Hey Mortality

by Kinsella, Luke

  Continuing my exploration of this hidden temple, I discover that it holds the origin of the story that a photograph can steal your soul. It is said that when this temple was built before photographs were invented, the thought of an image of a person being captured was a direct link to the spiritual world. This history has also spread to the rest of the Sensō-ji area, where no mirrors can be seen at any of the temples or shrines. It makes me wonder if the Edo Period in Japan was populated by time travellers, building temples everywhere that predict future inventions, taking photographs of tourists in Yoshiwara, and writing books that don’t exist yet.

  As I leave the Drawing Light Temple, I discover another display of inconsistent historical information, a lantern.

  The Stone Lantern of Rokujizō was built in either 1146 or 1368, and already I find that there are too many contradictions. The sign even states that the details are unknown, yet, the lantern itself features typography that wasn’t used until 1834. So somehow, the lantern features Japanese text that was first used 688 years or 466 years after it was originally built. I am not sure of the relevance of these dates, but this fact will most likely remain on the sign forever, never to be analysed by anyone else again.

  Even the story about the origin of Sensō-ji, about a golden statue of Kannon fished from a lake, is riddled in confusion; the statue is no longer housed in Sensō-ji Temple, and has never actually been seen by anyone that can prove it existed in the first place. It all makes me very suspicious about religion; contradictions and false information. Thinking about the possibility that religion, stories, and some gods’ might not be even real, is something I had often considered before, and now it starts to become clearer in my mind. Maybe all of it is lies. I think about this for a moment as a wander to a small bridge over a lake of carp. I stand and contemplate and let ideas of religion flood through my mind, before shaking my head and continuing exploring.

  My suspicions surrounding the history behind Sensō-ji Temple are once again confirmed at the monument to Kume no Heinai. He was a samurai in the Edo Period, and a master of sword fighting. He killed many people over the years, before eventually turning good. He began to live in Kongo-in Temple, inside Sensō-ji Temple, and devoted himself to Zen Buddhism; holding religious services in honour of the souls of the people he killed. One day, he ordered his followers to carve his figure in stone, and bury it in a busy district of Asakusa, so that forever, people would step on him; presumably what he thought he deserved after years of killing. Oddly, Heinai was in good health the day the statue was ordered to be built, however, the next day, he died suddenly, as if his fate was already known.

  As I leave the compound full of conspiracies, paranoia, and sick of stories that don’t add up, I see it, the sign that confirms to me all, the Bell of Time.

  The innocent looking bell housed in a wooden structure, to the untrained eye, wouldn’t be significant. To my overactive imagination, this confirms my earlier suspicions that religion, or at least the area around Sensō-ji Temple, was built by time travellers, and this bell was their time machine. The inscription has been erased, but it probably said something that they didn’t want me to see.

  I leave Sensō-ji and start my walk back home. On my way to the Plum Ship, I pass Hanazono Pond and head to the shutter door. But, like everything else in my life, hidden amongst newly formed clouds, the painting is gone.

  14

  Every taken step, every moment, every second of time, and every thought, they all vanish like the painting. Now a sheet of pure black wet paint, drying silently in the sun, innocently disguising all that came before it. A world now covered with darkness. My world.

  All of my existence ticks away now, my only solace lost and discarded. A silent anger builds up within me, an anger that fills me with all of the rage in the universe. All concept of time will completely dissipate in this moment of fury. I want to fight and I want revenge. I see red and then remind myself that this isn’t the fault of anyone. This isn’t the universe trying to taunt me. This isn’t a demon trying to shatter the last object that takes the painted form of my only relief. No, this is something that even paranoia can’t begin to touch.

  And just as easily as my rage came upon me, I breathe deeply and slowly and try to relax. If someone wanted to paint over their shutter, then it is their choice, not mine; but why they would want to discard such a beautiful world of wonder is beyond me.

  As my rage slowly disappears, I too disappear and walk away. Thinking about how in the end, black paint or darkness will eventually consume everything I own and every memory. I too will tick away into the nothingness that comes with each step I take. Every second I am swamped by thoughts, enveloped by the knowledge that with each moment I am alive, something else disappears. The painting disappears. Time disappears. I too will disappear.

  And as I walk along, surrounded by thoughts of time and paintings lost, I know that everything will end in silence. But before silence comes chaos. My head becomes so full of madness that will one day fill my dreams, paint them black, and wake me from nightmares into a chaotic sea of paranoia. There is no escaping the darkness, it seems, nor the paranoia. It comes and goes but always returns. It bleeds from every scar of my unconscious self, bleeds constantly until it overflows; all the matter in my head filled with blood, submerged and encased, until even my consciousness becomes merged into a dream world.

  I arrive back at the Plum Ship filled with a sense of misery, and sit for a while on the steps. No red box. Fading photographs and blackened screens. And then I hear the stamping of the man that lives in 505. He passes me in his jet black suit once again, crosses the road without a smile, and walks at pace.

  I decide that of all days, nothing is left to lose. I am overpowered by the thoughts of discovery, a new distraction, something else to do other than to mourn my many losses.

  I wait until he is almost out of sight, before crossing the road and walking in his direction. At first he wanders through the west side of Yoshiwara, but he doesn’t enter an establishment; perhaps he is not interested in pleasure. Instead, he continues on, passing the adjoining street that houses the Ichiyō Memorial Hall, and to the main road that houses the temple of the rooster.

  I take great care not to be seen, but I don’t really need to, as when he walks, he does so with strong purpose and with an obvious direction in mind. He stares straight ahead, not once turning around, and not once do I see his face. Even so, I can still picture that all too familiar frown that he so often displays.

  After twenty minutes of following the sound of his stamping, with me ducking behind vending machines, and stopping off for the occasional half cigarette while maintaining earshot of his heavy feet, we eventually arrive at the busy Nippori Station.

  We pass the station, and he takes a left turn through a concrete underpass reserved for parked bicycles. I don’t enter because I feel that now, this might indeed be a trap of sorts. Instead, I wait until the sound of stamping begins to lessen, before considering my next move.

  Having visited here before, and getting to know the area quite well, I know that he has to turn left at the end of the underpass, and walk up some steep steps, then across a bridge that traverses the train tracks of the Yamanote Line. Even if I followed now, the opportunity to be spotted is greatest, so instead, I decide to wait.

  I think about Liar, Ichiyō, and the story of time travel that seems too far connected with the life of my own, that it is not without reference, not a chance find. Someone or something actively placed that story in my possession, but for whatever reason remains unknown.

  The moment flitters past, and I allow myself to wander the length of the dimly lit underpass, passing bicycles that look to have not been moved for years, and eventually to the steps.

  Looking up, there is no sign of Yakuza Guy and no sound in the distance, so I begin to run. I cover the length of the twenty or so steps in a few seconds, and begin to sprint across the bridge. The other side leads directly into Yanaka Cemetery, a favourit
e haunt of mine, although haunt would be an inappropriate word to use. A place I often come to contemplate and relax in the silence that the area offers.

  In the distance, mixed in with tombstones of silent ash, I see the suited man, slowly walking across a field of death; and the field of death is huge.

  There are no bodies in the ground. Every grave here features a cremated corpse in an urn. As I wander through the resting place of the dead, following the man in the black suit, I am surprised to find that he walks silently here, as if not wanting to disturb the sleeping souls of the deceased.

  Eventually, I follow him to the other side of the cemetery, to a stone wall that guards a temple.

  An interesting fact about the area of Yanaka is that it faces the direction of the Ox Tiger; depicted with horns, sharp claws, and evil. Because of this, it is located in an unlucky direction, and Yanaka shares the unfortunate possibility that it contains a demon gate, an invisible gate that leads directly to hell, known as a kimon. Often, temples in Japan face the same direction as this Chinese Zodiac symbol. The area around the cemetery features over thirty temples and shrines; initially built to help purify the area, close the gate of hell, and to prevent an oni demon from showing up and killing everyone.

  As I stand distracted by thoughts of death, it is in my periphery that I see, beyond the temple wall, the man in the black suit vanish into a burst of white light.

  Something impossible has happened. Something I find hard to believe. But I saw it, a light from nowhere, a pocket of light suddenly appearing for a second then disappearing forever. A man sucked into the void.

  Whatever that light was it scares me to the point that I dare not approach further. I dare not enter the grounds of the temple. Instead, I run.

  15

  I arrive back at my apartment just before the dusk sky blankets the Tokyo concrete, and I sit. I think. I consider that I myself have turned to madness. A state that is so easily pushed from my mind. Nobody wants to accept it, nobody wants to relish in it. No, I am fine, absolutely fine. A speck of dust in my eye or another trick of the light, and whatever that temple was, there is and will be a logical explanation as to what I saw.

  But, I know that, or even doubt that, doubt it more than I have ever doubted. I watched a man disappear into a sphere of light; vanish from this world. I have witnessed things already that are beyond the sense of reality. The photograph of me hidden in a mysterious box. The story that one day appeared to be in my possession. I am completely lost once again, a reoccurring theme it seems. Lost in whatever it is here.

  I came to Japan wanting the simple life. I would have been happy to take numerous part time jobs that covered the cost of my rent and my meals, and perhaps my alcohol and cigarettes. The rest of the time, I could enjoy a stress-free existence and just live. Because, just living, with basic needs fulfilled, is all that we need to survive. And, even if needs or distractions or addictions are not provided for, our very survival still remains true. Hell, I can sleep in the shopping arcade with the rest of the homeless if it gets too hard. There is always a way out. Everyone that wants to survive somehow manages to do so. For me, this would have been just fine for a year or two. I just wanted to relax and not have to think about boxes, or homelessness, or strange men in suits. I wanted none of this.

  I wander back to my room and lock the door behind me. Some deep intuition makes me drag my bed to barricade the door. I will stay here, stay in the safety of my room, where the demons and ghosts can’t enter, where peacefulness shrouds me. And here, I will try to sleep, I will try to dream of better days or simpler days. I want to forget it all.

  But, sleep is not forthcoming. The idea that a man just vanished, and a strange man at that, is too much for my intrigue and overactive imagination. Nobody has stirred my silent moments of thought more than him. So, I pull away the bed, and check the outside of the door. There are no scratches or claw marks, but there are no reasons that there would be. No evidence of anyone even passing my door during the time I waited. No footsteps or sighs.

  I decide that I have to close this now, close the mystery. I traipse outside not even bothering to switch to shoes. Sandals even in the early night-time heat are still too warm for feet here.

  I follow the same route as before, passing through the edge of Yoshiwara and beyond, toward Nippori Station. At night, the area is a bustle of drunk salaraymen hopping from one bar to the next; drunk from one drink and talking about work. Suits everywhere.

  I eventually arrive at the underpass. I am delighted to find that it is still illuminated. Bicycles bask in orange light. It makes me feel safe, but the same cannot be said about the darkness of Yanaka Cemetery.

  At the other side of the tombs, I arrive at the temple again. It is said to house the King of Hell, Enma Dai-Ō. Inside, there is a statue of the King of Hell carved from stone, with his servants sitting either side. His servants are Shimyo and Shiroku, and their job is to deliver the King’s judgement and record the King’s judgement respectively.

  It is said that Enma Dai-Ō will judge the conduct of the dead while they are still alive, and determine their destination after death. Rumour has it that if you tell a lie in front of the statue, Great King Enma will remove your tongue. I decide to test this out with a paradoxical thought, “You will cut out my tongue.” Nothing happens, therefore I have told a lie, meaning that Great King Enma should indeed cut out my tongue, but if he does, then I can’t have told a lie, therefore nothing can happen and this continues endlessly. The statue eventually disintegrates in a quarrel of logic in my mind, and for a second, I feel like a god. But then, the strangeness of reality returns, and for whatever reason I am consumed; basked in a glowing white light. And then I am gone.

  16

  I am standing on a tiled floor, light blue tiles littered and stained with dirt from a thousand footprints. Before me stands a row of twelve knights, each in shining silver panoplies, their faces hidden by helmets, unmoving. Like statues waiting to come to life.

  The room, if it could be considered one, stretches off into oblivion. I can see no end. There is no sign of a ceiling, just an endless stretch of muddy blue tiles and these knights, under a shimmering sky of stars.

  I consider walking away, but it appears I have nowhere to go. Just as I look behind me to see where the distance ends, I hear the rattle of metal, and in my periphery, I see movement.

  Each knight takes turn to approach, one by one they walk with heavy steps before stopping before me. They stand within a few inches, their helmets so close to mine that I can smell the steel. The knights are of equal size, and although they are slightly shorter in comparison to my height, they stare through the cracks in their helmets looking directly into my eyes.

  As each knight does this, I feel absolute fear. Like my soul is the black box of my existence, and they are watching parts or my life through darkened eyes. This goes on until the twelfth and final knight stares at me, his judgement almost lasts an eternity, before, without any warning, the floor below me disappears and I black out.

  I wake up on a mound of dirt by a bridge. A bridge that is reminiscent of the bridge in the strange manuscript I read. I stumble to my feet, and as I stand, I see the man from room 505, Yakuza Guy. Shocked but ever silent, I am. And the man—who from now on will be referred to as the Devil—stares at me looking puzzled. He doesn’t appear to have been expecting me. Perhaps I am here by mistake and can take my leave just as easily as I arrived.

  I decide to nod at him. He doesn’t nod back. I remember the thought of me tempting him with my paradox; if he is in fact the man that the statue is carved to represent.

  I realise now that I haven’t said a word since losing Liar, my life, since everything collapsed. Not a single word to anyone. I feel that my tongue cutting might be prolonged, at least for now.

  The Devil eventually grins, and then he speaks, “You seek the grim? So to why do you meddle and mess as I peddle distress? My realm of being is my helm and seeing you here as a seer is b
old. Yet, not words do I hear and for this is quite queer and for that I assume you are, as in fact, ignoble?”

  I cannot decipher his bad rhymes or questions; which are rhetorical, and which are literal, I have no clue. But, before I have chance to nod or shake, the Devil continues to speak.

  “So I ask you this, you do wise to not speak rhyme, you do wise to not say a word in my presence, for words mean less than thought. Look at the gods’ of creation, can you hear them now?”

  I shake my head in response.

  “You cannot see the gods’, even the actions they left behind, you cannot hear them. Gods’ are without tongues. Those immortalised by shrines and temples, they took the sacrifice of being. To become immortal, enshrined, they cannot be able to influence. Without tongues they cannot change the very people that seek their words. They can have no influence on the people that call worship to them. They are nothing more than empty histories of days passed.

  “To be a god you have to be immortal. Sat in silent contemplation. Allowing others to make judgement of your being. All the gods’ come together as a large unspoken mouth. Gods’ do not communicate, change, or fear. And, it is such silence that you present to me, that I, make a judgement upon you. To judge a valid silent god, yours, is based on love. A person you love. A person in need of saving. A person you will never see again. Already flowing in the depths of hell right now, she. Not in the world of mortals, but, the ever flowing time of infinity. She is already here and has been forever. Mistaken and being broken. Raped and tortured by her captors. The gods’ above do not approve of her lies. But lies are the work of others; my kind. Not the silent but the active. With that thought, the person that you call Liar will always be here. But, you have a choice. Reach out, speak to her, touch her. Everything in the world for just a spoken word, cancel out your silent sacrifice. I deal now. Choose her and join her in the waters of hell.”