’t get better in a thousand years.”

“But how long does human life last?” the officials asked. “How is it that he won’t get better even in a thousand years?”

“He’s a sick ruler now,” said Monkey. “When he dies he’ll be a sick ghost, and whenever he’s reincarnated he’ll be a sick man again. That’s why he won’t get better even in a thousand years.”

“You’ve got no sense of respect at all,” the infuriated officials replied. “How dare you talk such nonsense!”

“It’s not nonsense,” Monkey laughed. “Listen and I’ll explain:

“Mysterious indeed are the principles of medicine;

Flexibility of mind is a quality required.

Use eyes and ears, ask questions, take the pulses:

Omit but one and the examination’s incomplete.

First look for outward signs of the patient’s vital energy.

Dried? Smooth? Fat? Thin? Active? Does he sleep well?

Secondly, listen to whether the voice is clear or harsh:

Determine if the words he speaks are true or crazed.

Third, you must ask how long the disease has lasted,

And how the patient eats, drinks and relieves himself.

Fourth, feel the pulses and be clear about the veins:

Are they deep, shallow, external or inside?

Should I not look and listen, ask questions, and take the pulses,

Never in all his days will the king be well again.”

In the ranks of the civil and military officials there were some fellows of the Royal College of Medicine who when they heard these words praised Monkey publicly: “The monk is right. Even a god or an immortal would have to look, listen, ask questions and take the pulses before treating a patient successfully with his divine gifts.”

All the officials agreed with these remarks, then went up to the king and submitted: “The reverend gentleman wishes to look, listen, ask questions and take the pulses before he can prescribe properly.”

“Send him away,” the king said over and over again as he lay on his dragon bed. “We cannot bear to see any strangers.”

His attendants then came out from the inner quarters and announced, “Monk, His Majesty commands that you go away. He cannot bear to see a stranger.”

“If he won’t see a stranger,” Monkey replied, “I know the art of taking the pulses with hanging threads.”

“That is something of which we have only heard,” exclaimed all the officials, concealing their delight, “but that we have never seen with our own eyes. Please go back in and submit another report.”

The personal attendants then went back into the inner quarters and reported, “Your Majesty, the Venerable Sun can take your pulses with hanging threads: he does not need to see Your Majesty’s face.”

At this the king reflected, “In the three years we have been ill we have never tried this technique. Send him in.”

At once the courtiers in attendance announced, “His Majesty has consented to pulse-taking by the hanging threads. Send the Venerable Sun to the inner quarters at once to make his diagnosis.”

Monkey then entered the throne hall, where the Tang Priest met him with abuse: “Wretched ape! You will be the death of me!”

“My good master,” Monkey replied with a smile, “I’m bringing you credit. How can you say I’ll be the death of you?”

“In all the years you’ve been with me,” Sanzang shouted, “I have never seen you cure a single person. You know nothing about the nature of drugs, and you have never studied medical books. How can you be so reckless and bring this disaster on us?”

“You don’t realize, Master,” said Monkey with a smile, “that I do know the odd herbal remedy and can treat serious illnesses. I guarantee I can cure him. Even if the treatment kills him I’ll only be guilty of manslaughter through medical incompetence. That’s not a capital offence. What are you afraid of? There’s nothing to worry

about, nothing. You sit here and see what my pulse diagnosis is like.”

“How can you talk all this rubbish,” Sanzang asked, “when you have never read the Plain Questions, the Classic of Difficulties, the Pharmacopoeia and the Mysteries of the Pulses, or studied the commentaries to them? How could you possibly diagnose his pulses by hanging threads?”

“I’ve got golden threads on me that you’ve never seen,” Monkey replied, putting out his hand to pull three hairs from his tail, hold them in a bunch, call, “Change!” and turn them into three golden threads each twenty-four feet long to match the twenty-four periods of the solar year. Holding these in his hand he said to the Tang Priest, “These are golden threads, aren’t they?”

“Stop talking, reverend gentleman,” said the eunuchs in attendance on the king. “Please come inside and make your diagnosis.” Taking his leave of the Tang Priest Monkey followed the attendants into the inner quarters to see his patient. Indeed:

The heart has a secret prescription that will save a country;

The hidden and wonderful spell gives eternal life.

If you do not know what illness was diagnosed or what medicines were used and wish to learn the truth listen to the explanation in the next installment.