Now the sky blazed with heat, and crimson light burned fiercely.
Tang Sanzang planted Bodhi Trees alone in Flaming Mountain.
A poem bore witness:
His monk's robe screened his face against the sun; sweat soaked his robes and drenched his back.
His body seemed a furnace, wreathed in steam; the White Horse stayed beside him, carrying spring water.
His iron spade broke scorched earth and stone; sweet water watered the Bodhi saplings.
The Spiritual Roots drank all the blazing sky's fire; dead wood sprouted anew, a mulberry with fiery leaves.
Before he knew it, through day and night, forty li of Bodhi Trees had been planted.
Tang Sanzang sat beneath a tree, took the dry rations he had prepared beforehand from White Dragon Horse, and ate them with clear water. Then he sat cross-legged, pressed his palms together, and recited sutras beneath the tree.
A faint Buddha-Light appeared and was absorbed by the projection of the Fusang Tree beside him.
Four double-hours later, a new tree projection split off.
The night was dark, and dawn was still some time away. Tang Sanzang had planted trees every day these past few days with little rest. Somewhat weary in body and mind, he leaned against the tree to rest.
White Dragon Horse knelt beside him.
At first light, Tang Sanzang rose and looked back. There was nothing but barren land, with no sign of his disciples.
Suddenly, a great bank of dark clouds descended from the horizon.
White Dragon Horse snorted somewhat restlessly.
Tang Sanzang caught his reins and said, looking slightly pleased, "Amitabha Buddha, could it be going to rain?"
Unfortunately, the great bank of dark clouds finally stopped in the distance and did not drift toward Flaming Mountain.
Tang Sanzang picked up his iron spade and continued planting his way