It was 1:30 a.m., and the fluorescent lights in the rental apartment hummed. I huddled in my iron bed, a transistor radio pressed to my ear, the FM dial twitching gently between my fingers. The old radio version of "Journey to the West" was playing through the thirteenth chapter: "...It is said that when Sanzang first left Chang'an, he mistakenly entered Shuangcha Ridge and was captured by General Yin..." The announcer's voice was hoarse, but like a hook, it drew the night deeper and deeper. My eyelids grew heavy, but I couldn't bring myself to close them. I thought to myself, "If only I could see Sun Wukong wreak havoc in the demon cave with my own eyes."
At the very moment Tang Sanzang was tied to the stone pillar and General Yin was sharpening his sword, a long, whistling sound suddenly emanated from the radio, like a tape rewinding—and then, a cold electric current pierced my eardrums through my headphones. My whole body went numb, the world spun, and I felt as if my bones had been ripped out of me, plummeting down the cracks of the sound waves. The last thing I heard was a muffled whisper: "Since you want to see him, take his fate for him..." Then, the lights, the bed, the city—all shattered into black flakes.
I was born in the broken ravine west of Shuangcha Ridge—no, I should say I "transformed" into the little raccoon demon born there. Its gray-brown fur, the white circles under its eyes, its unblunted fangs—everything about it was unnervingly real. The bone soup of Old Badger Uncle, the fishy cave dwelling of General Yin, the mingled smell of pine resin and blood from patrols—all infused my new body. I tried to call out my own name, but only a beastly chirp came out.
Memories flashed through my mind. I was born in a broken stream west of Shuangchaling. It was a crack carved by a mountain torrent. The cliffs on both sides were like ribs split by a heavenly axe. The crack was damp all year round, with slippery moss and dormant snakes and insects. When the mother civet died, I had not yet learned to hunt on my own. Old Badger Uncle brought me back to the crevice, made soup with animal bones, and fed me mouthful by mouthful. He taught me to walk close to the ground, smoothing footprints with my tail, taught me to distinguish the smell of blood and pine resin in the wind, and taught me to put my ears to the ground to listen for the sound of horse hooves three miles away. He always had one sentence on his lips: "Survival comes first, don't learn to eat people." I nodded, but secretly sharpened my fangs at night, polishing the moonlight in the broken stream until it shined.
The day General Yin arrived, the mountain fog was as thick as boiling rice soup. He rode a bareback black horse, the grass turning black where his hooves trod. He wore a cloak made of human skin, the hem of which, when blown by the wind, resembled a pair of gaping mouths. His eyes were pale gold, with vertical pupils, like two thinly polished bronze mirrors, reflecting my shadow huddled in the grass. He reached out and lifted me up, his fingertips lightly tracing my spine, as if testing the edge of a knife. He said, "Smart, stay." And so I was taken to the central army's cave, becoming a little demon serving as a messenger before the tent.
The cave dwelling lies deep within the ridge, its entrance so narrow that only one person can fit sideways, but once inside, the view opens up into a vast expanse of light. Armament racks are carved into the rock wall, hung with knives sharpened from human bones, forks made from animal horns, and curtains made from dried ears. The light is butter, its flames dancing and casting long shadows. General Yin sits on a stone couch, a flayed tiger skin spread across its surface. The tiger's head droops over the edge, its eyes gouged out, leaving only two black holes. Xiong Shanjun sits on the left, his bulk as large as a small mountain, half a piece of iron armor embedded in his black fur on his chest, and his voice rumbling. Te Chushi sits on the right, a wild bull spirit with horns curved like sickles, which he enjoys using to pick human intestines for fun. The first time I saw them cannibalizing people was on the third night after entering the cave.
That day, three merchants crossing the mountain were captured—two men and one woman. The general ordered the women to be saved for last, slaughtering the men first. Special Hermit split one man's skull with an axe, his brains splattering on Xiong Shanjun's beard. Xiong Shanjun stuck out his tongue, rolled it up, smacking his lips and saying, "It's not good." Another man was pinned to a stone table, and the general skinned him himself. The tip of the knife slashed from the back of the neck to the tailbone. With a hissing sound, the man twitched like a plucked chicken. The general spread the flayed skin across his knees and scraped off the remaining fat with his fingernails. The sound was like a dull knife scraping bamboo. I squatted in a corner, my stomach churning, but I forced my eyes open, because I knew that if I wanted to survive, I had to learn not to be afraid.
When the general threw half a lung to me, I almost vomited it. There were still streaks of blood on the lung, like a torn maple leaf. I held it in my hand, sobbing in my throat. The general smiled, revealing two long and sharp fangs: "Eat it. Eat it, and you will belong to Shuangchaling." I closed my eyes and stuffed the lung into my mouth. I didn't even dare to chew it and swallowed it directly. My throat was scratched and it hurt. The smell of blood rushed from my nose to my forehead, and my face was covered with tears. Xiong Shanjun patted me on the back: "Little brat, why are you crying? You will have more people's hearts and livers than you can eat in the future." I grinned, but the tears were still flowing, like two hot worms crawling across my chin.
I quickly learned how to patrol the mountains. General Yin gave me ten wolf spirits to command. Their eyes were fierce, but they were afraid of the token I held—a shard of tiger bone carved by the general himself, with the character "Yin" carved into it. I led them to set traps in the forest, using pine smoke to smoke out hunters hiding in tree hollows and using vines as nooses to suspend passersby. My proudest achievement was capturing a captain on horseback. The horse was a bay-red, its mane like flames. The captain was hung upside down from a tree, blood pouring from his nostrils into his eyes, and he cursed incessantly. I squatted above him, poked his forehead with a branch, and asked, "Are you soldiers from Chang'an any more delicious than the common people?" He spat blood in my face, which I wiped away with a smile, then drew my sword and ripped open his stomach. His intestines drooped, the heat like white silk in the cold mist. I led the horse back to the cave, and the general rewarded me with a copper ring. I put it on my tail, and it jingled as I walked.
I thought I would live like this forever until that night when I met the old monk.
The moon was frighteningly large that day, like a polished bronze mirror hanging on the top of a ridge. I patrolled the mountain halfway up and saw a figure walking out of the fog. He was wearing an old cassock, washed white, with a Zen stick in his left hand and Buddhist beads in his right. He walked slowly, but not a single step was lost. I lay in the grass, my heart beating as if it was about to burst. His face was very thin, and his eye sockets were sunken, but it was as if he was holding two lamps, so bright that I dared not look directly at them. I quietly retreated to the cave and reported what I saw to the general. The general's eyes shrank into a line in the light: "The monk sent by the Tang King to seek Buddhist scriptures? His heart and liver are the most nutritious." He paused, and suddenly laughed, "I heard that eating his meat can make you immortal." Xiong Shanjun licked his lips: "Then what are you waiting for?" The general waved his hand: "Starve him for three days first to make his blood cleaner."
The day the monk was captured, the fog was thicker than usual. When the trap flap sounded, he was chanting. His voice was not loud, but it penetrated the fog like a silver thread. The wolf spirits pounced on him, but he didn't even struggle. The string of the Buddhist beads in his hand broke, and the sandalwood beads rolled all over the floor. I picked up one and held it in my palm. The bead still carried his body temperature. He was tied to a stone pillar. The stone pillar was chiseled by me, and there were scratches on it from my nails. The general cut the vein in his left arm, and the blood dripped into the copper bowl with a crisp sound. The monk's face became paler and paler, but his lips were still moving. I leaned in to listen. He was chanting: "Shariputra, color is not different from emptiness, emptiness is not different from color..." I didn't understand, but I felt that the sound was like water, slowly extinguishing the fire in my heart.
On the second night, I secretly brought him water. The wolf spirit guarding the cave entrance was dozing off, so I slipped in and handed the bamboo tube to his lips. He opened his eyes, didn't ask why, and just said softly, "Thank you." I looked down and saw the marks on his wrists, as purple as vines. I gritted my teeth and cut the ropes around his feet with the back of my knife: "You go." He shook his head: "I can't leave, and neither can you." I got anxious: "I can take you out!" He still shook his head, his eyes like an ancient well, "Life and death are determined by fate. Listen to me: If you can abandon evil and follow good, you can escape the path of animals." I scolded him for being pedantic and turned to leave, but I heard him chanting behind me: "Ami..." The sound was like a needle piercing the back of my head.
On the third night, Venus came.
He transformed himself into a lost woodcutter, carrying a bundle of firewood, and entered the cave. I was ordered to escort him to the kitchen, but at the corner, he grabbed my shoulder. His eyes suddenly turned golden, like two tiny suns. My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground. He said, "Little demon, turn back now." I opened my mouth, but my throat felt like it was clogged with cotton. He patted my head and turned to the general's tiger-skin couch. I crouched there, hearing the sound of sword energy piercing the air behind me, like thousands of silver snakes emerging from a cave.
By the time I rushed back to the stone hall, the battle was almost over. Xiong Shanjun's chest was cut open, and his heart rolled at his feet, still beating. Te Chushi's horn was broken in half, and blood flowed into his eyes, dyeing the whites of his eyes red. The general revealed his true form, a white-browed tiger, his tail sweeping like the wind, but he couldn't stop Taibai Jinxing's sword. The sword flashed like a flash of lightning, splitting the cave ceiling and causing the rocks to collapse. I was hit on the hind leg by a falling rock, and the bone broke crisply. I crawled towards the stone pillar. The monk was still tied there, but he no longer chanted, but looked up at the sky. His eyes were like two obsidians in the firelight, reflecting my shadow - a lame raccoon demon with scorched fur and blood dripping from the corners of his mouth.
Taibai Jinxing pointed his sword at the general's throat, but the general suddenly lunged at me. He lifted me up and held me in front of him, his tiger claws gripping my neck. I heard my neck bones crackle, and stars flashed before my eyes. Taibai Jinxing frowned, and the momentum of his sword slowed slightly. At that moment, the general suddenly threw me towards the Star Lord. I was thrown into the air, and I saw the sword flash piercing my chest like a silver meteor. I wanted to scream, but only a whimper came out. The moment the sword tip pierced my chest, I heard the monk on the other side of the stone pillar whispering: "Amitabha."
I fell to the ground, blood gushing from my mouth and nose, but I no longer felt any pain. The torches on the cave ceiling had gone out, leaving only the light from Taibai Jinxing's sword, like a cold moon. I tried to turn my head and saw the general nailed to the stone wall by a sword, his tiger head drooping, his eyes still open, but without light. The bodies of Xiong Shanjun and Te Chushi were buried by the fallen rocks, with only half of their arms exposed. The monk stood in front of me, his robes cut by the sword energy, but intact. He squatted down, and his fingers gently brushed my eyelids, like a gust of wind. I heard him say, "May you be born as a human in your next life and hear the Dharma."
I tried to laugh, but instead, I coughed up a mouthful of blood. I raised my front paw and placed the Buddhist beads I'd been clutching in his palm. My blood stained the beads, turning them a dark red. The last thing I saw was Taibai Jinxing swinging his sword to sever the chains from the stone pillar. The monk clasped his hands together and bowed to me. Then, darkness surged in like a tide, engulfing everything.
There was a crisp sound, as if someone had pressed the stop button on the tape.
I snapped my eyes open. In the dimly lit rented apartment, the fluorescent lights still hummed. The iron bed creaked and swayed, a transistor radio rolled beside my pillow, and the headphone cord tangled around my neck. Outside the window, daylight had already begun to rise. The sound of a cleaner sweeping the floor grew closer.
I instinctively reached for my chest—no sword wound, no blood, only a red mark from the earphones. My heart pounded, as if I'd just plummeted from a great height. The radio needle had drifted to a blank frequency, and amidst the rustling current, I could faintly hear the sound of a Buddhist chant: "Amitābha...Tathagata..."
I sat up and opened the window. The morning breeze carried the scent of soy milk and a train whistle. A faint golden light reflected from the distant tall buildings. That light, falling on my palm, reminded me of the warmth of the monk's fingertips in my dream, and the blood-stained Buddhist beads before my death.
I looked down and saw that I still had a human hand, but between one of my fingers was a short, gray-brown hair, resembling a raccoon, yet also a human. I froze for a moment, then gently blew it away.
I heard the vendor's call from downstairs: "Soy milk and fried dough sticks—hot—" I let out a long breath, but the bitter smell of the lungs in my dream still lingered in my throat. I said to myself:
"Tonight, go to bed early and stop listening to Journey to the West."
But I know that if I hear that hoarse voice on the radio again, I will probably still turn the knob half a click to the right - because on the road leading to the West, there is a voice of "Amitabha", which is still in my heart, shining like a lamp that refuses to go out.