"Oh, be still, Xei," said Monkey. "Be glad you have the roof and walls of the Treasure Wood Temple about you tonight, rather than the grasses of a riverbank."
"It's all right for you to say," Shea growled. "They can't get their needles into your granite hide."
"If the Master can bear it, so can you."
"Tripitaka? I don't see him in here. He's a full-fledged monk, after all—he gets better quarters."
"You think the Zen Room is more comfortable? You forget that he is sitting in meditation all night."
"Oh, is that what he's doing?"
"Yes—just sitting," Monkey sighed. "Good night, Xei."
"Oh, good night," Shea griped. He cast a last accusing glare at the snoring bulk of Pigsy and Sandy, mere outlines in the gloom, then closed his eyes and tried for sleep.
"Wizard Xei!"
Shea sat bolt upright, his heart hammering. "Who the hell ...?"
"Closer than you think," the visitor snapped.
He was tall, severe, and drenched from head to toe. In fact, the water was running off him and pooling on the teak floor.
Shea reached for his sword and dagger and came slowly to his feet with both on guard. "Monkey! Pigsy! Sandy! Doc! We've got company!"
But the forms of his companions lay still in the moonlight, except for the slow rise and fall of breathing. Shea realized that he could not even hear Pigsy's snores.
"They will not hear you," the wet man said impatiently. "Now tell me—where is your master?"
"I have no master—I'm a free man."
"Do not bandy words with me, slave!" the man shouted. "Tell me the whereabouts of your master, and that quickly!" The apparition stepped closer.
Shea brandished his sword. "Hold it! Cold steel, remember?" He hoped that what worked on European elves might work for Chinese haunts.
Apparently not. Contemptuously, the man stepped right up to let the tip of Shea's sword disappear inside him. "Now tell me—where is the monk!"
Shea felt a chill pass over him—he knew which monk the man meant, but was not about to give any clues. "We're in a monastery. There are a lot of monks—just take your pick."
"Fool!' the man shouted, and swung a back-handed blow at Shea's head. Shea ducked and lunged—and stumbled straight into the apparition. There was a gust of icy wind; then he straightened up, to find himself lacing the man's glowing back.
Slowly, the apparition turned, glaring. "What manner of monk are you, who bears a sword?"
"Not a monk at all," Shea said bravely, "just a traveller who has decided to join a holy man and his disciples for mutual protection."
"Yes! That is he—the Pilgrim Monk!" The apparition's eyes lit, glowing in the dark. "That is whom I spoke of! Where is he?"
Shea's eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"
"Insolent cur!" the man shouted. "Vile peasant!
"That really makes me want to help you," Shea said slowly.
"Fool!" the spirit raged, and swung a back-handed blow at him. Shea knew it would not hurt, but by sheer reflex, he fell back out of the way and rolled— and heard Monkey saying: "Xei! What troubles you!"
"Him!" Shea pushed himself up on one elbow, jabbing out a forefinger—and found he was pointing at empty space. He blinked, stupefied. "He was there, I tell you! He was there!" Then he sagged. "It must have been a dream."
"Why, then, tell it to me, and I will tell you the meaning of it." Monkey sat down beside him, looking grave.
Shea looked up with a weak smile. "I thought that was supposed to be my line."
"As you will. But who was it whom you saw in this dream?"
"A wet man! Sopping wet, from head to toe! He wanted to know where Tripitaka was, but I wouldn't tell him!"
"Sopping wet?" Monkey raised his head, eyes glowing. "How was he dressed?"
"In silken robes, and he had a funny sort of hat on his head."
"A king, then," Monkey said. "Did he strike you when you would not tell him?"
"Yeah. And he stepped right onto my sword, too— it went into his chest by a foot, at least, but he just kept on threatening me."
"A ghost," Monkey said with conviction, "the ghost of a king who died by drowning. And he wanted the Master, you say?"
A hoarse scream echoed down the hall.
Monkey was out the door like a shot. Shea followed, yelling: "Pigsy! Sandy! Doc! It's Tripitaka!"
Pigsy and Sandy passed him halfway down the hall.
He swerved in through the door of the Zen Boom, to find Tripitaka seated in lotus with his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Monkey knelt by him, Pigsy and Sandy a little farther off. "He was wet through," Tripitaka was moaning.
"Yes, but he is gone now, Master," Monkey soothed. "Lift your head and look about you, so that you may see there are none here but your disciples and friends."
"I know, I know," Tripitaka moaned, lifting his head. "I saw him leave, I saw him go!"
"Then you know there is no further cause for alarm," Monkey assured him. "Tell us the tale from its beginning, then—it will purge it from your mind and heart."
"There is truth in that." Tripitaka composed himself, sitting up ramrod straight again. "I meditated long, but about the middle of the night, I must have lapsed into a doze for I saw a man come in through the door. Thinking him to be one of the monks, I kept silent, and he came to me and demanded, 'Are you the Pilgrim Monk?' Now I began to be afraid, for I could see the night lamp through him, and saw that his garments were soaked — indeed, that water ran off him to pool on the floor, and I knew I was in the presence of a ghost of one who had died by drowning. Still, I took courage from the thought of Buddha's serenity and replied, 'I am. Who ate you?'
" 'I am the rightful King of Crow-Cock,' he answered, 'and he who sits on my throne now is a usurper, and my murderer.'
" 'That is surely a grievous crime,' I answered, though I was far more shaken than I would let him see. 'How could he have done this to you?'
" 'Because he was my Prime Minister,' the ghost answered. 'One day, as we were walking in the garden near the well, he suddenly pushed me in, then changed himself into my exact duplicate—and thus did I discover that he was a sorcerer. When he was sure I had drowned he took my throne, commanded that the well be covered and hidden, and took over the rule of my kingdom.'
"What a horrible tale!" Pigsy cried. "Out upon this sorcerer! We must revenge the rightful king!"
"We do not speak of revenge, disciple, we who follow the Noble Eight-fold Path," Tripitaka said sternly, and Pigsy shrank back. "Even as you say, Master."
But Tripitaka was looking troubled again. "There is the worst part of it, though, Monkey—for the ghost of the King implored to help him in his revenge!"
"Asked a monk to help in revenge?"
"Yes. He asked me to tell his son the truth of his father's death. Once convinced, the prince will be sure to revenge him." Tripitaka buried his face in his hands. "Revenge! How can I, a priest of Buddha, condone revenge?"
"Be easy in your heart, Master," Monkey soothed again. "Did you not perform a similar deed, in righting the wrong of your own father's death?"
Tripitaka stilled, then lifted his head slowly. "There was justice in that, not revenge—the punishment of a murderer and regicide. But you speak truly, Monkey—here too we find a situation that cries out for justice, does it not?"
"With the voice of the poor and the starving," Monkey agreed.
"Yes, even as in my own country. The usurper, of course, did not have the Mandate of Heaven, and so the land suffered under his rule. The fields would not bear crops; the woods were filled with bandits. The people starved."
"But this usurper has been enthroned for only three years," Monkey protested, "and already, as what came into Crow-Cock, we have seen one deserted village and several barren fields! We traversed a wild forest, which lies only half a league from this very temple— and as we passed through it, we were attacked by bandits and had to fight them off—which is much more difficult when we must try not to kill them, I can tell you! Truly, Master, the land has begun to suffer under the usurper! If you do not wish that suffering to extend to the people, if you aspire to justice in any way, you must help this poor drowned ghost— the more so since all he asks of you is to tell his story to his son!"