“Disciples,” said Sanzang, “the weather is good today. It's not at all like the times when you all have to go far away in wind and rain. Let me go to this house. Whether I get any food or not I shall soon be back and we shall be on our way.”

Friar Sand, who was standing beside them, smiled and said, “Stop arguing so much, brother. As the master has made his mind up you shouldn't disobey him. If you upset him he won't eat any of the food you are able to beg.”

Pig accepted this suggestion and brought out the begging bowl and a change of hat and cassock for the master, who went straight to the farm building to look at it. It really was a fine place. He could see:

A high-rising stone bridge,

Ancient trees growing close together.

Where the stone bridge rose high

A babbling brook joined a long stream;

Amid close-growing ancient trees

Hidden birds sang sweetly on the distant hill.

Across the bridge were several thatched houses

As pure and elegant as an immortal's hermitage.

There was also a thatched hut

So pure and white it would put a Taoist temple to shame.

Before the hut could be seen four beauties

All busily embroidering phoenix designs.

As there were no males but only these four girls to be seen the reverend gentleman did not dare go inside, but slipped back under the tall trees and stood stock still. He could see that each of the girls

Were rock-hard in their ladylike propriety,

And happy as the spring in their orchid natures.

Red glows set off their tender cheeks;

Crimson make-up was spread on their lips.

Their moth brows were as fine as a crescent moon,

While their clouds of hair were piled up like cicada wings.

Had any of them stood among the flowers

Wandering bees would have taken them for blossoms.

He stood there for an hour. The silence was complete, unbroken by dog or cock. “If I'm not even capable of begging us a meal my disciples will laugh at me,” he thought. “If the master can't beg a meal, what hope do his disciples have of ever getting to see the Buddha?”

He did not know what to do, but it seemed wrong to stay there any longer, so he went back towards the bridge, only to notice a pavilion inside the compound of thatched cottages. In the pavilion three more girls were juggling a ball with their feet. Look at them. They were different from the other four:

Their turquoise sleeves are waving

And their embroidered skirts are swaying.

The waving turquoise sleeves

Cover their delicate jade bamboo-shoots of fingers,

The swaying embroidered skirts

Half show their tiny golden lotus feet.

Perfect are their faces and bodies,

Endless the movements of their slippered heels.

As they grab for the head they vary in height;

They pass the ball around most smoothly.

One turns around and kicks an “over-the-wall flower,”

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.”