When he woke up, it seemed as though someone had spilt milk over one part of his eye. 

A slightly translucent, white covering hung over the image of his room.  He blinked, and then sat up and rubbed his eye with his fingers.  The whiteness remained.

Sanzo sat very still.

Everything else seemed normal, but – but, if his vision didn’t clear, what was wrong?  He got up and walked to the mirror.  As far as he could tell, with his unfamiliar, partial sight, his eyes looked normal too:  just the same clear, dusky purple as they always were.  He accepted the burden of anxiety quietly, and without rancour, and continued his business in the monastery as usual.

Over the next month, Sanzo’s sight steadily deteriorated.  The whiteness spread and became more opaque, until his seen world was as blank as snow, and the morning came when Sanzo decided to walk out into the forest and not come back.  If anyone had asked him for a reason, he would have said, “because I don’t want to explain.”  His heart would have added “and because it is less frightening to face blindness out of sight.”

The forest was an old friend and he stumbled along a known path, until it ended under the canopy of trees, in a shade so dark that blindness was the same as sight.  He felt his way to a small shelter which he had often visited and where he had stayed all night to pray.

Pulling his robe tighter and clasping his hands to his elbows across his body, Sanzo sat in the rough, wooden shelter and prayed again – not for himself, but for those that he had left behind. The sounds of the forest punctuated his prayers with squeals and whistles and the gentle chatter of monkeys.

He realized that he should have brought food, water, ammunition; even a stick would have been useful.  The only practical thought he had had, in fact, was to leave the sutras carefully rolled and laid out neatly side by side on his stripped bed, so that the monks would understand that he had gone and that his going was not such that he could continue protecting the scriptures.

So he wasn’t a sanzo priest any more.  In the darkness, his hand pushed his hair aside and felt the surface of his forehead.  The chakra was still there.  Perhaps it was like the image of the sun when you closed your eyes;  it just took a while to fade.

A few years ago, he would have lifted the gun to his temple and the forest birds would have clamoured in alarm as a shot rang out through the trees.  Now, however, he felt an obstinate stirring of detached interest to see how the bastards in charge of the future proposed to resolve his present predicament.

In the forest, Sanzo adjusted his sanity to different standards.   He knew that comparison with normal human behaviour would make him seem quite crazy.  He practised finding his way, away from the shelter and then back.  He touched the trees, trying to discover fruit and any distinguishing features which would help him remember the geography of his now home.

Strangely, he found that his blindness stripped his face of its desire to show expression.  The exhibition of frowns, snarls, glares and sneers which had decorated his features, for so many years, ceased once he was deprived of a visual focus.  His face settled into an immobile mask of resignation which felt like an imitation of serenity; in a way, it reminded him of Hakkai.

Maybe it was this appearance of serenity which attracted the monkey.  Maybe not.

One morning, Sanzo heard movement near him and had asked, “Who’s there?”  He could hear the rustle of grass and leaves and then something touched his arm.  Unstartled, he put out his hand and felt short, furry fingers, which retreated a little shyly as he touched them. 

So Sanzo held out his hand, and the monkey curled its fingers round his own and stayed there, warm and good-natured.

The monkey befriended Sanzo easily and seemed to understand that he could not see for himself.  By the same evening, Sanzo could call “Goku”, for so he had named it out of fondness for the past, and the monkey would answer with a quiet chatter, would come and take Sanzo by the hand.

The monkey brought a selection of fruit for Sanzo to eat and, after a few days, had led him to the river. 

Sanzo’s nature had always sought cleanliness and, as his feet sunk into the damp gravel at the water’s edge, he stripped off his clothes and gratefully waded into the cold water.  He had no idea how he would find his clothes again, but, in any case, they were no longer clean and to wear nothing did not seem unacceptable in such a naturalistic setting.  The monkey would hardly mind.

Sanzo swam to and fro and sank himself under the water to wash his hair.  When his body temperature began to drop, he called out “Goku!” and then swam towards the chattering answer, until his knee grazed the stony bottom and he could stand up.

Whilst the water was still at his waist, “Goku” had taken his hand and began leading him onto the bank;  then, his hand was dropped and there was a pause, before the bundle of clothes was pressed onto his chest.  At this moment, it came vividly into Sanzo’s understanding that, much as he had recognized certain people to be similar to monkeys, so he was being shown now, in this present situation, how very much certain monkeys were close to being human.

He had felt tired after the swimming, but would have liked to have made some particular gesture of gratitude.  However, the monkey didn’t respond to being stroked, as one might stroke a dog or a cat, and Sanzo was left to say “thank you” in human speech which seemed inadequate.  Perhaps he would find a better solution one day.

Solutions seemed to become more easy as time went by.  The visits to the river were daily and established a routine of enjoyable recreation, which was almost play.  The monkey brought him items, such as coconut shells and gourds, which could be used to store water or to collect a supply of fruit and nuts. 

Sanzo thought that, physically, he had become almost like a monkey himself – though a monkey with a chakra still.  Shaving, hair-cutting and repairing his clothes and sandals were all things of the past.  He realized that he must look extremely wild – with his long, untended hair and a ragged line of golden beard, and with tattered pieces of clothing falling away from his underfed body. 

He was not able to improve his nutrition, but he took care to practise Qi Gong forms – Wild Goose claw, Lion Shake Mane, the Bridge – for his health and to keep his muscles in a reasonable condition.  Without any sight, his opportunity for physical activity was limited mostly to swimming, which - ironically – put him back into the river-water where he had been “born”.  If this was where he was also to die, so be it.

As an existence, the simplicity of his forest life gave the sightless Sanzo a view, a perspective, which few humans ever had, and it allowed him to exercise the un-animal part of his mind with a freedom beyond the most extensive library.  This expanded dimension for thought both excited and contented his intellect.  He understood that some part of his character was now able to admit previously ignored blessings, precisely because his eyes were no longer filled with so many images which stirred his anger and opposition.  Each day seemed to show him a revelation to which his sighted life had been blind.

So things might have continued, had not the day arrived when the monkeys left the forest. 

One day, “Goku” just did not come.  There was no sound of chattering;  there was less noise in the trees and even the birds were subdued.  Something had obviously happened to make the day unusual.  Sanzo presumed that a predator, or some other threat, had made it necessary for the monkeys to keep in hiding.  He did not like to admit that the day seemed very long without “Goku” but – but he would have much preferred the situation to have followed the usual pattern of contact.  He moved from place to place calling out “Goku!” but there was never a sound in reply.

When the monkeys were still gone the next day and the next and yet the next, Sanzo faced up to the reality that “Goku” might never come again.  He had a little food and water but, when that was finished, he couldn’t sit and wait and die.  He continued to call out for “Goku” but his reason told him that he was wasting his time.

The food lasted another two days.  Sanzo waited for a further three but the monkeys did not return. 

By now, he felt seriously dehydrated and was weak from lack of food;  the pain in his stomach prevented him sleeping and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.  He knew that the lower parts of the surrounding vegetation yielded nothing but leaves; the fruit always grew on the higher branches, and he doubted his ability to climb up and edge out to search for edible fruit, which might not be there.  But, if he had to, he would try.

In the meantime, water seemed a more serious problem. He knew the path to the river fairly well.  He collected the gourds, which he used as a reservoir, and began to walk cautiously through the trees, until his feet felt the incline where the ground sloped steeply down to the riverbed.  There was a path of sorts and he knew it fairly well.

What he did not know, however, was that, before they set out each day, the monkey had always carefully removed the fallen branches and boulders which regularly rolled down the steep sides of the valley, or had steered Sanzo’s feet away from the danger.  Now, he started the descent, holding the gourds tightly and bending his weight backwards into the hill to keep his balance, but there was a heavy branch lying awkwardly across his way down and Sanzo had no chance to avoid tripping over it.

As his foot was caught and his weight jerked forward and his body flew through the air, Sanzo thought of the gourds falling from his grasp – they would be difficult to find again.  Pain registered in his shoulder as he hit something very solid in his fall, and something else cracked hard against his shin and, then, merciful, black oblivion swallowed him in a single gulp as his head landed on a rock.

When he became conscious again, he could smell that it was night.  He felt dizzy and sick and his head was aching;  even to sit up would be foolish, especially as his shin was hurting so badly that it might well be broken. 

He lay still, overwhelmed by a feeling of extraordinary weakness and forced himself to put his fingers to his temple, where the ache was at its fiercest.  The skin was hot and sticky, and there was a stiff lump under his hair.  Another wave of nausea got hold of him from the inside and shook him viciously, so that his head exploded into a red firework of pain and he passed out.

Next, he heard a voice.  Someone, near where he was lying, was calling faintly:  “Goku, Goku!”  

His lips were moving and he realized fuzzily that the voice was his own.  While he tried to gather the fragments of his consciousness into a semblance of integrity, reflex and desolation produced a louder “Goku!” from his throat.

The answer, “Sanzo!  You okay, Sanzo?” did not register for some seconds.  He was conscious that his understanding was faulty;  he must be suffering from concussion.  He couldn’t think straight.

Sounds of movement coming closer did register.  Everything hurt and he was still dizzy and weak and he cried out again, “Goku…….”

Then his hand was lifted up in warm, strong fingers and Goku said, “Sanzo!  What happened?  Are you alright?”

Sanzo gasped, “Goku!  Wh – where?  Where -” but Goku was already sniffing at him, feeling gingerly round his head.  “Hey!  I thought so. You’re covered in blood.  What happened, Sanzo?  Do you think you can stand up?”

Arms gave strength to his shoulders and gently supported him into a sitting position.  Was this real?  Could anything feel as real as this and be imaginary?  Heavens, if this was imagination, concussion was an amazing thing! 

“Goku -”  Sanzo reached out and tried to find an arm, some way of getting Goku’s attention, other than speaking.  Sanzo was so unused to speaking now;  his voice was trained only to call “Goku, Goku!”

“Let’s see if you can stand up.  Ready?”  The willing strength surrounded his waist and back, and smoothly brought his centre of gravity upwards, until he stood, swaying a little, but upright, as Goku – was it Goku? – stepped away.   Everything hurt but he could stand.

He blurted, “Goku, I can’t see anything -” 

“You’re doing well!  Yeah, it’s pretty dark round here but we’ll manage. It’ll be light soon, anyhow.”  The voice was moving a little further away as Goku started to scout the track up the side of the valley.

Sanzo swallowed and said more urgently, “You don’t understand, Goku.  I can’t see.  It’s not the dark.”  The pain in his head was making him dizzy and faint, and the unevenness of the ground didn’t help the feeling that he couldn’t balance and was about to fall again.

Something of the significance in Sanzo’s voice brought Goku back closer.  “Sanzo?  What do you mean?”

Sanzo felt the river-wind, cool and damp, on his face and said quietly, “I mean that I’m blind.  My eyes don’t work any more.  I can’t see.  Period.”

There was an interval of silence.  The river-wind blew again and, at once, he felt the touch of fingers taking his hand.  Then, there was a voice saying, “Sanzo, you’ll always be able to see with my eyes.  Whenever you want.” 

He could smell that it was night.  The path was steep and he was in so much terrible pain, but the hardship seemed already ended if this was real, if this was Goku, if this was Goku holding his hand and saying, “I’m not ever letting you out of my sight.”