And so the image of death. The Big Wave, curling above, toppling upon, about to engulf the fragile vessels. The one print of Hokusai’s that everyone knows.
I am no surfer. I do not seek the perfect wave. I will simply remain here upon the shore and watch the water. It is enough of a reminder. My pilgrimage winds down, though the end is not yet in sight.
Well … I see Fuji. Call Fuji the end. As with the barrel’s hoop of the first print, the circle closes about him.
On my way to this place I halted in a small glade I came upon and bathed myself in a stream which ran through it. There I used the local wood to construct a low altar. Cleansing my hands each step of the way, I set before it incense made from camphorwood and from white sandalwood; I also placed there a bunch of fresh violets, a cup of vegetables, and a cup of fresh water from the stream. Then I lit a lamp I had purchased and filled with rapeseed oil. Upon the altar I set my image of the god Kokuzo, which I had brought with me from home, facing to the west where I stood. I washed again, then extended my right hand, middle finger bent to touch my thumb as I spoke the mantra for invoking Kokuzo. I drank some of the water. I lustrated myself with sprinklings of it and continued repetition of the mantra. Thereafter, I made the gesture of Kokuzo three times, hand to the crown of my head, to my right shoulder, left shoulder, heart and throat. I removed the white cloth in which Kokuzo’s picture had been wrapped. When I had sealed the area with the proper repetitions, I meditated in the same position as Kokuzo in the picture and invoked him. After a time the mantra ran by itself, over and over.
Finally, there was a vision, and I spoke, telling all that had happened, all that I intended to do, and asking for strength and guidance. Suddenly, I saw his sword descending, descending like slow lightning, to sever a limb from a tree, which began to bleed. And then it was raining, both within the vision and upon me, and I knew that that was all to be had on the matter.
I wound things up, cleaned up, donned my poncho, and headed on my way.
The rain was heavy, my boots grew muddy, and the temperature dropped. I trudged on for a long while, and the cold crept into my bones. My toes and fingers became numb.
I kept constant lookout for a shelter, but did not spot any place where I could take refuge from the storm. Later, it changed from a downpour to a drizzle to a weak mistlike fall when I saw what could be a temple or shrine in the distance. I headed for it, hoping for some hot tea, a fire, and a chance to change my socks and clean my boots.
A priest stopped me at the gate. I told him my situation, and he looked uncomfortable.
“It is our custom to give shelter to anyone,” he said. “But there is a problem.”
“I will be happy to make a cash donation,” I said, “if too many others have passed this way and reduced your stores. I really just wanted to get warm.”
“Oh no, it is not a matter of supplies,” he told me, “and for that matter very few have been by here recently. The problem is of a different sort, and it embarrasses me to state it. It makes us sound old-fashioned and superstitious, when actually this is a very modern temple. But recently we have been—ah—haunted.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Bestial apparitions have been coming and going from the library and record room beside the head priest’s quarters. They stalk the shrine, pass through our rooms, pace the grounds, then return to the library or else fade away.”
He studied my face, as if seeking derision, belief, disbelief—anything. I merely nodded.
“It is most awkward,” he added. “A few simple exorcisms have been attempted but to no avail.”
“For how long has this been going on?” I asked.
“For about three days,” he replied.
“Has anyone been harmed by them?”
“No. They are very intimidating, but no one has been injured. They are distracting, too, when one is trying to sleep—that is, to meditate—for they produce a tingling feeling and sometimes cause the hair to rise up.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Are there many of them?”
“It varies. Usually just one. Sometimes two. Occasionally three.”
“Does your library by any chance contain a computer terminal?”
“Yes, it does,” he answered. “As I said, we are very modern. We keep our records with it, and we can obtain printouts of sacred texts we do not have on hand—and other things.”
“If you will shut the terminal down for a day, they will probably go away,” I told him, “and I do not believe they will return.”
“I would have to check with my superior before doing a thing like that. You know something of these matters?”
“Yes, and in the meantime I would still like to warm myself, if I may.”
“Very well. Come this way.”
I followed him, cleaning my boots and removing them before entering. He led me around to the rear and into an attractive room which looked upon the temple’s garden.
“I will go and see that a meal is prepared for you, and a brazier of charcoal that you may warm yourself,” he said as he excused himself.
Left by myself I admired the golden carp drifting in a pond only a few feet away, its surface occasionally punctuated by raindrops, and a little stone bridge which crossed the pond, a stone pagoda, paths wandering among stones and shrubs. I wanted to cross that bridge—how unlike that metal span, thrusting, cold, and dark!—and lose myself there for an age or two. Instead, I sat down and gratefully gulped the tea which arrived moments later, and I warmed my feet and dried my socks in the heat of the brazier which came a little while after that.
Later, I was halfway through a meal and enjoying a conversation with the young priest, who had been asked to keep me company until the head priest could come by and personally welcome me, when I saw my first epigon of the day.
It resembled a very small, triple-trunked elephant walking upright along one of the twisting garden paths, sweeping the air to either side of the trail with those snakelike appendages. It had not yet spotted me.
I called it to the attention of the priest, who was not faced in that direction.
“Oh my!” he said, fingering his prayer beads.
While he was looking that way, I shifted my staff into a readily available position beside me.
As it drifted nearer, I hurried to finish my rice and vegetables. I was afraid my bowl might be upset in the skirmish soon to come.
The priest glanced back when he heard the movement of the staff along the flagstones.
“You will not need that,” he said. “As I explained, these demons are not aggressive.”
I shook my head as I swallowed another mouthful.
“This one will attack,” I said, “when it becomes aware of my presence. You see, I am the one it is seeking.”
“Oh my!” he repeated.
I stood then as its trunks swayed in my direction and it approached the bridge.
“This one is more solid than usual,” I commented. “Three days, eh?”
“Yes.”
I moved about the tray and took a step forward. Suddenly, it was over the bridge and rushing toward me. I met it with a straight thrust, which it avoided. I spun the staff twice and struck again as it was turning. My blow landed, and I was hit by two of the trunks simultaneously—once on the breast, once on the cheek. The epigon went out like a burned hydrogen balloon and I stood there rubbing my face, looking about me the while.
Another slithered into our room from within the temple. I lunged suddenly and caught it on the first stroke.
“I think perhaps I should be leaving now,” I stated. “Thank you for your hospitality. Convey my regrets to the head priest that I did not get to meet him. I am warm and fed and I have learned what I wanted to know about your demons. Do not even bother about the terminal. They will probably cease to visit you shortly, and they should not return.”
“You are certain?”
“I know them.”
“I did not know the terminals were haunted. The sale
sman did not tell us.”
“Yours should be all right now.”
He saw me to the gate.
“Thank you for the exorcism,” he said.
“Thanks for the meal. Good-bye.”
I traveled for several hours before I found a place to camp in a shallow cave, using my poncho as a rain-screen.
And today I came here to watch for the wave of death. Not yet, though. No truly big ones in this sea. Mine is still out there, somewhere.
19. MT. FUJI FROM SHICHIRIGAHAMA
Fuji past pine trees, through shadow, clouds rising beside him … It is getting on into the evening of things. The weather was good today, my health stable.
I met two monks upon the road yesterday, and I traveled with them for a time. I was certain that I had seen them somewhere else along the way, so I greeted them and asked if this were possible. They said that they were on a pilgrimage of their own, to a distant shrine, and they admitted that I looked familiar, also. We took our lunch together at the side of the road. Our conversation was restricted to generalities, though they did ask me whether I had heard of the haunted shrine in Kanagawa. How quickly such news travels. I said that I had, and we reflected upon its strangeness.
After a time I became annoyed. Every turning of the way that I took seemed a part of their route, also. While I’d welcomed a little company, I’d no desire for long-term companions, and it seemed their choices of ways approximated mine too closely. Finally, when we came to a split in the road I asked them which fork they were taking. They hesitated, then said that they were going right. I took the left-hand path. A little later they caught up with me. They had changed their minds, they said.
When we reached the next town, I offered a man in a car a good sum of money to drive me to the next village. He accepted, and we drove away and left them standing there.
I got out before we reached the next town, paid him, and watched him drive off. Then I struck out upon a footpath I had seen, going in the general direction I desired. At one point I left the trail and cut through the woods until I struck another path.
I camped far off the trail when I finally bedded down, and the following morning I took pains to erase all sign of my presence there. The monks did not reappear. They may have been quite harmless, or their designs quite different, but I must be true to my carefully cultivated paranoia.
Which leads me to note that man in the distance—a Westerner, I’d judge, by his garments.… He has been hanging around taking pictures for some time. I will lose him shortly, of course, if he is following me—or even if he isn’t.
It is terrible to have to be this way for too long a period of time. Next I will be suspecting schoolchildren.
I watch Fuji as the shadows lengthen. I will continue to watch until the first star appears. Then I will slip away.
And so I see the sky darken. The photographer finally stows his gear and departs.
I remain alert, but when I see the first star, I join the shadows and fade like the day.
20. MT. FUJI FROM INUME PASS
Through fog and above it. It rained a bit earlier. And there is Fuji, storm clouds above his brow. In many ways I am surprised to have made it this far. This view, though, makes everything worthwhile.
I sit upon a mossy rock and record in my mind the changing complexion of Fuji as a quick rain veils his countenance, ceases, begins again.
The winds are strong here. The fogbank raises ghostly limbs and lowers them. There is a kind of numb silence beneath the wind’s monotone mantra.
I make myself comfortable, eating, drinking, viewing, as I go over my final plans once again. Things wind down. Soon the circle will be closed.
I had thought of throwing away my medicine here as an act of bravado, as a sign of full commitment. I see this now as a foolishly romantic gesture. I am going to need all of my strength, all of the help I can get, if I am to have a chance at succeeding. Instead of discarding the medicine here I take some.
The winds feel good upon me. They come on like waves, but they are bracing.
A few travelers pass below. I draw back, out of their line of sight. Harmless, they go by like ghosts, their words carried off by the wind, not even reaching this far. I feel a small desire to sing, but I restrain myself.
I sit for a long while, lost in a reverie of the elements. It has been good, this journey into the past, living at the edge once again.…
Below me. Another vaguely familiar figure comes into view, lugging equipment. I cannot distinguish features from here, nor need I. As he halts and begins to set up his gear, I know that it is the photographer of Shichirigahama, out to capture another view of Fuji more permanent than any I desire.
I watch him for a time, and he does not even glance my way. Soon I will be gone again, without his knowledge. I will allow this one as a coincidence. Provisionally, of course. If I see him again, I may have to kill him. I will be too near my goal to permit even the possibility of interference to exist.
I had better depart now, for I would rather travel before than behind him.
Fuji-from-on-high, this was a good resting place. We will see you again soon.
Come, Hokusai, let us be gone.
21. MT. FUJI FROM THE TŌTŌMI MOUNTAINS
Gone the old sawyers, splitting boards from a beam, shaping them. Only Fuji, of snow and clouds, remains. The men in the print work in the old way, like the Owari barrel-maker. Yet, apart from those of the fishermen who merely draw their needs from nature, these are the only two prints in my book depicting people actively shaping something in their world. Their labors are too traditional for me to see the image of the Virgin and the Dynamo within them. They could have been performing the same work a thousand years before Hokusai.
Yet it is a scene of humanity shaping the world, and so it leads me down trails of years to this time, this day of sophisticated tools and large-scale changes. I see within it the image of what was later wrought, of the metal skin and pulsing flows the world would come to wear. And Kit is there, too, godlike, riding electronic waves.
Troubling. Yet bespeaking an ancient resilience, as if this, too, is but an eyeblink glimpse of humanity’s movement in time, and whether I win or lose, the raw stuff remains and will triumph ultimately over any obstacle. I would really like to believe this, but I must leave certainty to politicians and preachers. My way is laid out and invested with my vision of what must be done.
I have not seen the photographer again, though I caught sight of the monks yesterday, camped on the side of a distant hill. I inspected them with my telescope, and they were the same ones with whom I had traveled briefly. They had not noticed me, and I passed them by way of a covering detour. Our trails have not crossed since.
Fuji, I have taken twenty-one of your aspects within me now. Live a little, die a little. Tell the gods, if you think of it, that a world is about to die.
I hike on, camping early in a field close to a monastery. I do not wish to enter there after my last experience in a modern holy place. I bed down in a concealed spot nearby, amid rocks and pine tree shoots. Sleep comes easily, lasts till some odd hour.
I am awake suddenly and trembling, in darkness and stillness. I cannot recall a sound from without or a troubling dream from within. Yet I am afraid, even to move. I breathe carefully and wait.
Drifting, like a lotus on a pond, it has come up beside me, towers above me, wears stars like a crown, glows with its own milky supernal light. It is a delicate-featured image of a bodhisattva, not unlike Kwannon, in garments woven of moonbeams.
“Mari.”
Its voice is soft and caressing.
“Yes?” I answer.
“You have returned to travel in Japan. You are coming to me, are you not?”
The illusion is broken. It is Kit. He has carefully sculpted this epigon-form and wears it himself to visit me. There must be a terminal in the monastery. Will he try to force me?
“I was on my way to see you, yes,” I manage.
“You ma
y join me now, if you would.”
He extends a wonderfully formed hand, as in benediction.
“I’ve a few small matters I must clear up before we are reunited.”
“What could be more important? I have seen the medical reports. I know the condition of your body. It would be tragic if you were to die upon the road, this close to your exaltation. Come now.”
“You have waited this long, and time means little to you.”
“It is you that I am concerned with.”
“I assure you I shall take every precaution. In the meantime, there is something which has been troubling me.”
“Tell me.”
“Last year there was a revolution in Saudi Arabia. It seemed to promise well for the Saudis, but it also threatened Japan’s oil supply. Suddenly the new government began to look very bad on paper, and a new counterrevolutionary group looked stronger and better-tempered than it actually was. Major powers intervened successfully on the side of the counterrevolutionaries. Now they are in power and they seem even worse than the first government which had been overthrown. It seems possible, though incomprehensible to most, that computer readouts all over the world were somehow made to be misleading. And now the Osaka Conference is to be held to work out new oil agreements with the latest regime. It looks as if Japan will get a very good deal out of it. You once told me that you are above such mundane matters, but I wonder? You are Japanese, you loved your country. Could you have intervened in this?”
“What if I did? It is such a small matter in the light of eternal values. If there is a touch of sentiment for such things remaining within me, it is not dishonorable that I favor my country and my people.”
“And if you did it in this, might you not be moved to intervene again one day, on some other matter where habit or sentiment tell you you should?”
“What of it?” he replies. “I but extend my finger and stir the dust of illusion a bit. If anything, it frees me even further.”
“I see,” I answer.
“I doubt that you do, but you will when you have joined me. Why not do it now?”
“Soon,” I say. “Let me settle my affairs.”
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