The Monkey King struggled desperately to escape the raging tempest, yet could not even brush the ground. The wind tossed him about like a speck of dust, upending him as easily as a typhoon strips trees bare or a torrent sweeps away withered blossoms.
Time flew like an arrow, and seasons turned swiftly as a weaver’s shuttle. The unbearable heat of summer was soon replaced by the first frosts of late autumn.
Tang Monk rode hastily eastward and soon came upon Bajie and Sha Wujing, who asked in surprise: “Where are you going, Master? Don’t you realize you’re heading in the wrong direction?”