The Moon Over the Mountain (Part 2)

Time flowed on.

As he stood at the firepits of Daimonji feeling the cool night wind whisper by, Officer Natsume thought back to the days he had spent in college, observing the outrageous arrogance of Saitō Shūtarō. Perhaps, hidden in the darkness, his counterpart was seized by the same memories.

Officer Natsume greeted him warmly like an old friend.

Saitō Shūtarō did not show himself, and only his voice answered from the shadows, asking why Natsume was in Kyoto, when he should have been in Tokyo.

Natsume explained his story: he had briefly entered the NPA, then been temporarily transferred to a patrol beat with the Metropolitan Police. But after returning to the NPA he had realized that he was meant to be out on the streets, and after quitting the force joined the Kyoto Prefectural Police. Now he was posted at the Ginkakuji police box, and quite satisfied with what he was doing.

In the shadows Saitō Shūtarō _mhmm-_ed and congratulated Natsume on finding the path that he was meant to walk.

“What are you doing up here, Saitō?” Natsume mustered the courage to ask.

A gust of wind stirred the forest, causing Natsume to flinch backwards. The leaves rustled ominously, making a sound like a roaring waterfall. Discarded newspapers, perhaps that the students had intended to start a fire, flapping and swirling in the wind.

“I have been here now for a year,” Natsume heard Saitō Shūtarō groan after a moment. “I have become a tengu.”

 

And the voice in the darkness told him this tale.

　　　　　　　＊

How did it come to this?

Perhaps it was all because I devoted myself to writing.

It matters not now what sort of novel I was writing. What is important is that I was writing.

Writing was all that sustained me in life. As I wrote I made many discoveries. At least, I believed that I was making discoveries.

Things that I had never considered before would pop up on the page, one after the next. The words that I blithely strung together would, without me having realized it, begin to speak of the world. It was quite a mysterious, surprising phenomenon, and I became engrossed in smashing words together and observing it in action.

Over the course of doing this many times, I came to believe that writing was the only way to penetrate the inner mysteries of the world. I made no distinction between reality and words. Words themselves were reality. But for all that, I had no reverence for words. I was terribly arrogant; I believed that I had all the world in the palm of my hand.

However, around the time that you graduated, I came to grapple with an unusual difficulty.

At first it was but a trivial impediment. When it happened I would think nothing of it and go to sleep. This would allow me to get through it without trouble. But eventually this impediment began to happen more and more often.

My sentences refused to come together.

Though I would sit at my desk, intent on setting ink to paper, the innumerable words in my head would only scuttle around, each attempting to push to the fore. I could only hold them back, unable to choose any one over the others. Was it “red” I wanted to write,

 

or “crimson”, or “scarlet”? Or perhaps “vermilion”, no, “ruby”? Burdened by indecision, in the end I could never decide which word to use.

I am reminded now that the word “somersault” weighed on me heavily. Whenever I tried to recall the correct definition, my brain was filled with ridiculous visions of people mineralizing their pates. In time I found myself thinking that maybe the word did indeed stem from this practice. I shook my head in astonishment, but eventually I began to become convinced that the word “somersault” itself was merely a figment of my imagination.

In my confusion, all the words floating around in my brain began to seem untrustworthy, utterly unreliable. What was it that I believed in? Did I truly believe that I could speak of anything at all, merely because I sat atop this amassed hoard of words?

One day, after having spent over ten hours futilely wracking my brain at my desk, I came to the sudden realization that all I was doing was putting together endless strings of unconnected words on the page before me: fast as a tortoise, love-hate relationship, lead zeppelin, human rights, caged bird, honest politician, etcetera.

These words were merely scattered on the page, with nothing to link them together. They were like a pile of cadavers, unmoving and lifeless. Was this string of gibberish all that my practice and privations had been leading up to? Impossible.

I abandoned writing, and let the moments pass by in disbelief. I pinned my thin hopes on the idea that by temporarily parting from writing, I would be able to regain my faculty again. But my trust in those words, once lost, was not easily regained again. The dead words that littered the paper would not leave my mind.

Yet I could scarcely imagine living on without writing anything.

I had believed with all my heart that I was a genius. It was the only way I should live. It was the only way I _could _live.

　　　　　　　＊

I suffered alone.

 

Nagata was busy in his lab, and had not come to visit in a long time. Neither did I wish to see him. I couldn’t confide to him the state in which I found myself. I understood very well that the Saitō whom he respected existed only in the past. I was not my past self. Rather than reveal to him the weak, spineless man I had become, I would rather disappear altogether.

I wandered the streets.

I was driven by the fear that perhaps I was just a normie after all. I took books in hand, yet all I found in them was flat, meaningless sentences, which I could not bring myself to read. Yet to my shame I could not write a single word myself.

And so the days passed.

I decided that I had to forget who I had been and find a new way to live. Yet doing that was akin to death for me. I had patterned myself too closely on the ideal life I had dreamed of, and could conceive of no plan to demolish it.

Even if I were to begin attending classes, it was unlikely that I could graduate. And supposing I did graduate, what would I do? When I lost my ability to write, I had feared that I had become a normie, but now I was less than even the normies. Without my writing, I was nothing. The people I had once derided as normies now seemed to be standing high above me, in a place beyond my reach.

But I was not frustrated. I do not say this to boast. If I had been frustrated about the situation, there is no doubt I would have risen to the occasion. But I was so beaten down by this morphing world, that day by day my feeling of powerlessness only increased. I thought of having to look on this dreary world for the rest of my life, and despaired.

I did not wish to become anyone, or do anything.

　　　　　　　＊

I lamented staking all my college days on a single thing. It seemed to me that in my impatience to pin down who I was, I had brought all to ruin.

 

I reminisced fondly over that day in the café on the road to Ginkakuji, those many years ago. I wondered what she was doing now, wishing that I could return to those days and change the way I lived.

I would imagine another life, one in which I had gone out with her, and enjoy a hollow sort of happiness. You may laugh if you please. Sitting in my room, I would imagine this other me, who had left off his useless dreaming and begun to live a far more accomplished life than I ever had. I daydreamed in minute detail about this life that could have been, frittering the hours away.

Everything that I had accomplished seemed like a mistake.

Had I only spent all my time thinking about words to distract from my failings, my inadequacy? Had I ever truly intended on making my way in the world with my writing? I never told you this, but I submitted novels to literary contests many times. But everything I submitted was half-hearted, lackadaisical work. I smugly told myself that there was no need for me to waste any effort on such trifles, when in fact that was nothing more than an excuse to preserve my vanity. No matter how many contests I entered, how could anything ever have come of it? Say to me that I never truly intended to walk that path, and I could give you no reply.

I told myself that I hadn’t had enough time, but I was only running in circles, afraid of being asked to produce results. Wishing to continue living in this sweet dream where no one would disturb me, I kept pacing the diving board but never taking the plunge, and in the end I brought myself to ruin.

　　　　　　　＊

One evening, after yet another of these wearying days, I went out to see the festivities of Yoiyama.

Karasuma Street was blocked off for pedestrian traffic, and the lights of an endless row of festival booths blazed into the night. An endless crowd of sightseers streamed up and down the road as far as the eye could see. I wandered the streets with no particular aim in mind. Looking at the parade floats that illuminated the narrow alleys with golden light and letting the sea of people sweep me along gave my mind a bit of respite. _How pleasant it would be, if only I could simply vanish into the tumult of the Gion Festival! _I thought to myself, as I passed by the brilliant Koiyama float which parted the streaming crowd on Muromachi Street.

 

There I came across Nagata and his girlfriend in the crowd.

“Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in a while!” Nagata cried out jovially, waving around a piece of fried chicken.

After earning his doctorate Nagata had been working as a researcher, but this summer he was going to a university in England. He was as cheerful and worry-free as ever. There was something new, different about the twinkle in his eye, but perhaps I was merely being perverse. The girl in the yukata beside him told me that she worked at a travel agency.

Nagata gave me a chicken skewer. We walked to the side of the road and stood there talking. Nagata went on about jellyfish DNA and other such things, and though I didn’t understand anything it did seem quite interesting.

“I finally understand what it feels like to be doing your own thing. I’ve finally caught up to you, huh?”

“I suppose. It certainly took you long enough!” I laughed out loud for him to see.

It was there that I heard that the two were to be married. They were holding a small gathering to celebrate among friends, and asked me to come. I congratulated them in brief, and assured them that I would be there to bestow a grand speech upon them.

“Since it’s been so long, why don’t we go get a bite, just the three of us?” Nagata suggested.

“I’m afraid there is writing which requires my attention.”

“You gonna climax soon?” Nagata asked me as I made to walk away.

I nodded vigorously, then turned away. “Until we meet again.” I roughly pushed my way through the crowd, going north up Muromachi Street.

I looked at the blue twilight sky, and as I walked I began to weep loudly.

Even now he still believed in me. Yet I myself had lost my belief. Now all I did was despair at myself, curse everything that I had ever done, and go to bed each night having accomplished nothing. More than anything, I had been defeated by myself. This was what my

 

pride and arrogance had led to!

I returned to my boarding house, sat at my desk, and let the anger flow.

But I couldn’t move an inch, like a frog hypnotized by the gaze of a snake. Only the word “somersault” hopped up and down in my head; nothing else came to mind. I agonized deep into the night, until I heard someone whispering in the corridor as if to mock me, “Somersault! Somersault!”

Flying into a rage I burst into the hallway. There was no one there, but I could hear the voice coming from the woods behind the building. I was convinced they were making a fool of me.

I flew out of the building and entered the forest.

As I charged blindly on, my body began to get lighter and lighter. I ran so fast that I was fairly flying through the trees towards Mt. Daimonji. My body was so light that my feet hardly felt the ground, and just as I was realizing that I burst through the overgrown branches and floated up into the luminous night sky. I was gliding beneath the moonlight over the forest.

As I ascended towards the deserted Daimonji firepits, I turned around. Between the branches I saw the lights of Kyoto sprawling out below me.

I had never before seen anything so beautiful.

　　　　　　　＊

I have lived here a year now, ever since that night.

During the day I sleep deep in the forest, and at night I spit at any humans who approach the area. Even if you were to see me you would not recognize me for the man I was. I said I was a tengu, but you might think me a caveman. In any case there is little difference. Having become a tengu I have gained the power to wield magicks, but that avails me of naught. I cannot even come down from Mt. Daimonji.

 

I once plotted and spent wasted effort attempting to come down from the mountain. However, whether I made for Shikagatani, or Ginkakuji, I would somehow always end up before the shrine to Kōbō Daishi. If I took to the air, I would find myself flapping in circles around Mt. Daimonji, like the swallows above the rice paddies. I eventually realized that I am trapped in this mountain prison. At present all I am able to do, day and night, is stare at the lights of the city which remain out of my reach, and aimlessly let time pass me by.

Whenever humans climb up here, I cannot help but to chase them away. It is true that I long for conversation with others, but whenever they enter my sight I find their foolishness so unbearably repulsive that I cannot restrain my wrath. Even as I speak to you, I am filled with an urge to drive you away.

At present I am only a misanthropic, hollow mass of arrogance, pulling the strings of this human shell. That is what makes me a tengu.

From time to time, I remember my former self. I remember how sitting in that dirty, cramped room, I believed that as long as there was white paper on the desk before me, I could write anything.

Could I put pen to paper once more, in the same fashion that I am speaking now? I do not know.

But even if I were able to write again, what use would that serve when I cannot come down from this mountain? In this absolute solitude, wishing to speak to others would only torment me to no end.

It is more fitting that I keep my silence, watching the city below.

　　　　　　　＊

A cloud drifted across the serene night sky, and moonlight bathed the scene.

The two officers were alone on the steep slope of Daimonji, and even the voice that floated out from the darkness seemed almost like a hallucination. After it had finished its tale, the voice spoke no more.

 

“Saitō,” called Officer Natsume. “Come with us down the mountain. It’ll be alright. You can come down.”

He glanced at Corporal Maejima next to him, who nodded silently.

The wind whistled over the firepits.

A strange figure emerged before the two beneath the light of the moon. It wore a filthy, tattered blanket like a cape. Its beard grew untamed, and long, stiff hair towered upward from its head, swaying slightly in the wind. This man, Saitō Shūtarō, gazed at the two officers, a terrible look in its eyes.

“Leave this mountain. This shall be the last time we meet,” said he. “If you see Nagata, tell him I died and left my work unaccomplished.”

Natsume perceived Maejima tensing his legs, preparing to tackle the perp.

But Saitō Shūtarō seemed to have read their minds. He tossed his head back and let out a wild cackle into the sky. “You seek to arrest me?”

“We’re not going to arrest you. We just want to bring you down from the mountain,” Natsume said evenly, offering a hand to shake.

At the same time Maejima threw himself towards Saitō, who easily dodged aside and floated up into the air, coming down on the roof of the altar. The way he moved was, as he had claimed, exactly like a tengu.

“I implore you, go down quickly. I say again, the sight of you makes my skin crawl.”

“Saitō, come down with us. Come back to earth.”

For a moment, Natsume saw a glimmer of sorrow in Saitō’s eyes as he glared down, but it was soon masked by the colours of disgust and contempt.

 

Spreading his cape like a pair of wings, Saitō Shūtarō let himself be borne away by a sudden gust of wind, letting out a shrill cackle at the moon.

“Fare thee well, normies!”

And he flew away.

Officer Natsume could only watch in disbelief as the figure turned over several times in the air and disappeared towards Nyoigadake.

He pondered the fate of Saitō Shūtarō.

While Corporal Maejima looked on, Officer Natsume gazed down upon the nightscape for a long while in silence.

　　　　　　　＊

Nagata returned temporarily from his studies abroad about a week after this incident. He had called ahead several days prior, so Natsume let him know he would be on duty at the Ginkakuji police box.

In the evening, Nagata sauntered up to the police box. He talked about what he had been up to after graduating, while Natsume told him about his career on the police force.

At length Nagata inquired after Saitō Shūtarō. After visiting his laboratory earlier that afternoon, the idea had struck him to visit Saitō’s boarding house.

“Knowing Saitō, I’d thought that he’d still be holding out in his room there, but no one lives there anymore.”

“I don’t know exactly what happened, but he packed up and went back home,” said Natsume.

“I see. And no one knows how to get in touch with him?”

“Apparently not. Saitō never was the type to worry about that kind of thing, was he?”

“I guess not. Well, I suppose I’ll never see him again. He didn’t come to the wedding, either. I went to see him a few times before I went overseas, but he was never in.” Nagata smiled. “I never did get to read that masterpiece of his.”

The pair began to swap stories about the infamous, aloof character who had climbed and set up his lofty throne atop those lofty peaks of solitude which none had reached before. His devotion to writing his neverending novel; the rain of disdain and spit that he showered on everything around him; that overzealous craving for charcoal-grilled mackerel—each strand of memory led to another, and another.

“I have to say, Saitō really was an absolute idiot,” said Natsume.

“You got that right. A total idiot,” Nagata laughed. “Know something, Natsume? He’s still the only person I really respect.”

After a while Nagata wrapped things up and said he was returning to his hotel.

Before he left the police box, he looked up towards Mt. Daimonji. Officer Natsume couldn’t help but look up too. The mountain towered up into the cloudless blue yonder, sunlight slanting down upon it.

“I’m finally going to see the Daimonji bonfire this year,” said Nagata. “I’ve already secured a good spot.”

“You mean you’ve never seen it before?” Natsume asked in surprise.

“Nope. I always went home for Obon, so I never saw it when I was going to school here. My wife suggested we see it this year, since we don’t know when we’ll get the chance again.”

Nagata grinned, then disappeared into the throng of sightseers walking along the canal.

　　　　　　　＊

The Gozan no Okuribi is held during Obon on August 16th.

 

After the Daimonji Preservation Society prepares the bonfire, a monk reads sutras at the Kōbō Daishi shrine in the light of a sacred flame. Normally the flame is transferred to the wood piles afterwards, lighting up the Kyoto night with a giant flaming “dai”, but things were a little stranger that year.

As the wood ignited and spectators cheered in the city below, another flame burst into life atop the roof of the altar. Amid astonished gazes it galloped down the slope, running pell mell along the bonfire on the face of the mountain and spreading confusion and shock. According to testimony from people at the bonfire, the flame seemed to be in the shape of a person, cackling shrilly as it ran.

Officer Natsume saw it, down at the Kamo Bridge on crowd control duty.

Nagata and his wife saw it, having snuck onto a campus rooftop with his younger labmates.

Even after the bonfire had gone out, the flame continued to dash around mocking the onlookers, before finally ascending into the sky. It rose high into the heavens, and then flew off towards the east.

What with the disturbances that had been occurring since the previous year, many thought it must be the work of a tengu.

After that, the disturbances on Mt. Daimonji ceased, leading many to believe that that flame had been the tengu’s last hurrah. The flame had hurtled through the sky like a shooting star in the direction of Lake Biwa, so some assumed that he had packed up and left Mt. Daimonji.

　　　　　　　＊

Following this event, Officer Natsume climbed Mt. Daimonji and scoured the forests of Nyoigadake many times, but never a trace did he find of Saitō Shūtarō’s whereabouts.

The only thing he ever came across was a sodden sheaf of papers, just off the mountain trail leading towards Nagarayama Onjōji. The papers had been carefully torn to the same size from old scraps of paper, and bound together with vines threaded through holes punched in the corners.

It looked as if there was writing on the paper, but it had all been drenched by the rain, and the words were impossible to make out.