named Lingji, who happened to be the very being who had once helped him with another demon. Lingji explained the fan — pure essence of yin, distilled from the moon, able to quench any fire in the world and able to blow anyone who is not rooted in place clean off the earth. And then he gave Wukong the counter. A single Wind-Stilling Pellet, swallowed down, so that no wind made or born could ever move him again. Hold your ground now, the sage said, and fan as she likes, she cannot shift you a hair. On that mountain dwelt the bodhisattva Lingji, who received Wukong kindly. Wukong told his trouble, and Lingji said, that Banana-Leaf Fan is a numinous treasure from the time of chaos, formed of the pure yin essence of the moon; therefore it can extinguish fire. If it fans a man, he is blown eighty-four thousand li before the wind dies. But I have here a Wind-Stilling Pellet — take it, and no wind under heaven can move you. He gave Wukong the pellet, which Wukong sewed into the flesh of his collar, and took his leave, returning to Mount Cuiyun on his cloud.

Round two went better and worse. Rooted now, he stood while she fanned him over and over and did not budge an inch, until she gave up and bolted back into her cave and barred it. So he went small — a gnat, a speck — and rode the steam off her teacup straight down her throat. Then the Great Sage Equal to Heaven set up shop in the demoness's stomach and started rearranging the furniture. He stamped, he somersaulted, he braced a foot against her heart and shoved. Hand over the fan, he called up through her windpipe, or I redecorate. Doubled over, she swore she would. She passed out a fan. He took it and left, well pleased with himself. Wukong returned and called for the fan, and the Raksasi fanned him again and again, but he stood unmoved. Alarmed, she fled into the cave and shut the doors. Wukong changed himself into a tiny insect, flew in through a crack, and when she called for tea, dropped into the froth and was swallowed down. Once in her belly he resumed his strength and began to caper — stamping, turning somersaults, propping a foot against her, until she fell to the ground crying out in agony. She begged him to come out, and promised the fan. Wukong said, bring it then, and I will spare you. She had her servants fetch a fan, and he flew out at her throat, took it, and departed.

It was a fake. Back at the farmstead, glad to be done, he marched to the foot of the mountains and gave it a confident wave. The fire roared up. He waved again, harder. The fire doubled. The third wave sent the flames a thousand feet into the sky, and Wukong's own fur caught and he had to sprint clear, slapping at himself, eyebrows singed. The Earth God of the Flaming Mountains turned up to break it to him gently. That is not the real fan, he said. She tricked you. The true fan never leaves her keeping — and to get it you will have to deal with her husband. You will have to find the Bull Demon King. Wukong returned in high spirits and went to the foot of the mountains and fanned once — the fire blazed up. He fanned a second time, and the flames grew a hundredfold. He fanned a third, and the fire shot up a thousand zhang, and very nearly burned him; he scrambled back, the hair of his thighs scorched away. The Earth God of the Flaming Mountains appeared and said, this fan is not the true one — you have been deceived. If you would borrow the real Banana-Leaf Fan, you must seek out the Bull Demon King.

Here the Earth God told Wukong something he, of all people, should already have known. The fire on these mountains was his own fault. Five hundred years ago, when he wrecked heaven and got cooked in Laozi's Eight-Trigrams Furnace, he had kicked the furnace over on his way out — and a few bricks still holding live coals had fallen all the way down to earth and landed here, and the fire in them had never gone out, and that was the Flaming Mountains. Wukong had been blocked by his own old crime. The road west, it turned out, was paved partly with the wreckage of who he used to be. The Earth God said, this fire was started by you, Great Sage. Five hundred years ago, when you made havoc in heaven and were taken and refined in the Most High Lord Lao's Eight-Trigrams Furnace, on the day you were freed you kicked the furnace over, and the bricks that fell from it, still holding fire, dropped down to this place and became the Flaming Mountains. Wukong heard this and was abashed, for the fire that blocked his road was of his own making.

So Wukong went hunting the Bull Demon King and found his domestic life had gotten complicated. The Bull King had left Raksasi and set up with a rich fox-spirit, Princess Jade-Face, in a mountain three thousand li south. Wukong went, picked a fight, and the two old acquaintances traded a hundred rounds with neither budging — until a messenger summoned the Bull King away to a banquet under a lake. The Bull King rode off on his prize mount, a blue beast with golden eyes that walked on water. Wukong watched him go, and an excellent and dishonest idea arrived fully formed. Wukong learned that the Bull Demon King had forsaken the Raksasi and now dwelt at the Cave of Cloud-Touching on Pile-of-Thunder Mountain with a fox-spirit, the Princess Jade-Face, who was very rich. He went there and after words they fought a hundred rounds and more, neither prevailing, until a messenger came inviting the Bull King to a feast at a palace beneath the waters. The Bull King broke off, mounted his water-treading golden-eyed beast, and rode away. Wukong, watching, conceived a plan.

Wukong stole the golden-eyed beast, put on the Bull Demon King's exact shape, big horns, gruff voice, the lot, and rode home to the Plantain Cave to play the returning husband. Raksasi, who had been weeping over her treacherous monkey troubles, fell on his neck delighted. He let her pour the wine and lean on him and complain about Sun Wukong, agreeing warmly that the monkey was a menace, and somewhere in the third cup he asked, casually, whether the real fan was safe — those bandits, you can never be too careful. She laughed at him for worrying. It is right here, she said, and spat out of her mouth a leaf the size of an apricot leaf, and told her own husband the secret of how to make it grow. Wukong stole the golden-eyed beast and changed himself into the very form of the Bull Demon King, then rode to the Plantain Cave. The Raksasi, taking him for her returned lord, came out rejoicing and led him in, and they drank together; she pressed close to him, half drunk and affectionate. The disguised Wukong said, wife, where is our true treasure-fan kept? Guard it well; I fear that Sun Wukong may transform and steal it. She laughed and said, rest easy, and brought it out — a tiny thing, the size of an apricot leaf — saying she kept it always in her mouth. To make it grow, pinch with the left thumb the seventh red thread on the handle and recite the spell, and it lengthens to one zhang two chi.

Then Wukong dropped the disguise, pocketed a fan now grown to full size, and walked out laughing while Raksasi screamed behind him. He had it. He was halfway home in triumph when Pigsy came lumbering up the road to meet him, full of cheerful praise — well done, brother, Master sent me to help carry it. Wukong, delighted with himself and his work, handed the great fan straight over. And Pigsy turned into the Bull Demon King, who had borrowed Wukong's own trick, tucked the fan away, mocked him to his face, and strolled off. The conman had been conned with his own con. Wukong learned the spell, resumed his true form, made the fan grow, shouldered it, and went off, while the Raksasi, realizing too late she had been tricked, fell to the ground in grief. As Wukong returned exulting, the Bull King — who had learned of the theft — changed himself into the form of Bajie, came to meet him, and said, brother, you have done well; the Master sent me to help you carry the fan. Wukong, off his guard, handed it to him. The Bull King at once resumed his own shape, made the fan small again, and laughed, saying, ape, do you know me? Wukong was struck dumb with rage, for he had been cheated by his own device.

What followed was the great duel. Wukong and the real Pigsy went at the Bull King together; the Bull King fought them and then ran, and the fight climbed up through the shapes of creation — swan and hawk, deer and tiger, lion and elephant, each turning to match the other, the air thick with switching forms. At last the Bull Demon King quit hiding and showed his true self — a colossal white bull, a thousand zhang of muscle and bone, horns like iron towers, immovable as a mountain made of bull. And that was when heaven came down. Wukong, with Bajie and the Earth God's spirit-soldiers, fell upon the Bull King, who fought them and fled into his cave and sealed it. They broke in, and the great transformation-duel began — the Bull King changed to a swan, Wukong to a hawk to strike it; to a deer, and Wukong to a tiger to seize it; through lion and bear and elephant they raged, until the Bull King reverted to his true form, a great white bull, a thousand zhang long and eight hundred zhang tall, horns like two iron pagodas, his whole body hard as steel.

Nezha and the Heavenly King Li brought the host of heaven and the Buddhist guardians, and they ringed the white bull in. Every time the bull grew a new head Nezha lopped it off and another rose, until the Heavenly King raised his demon-revealing mirror and pinned the great beast in its own true shape with nowhere left to turn. The Bull King, cornered, surrendered. Roped through the nose like any ox, the Demon King who had matched the Great Sage a hundred rounds was led off to be a tame mount in heaven, and his wife, with the road and her household both lost, gave up the real fan at last. Then came the Prince Nezha and the Heavenly King Li with the troops of heaven and the diamond-guardians of the Buddha, and surrounded the bull on every side. The bull grew a thousand heads and a thousand eyes; Nezha cut off one head and another grew, until the Heavenly King held up his demon-revealing mirror and fixed the bull's true image so that it could not change or flee. The Bull King, in terror, begged to surrender. They put a rope through his nose and led him away. The Raksasi, having lost all, brought out the true Banana-Leaf Fan with both hands and offered it up.

Wukong took the true fan to the foot of the mountains and fanned, and this time the fire lay down. He fanned again and a cool wind rose; a third time and the clouds gathered and rain came down soft and steady — falling only where the fire had been, while the dry ground stayed clear and the travelers stayed dry. Forty-nine waves and the eight hundred li of flame were out for good, the mountains gone quiet and dark and wet. Raksasi, her son gone, her husband led off to heaven, her household scattered, kept the fan and turned to the religious life. And the four pilgrims walked west across ground that had been on fire since before any of them was born. Wukong took the true fan and fanned the Flaming Mountains. At the first wave the fire died; at the second a cool wind rose; at the third the sky filled with cloud and a fine rain fell. It was truly a treasure — where there was fire it rained, where there was no fire the sky stayed clear. He fanned forty-nine times and the fire was quenched root and branch, never to rise again. The Raksasi, having given up the fan, withdrew to cultivate herself in seclusion, and in the end attained the true fruit, her name preserved among the scriptures. The pilgrims, the road now cool and open, took up their packs and went on toward the west.

火焰 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

若干種性本來同，海納無窮。千思萬慮終成妄，般般色色和融。

Opening lines, classical Chinese · Journey to the West 西遊記 · Wu Cheng'en (attrib.)