For the next five miles, the road twisted and turned up the mountain in a series of switchbacks. Reaching the heart of the mountain, I turned the corner around a huge boulder and worked my way through a tangle of tree roots. This was when I stopped to look at the map, for the trail had become impossibly difficult.
It was the same road, all right—whether you hear about it or see it on a map. There was no mistake. It was the old road, though knowing this was no consolation. The map was reliable, but all it showed was a sign for “wilderness area” with a red line drawn over it.
Maybe it was too much to ask for notations that would indicate the true difficulties of the trail—snakes, insects, birds’ eggs, and the suffocating odors of the grass. I folded the map, stuffed it into my kimono, took a deep breath, and, with the nenbutsu on my lips, started off again. I had the best of intentions, but before I had taken another step, another snake crossed my path.
“No use,” I thought, wondering for the first time if this might not be the doing of the mountain spirits. I threw down my staff, got on my knees, and placed both hands on the baking earth. “I’m truly sorry to bother you,” I fervently implored the gods. “But please let me pass. I’ll go quietly, I promise. I won’t disturb your afternoon nap. Look, I’ve already thrown away my walking stick.” I was truly at wit’s end.
When I raised my head, I heard a terrifying, rushing sound. This time, I thought, it must be a gigantic snake three, four, five feet long, maybe more. Before my eyes, the grass moved in a straight line that gradually approached the ravine to my left. Then the peak towering above me, indeed the entire mountain, began swaying back and forth. With my hair standing on end, I froze in my tracks as a coolness pierced my bones. It was then that I realized it was not a giant snake at all but a mountain gale, and the sound I was hearing was the wind’s echo. It was as if a whirlwind had originated deep in the mountains and had suddenly rushed out of an opening it had created for itself. Had the mountain gods answered my prayer? The snakes were nowhere to be seen, and the heat dissipated. Courage returned to my heart, and strength to my legs. Before long I learned why the wind had suddenly grown so chilly: just ahead was a deep forest.
There is a saying about the Amō Pass—that it rains there even on a cloudless day. People also talk about the remote forests that haven’t been touched by an ax since the age of the gods. Up to this point there hadn’t been many trees, but now—
Stepping into the cold, damp woods, I thought about how there would be crabs rather than snakes crawling around now. As I walked ahead, it became dark. Cryptomeria, pine, Chinese nettle—there was just enough light to allow me to tell the trees apart. Where the shafts of weak sunlight touched the earth, the mountain soil was pitch black. Depending on how the sun pierced the canopy of treetops, though, the light was also mottled blue and red. Some of the places were textured and very beautiful.
Occasionally my toes would get caught in the threadlike rivulets that had formed from the water dripping from the leaves. These drops had traveled from branch to branch, originating high in the forest canopy. They were joined by the steadily falling evergreen leaves and the rustling of some other trees that I couldn’t identify. Some leaves fell on my hat, and some landed behind me where I had just walked. They, too, had collected on the branches, and it was my guess that some had taken decades to reach the forest floor.
8
I don’t have to tell you how despondent I was. But I suppose a dark place like that is better than daylight for strengthening one’s faith and pondering the eternal truths, even for a coward such as myself. At least it wasn’t as hot as before. My legs were beginning to feel much stronger, and so I walked much more quickly, thinking I was already three-quarters of the way through the woods. But just then something fell, apparently from the branches five or six feet above my head, and landed on my hat.
It felt like a lead sinker. Perhaps it was the fruit of a tree. I shook my head once, twice. But it stuck to my hat. I reached up and grabbed it. Whatever it was, it was cold and slimy.
In my hand it looked like a sliced-open sea slug with no eyes or mouth. It was alive, no question about that. And how repulsive! I tried to fling it away, but it only slid down and dangled from my fingers. When it finally fell off, I noticed bright red drops of blood dripping. Surprised, I brought my hand up to take a closer look and discovered another creature, similar to the first, dangling from my elbow. It was about half-an-inch wide and three inches long. It looked like an enormous mountain slug.
As I examined the creature in stupefied amazement, it sucked blood from my arm, swelling larger and larger from the tail up. It had brown stripes on its dull black skin, like a cucumber with warts. Now I could see it for what it was—a blood-sucking leech!
There was no mistaking it for anything else, though it was so huge that I hadn’t recognized it at first. No rice paddy, no swamp, however famous for its grotesqueries, had leeches like this.
I gave my elbow a vigorous shake, but the animal was firmly attached and wouldn’t let go. Even though it was the last thing I felt like doing, I grabbed the leech with my other hand and pulled until it finally came off with a sucking sound.
I couldn’t bear the thought of the leech touching me a moment longer and immediately flung it to the ground. These dumb creatures had taken over the woods by the thousands, and the dank, sunless forest had been prepared especially for that purpose. When I tried to squash the thing under my foot, the ground was soft and the leech merely sank into the muck. It was impossible to crush.
Already my neck had started to itch. There was another one! I tried to brush it off, but my hand only slipped over its body. Meanwhile, another had worked its way into my kimono and was hiding on my chest. I examined it with horror and discovered still another on my shoulder.
I jumped up and down. I shook my entire body. I ran out from under the large branch in order to get away. As I ran, I frantically grabbed at the ones that were sucking away at my blood. I was under the impression that the leeches had fallen from one particular branch, but when I looked back at the tree, I saw that the whole thing was swarming with them. On the right, on the left, on the branch in front—they were everywhere!
I lost control and shouted out in terror. And then what do you think happened? Even as I stood there watching, a shower of thin, black leeches began raining down on me.
They covered the tops of my sandaled feet and piled themselves one on top of the other. They stuck to the sides of my feet and made my toes disappear beneath their disgusting mass. As I watched those blood-sucking creatures squirming and pulsing and heaving, I started to feel faint. It was then that the strangest thought occurred to me.
These terrifying mountain leeches had been gathered there since the age of the gods, lying in wait for passersby. After decades and centuries of drinking untold quantities of human blood, they would have their fill and disgorge every ounce! Then the earth will melt. One by one, the mountains will turn into vast, muddy swamps of blood. And at the same time, all these enormous trees, large enough to block out even the midday sun, will break into small pieces that will then turn into even more leeches. Yes. That’s exactly what will happen!
9
The destruction of mankind will not come with the rupture of the earth’s fragile crust and with fire pouring down from the heavens. Nor will it come when the waves of the ocean wash over the land. Rather, it will begin with the forests of Hida turning into leeches and end with the black creatures swimming in blood and muck. Only then will a new generation of life begin.
It was true that nothing had seemed so unusual about the forest when I first entered it. But once I had, conditions were as I’ve just described. If I continued on, I would discover that the trees were rotting from the roots up and had turned into leeches, every one. There was no hope for me! It was my fate to be killed in the woods.
Suddenly it occurred to me that such are the thoughts of those who sense the approach of death. If I was going to perish anywa
y, I thought, I might at least try to reach the shore of this vast swamp of blood and muck, to see with my own eyes a place that ordinary people couldn’t imagine in their wildest dreams. The decision made, I came oblivious to the ghastliness of my situation. The leeches stuck to my body like beads to a rosary; but my hands found them and plucked them off one after another. With arms flailing and legs marching, I made my way like a madman dancing through the forest.
At first, my body swelled and the itching was unbearable. But then I felt as though I’d been reduced to pain-racked skin and bone. As I pressed on, the attack of the blood-sucking leeches continued.
My sight grew dim, and I felt as though I was about to collapse. But just as I reached the height of my tribulations, I caught a faint glimpse of the distant moon, as if I had reached the end of a tunnel. At last, I emerged from the leech-infested forest.
When I saw the blue sky above me, I threw myself down on the road and began smashing the creatures to pieces. I wanted nothing more than to reduce them to the dust of the earth. I rolled on the ground, not caring if it were covered with gravel or needles; and after scraping off more than ten, I tumbled ahead another thirty feet before I stood up with a shudder. My friend, those creatures had had their way with me. Here and there in the surrounding mountains, the evening cicadas were crying against the backdrop of this forest that was so intent on turning itself into a great swamp of blood and muck. The sun was low in the sky. The bottom of the ravine was already dark with shadows.
There was a chance I might become food for wild dogs, but even that would be an improvement over being sucked to death by leeches. The road sloped gently downhill. Carrying my bamboo walking stick on my shoulder, I made a hasty escape.
If only I hadn’t been suffering such indescribable torment—at once so painful, itchy, and ticklish—I would have danced down the road through the Hida Mountains, chanting a sutra as my accompaniment. But I had recovered enough to be able to think about chewing one of my Seishintan pills and applying the paste to my wounds. I pinched myself. Yes, I really had returned from the dead. Even so, I wondered what had become of the medicine peddler from Toyama. My guess was that he was in the swamp behind me, long since reduced to blood, his corpse nothing but skin and a skeleton, lying in some dark spot in the woods with hundreds of the filthy, disgusting creatures still sucking on his bones. It would be useless to try to dissolve them with vinegar. With my mind filled with such thoughts, I continued down the slope, which went on for some distance.
When I finally reached the bottom, I heard the sound of running water. There, in the middle of nowhere, I came upon a small earthen bridge.
With the music of the water in my ears, I immediately thought of how wonderful it would feel to throw my sucked-over body headfirst into the river below and to soak it there. If the bridge collapsed as I tried to cross over, so be it.
Giving no thought to the danger, I started across. The bridge was a bit unsteady, but I made it. On the other side, the trail rose steeply again. Yet another climb. Is there no end to human suffering?
10
Tired as I was, I didn’t think I could make it over one more hill. But then, coming from up ahead, I heard the echoing sound of a neighing horse.
Was it a packhorse driver on his way home? Or just a horse passing by? Not much time had passed since my chance meeting with the farmer that morning, yet I felt as though I had been denied the company of my fellowmen for at least several years. If that was a horse I heard, there should be a village nearby. Given new courage by the thought, I pushed ahead.
Before I knew it, I was standing in front of a secluded mountain cottage. As it was summer, all the sliding doors had been left open. I couldn’t locate a front gate, but directly before me was a dilapidated veranda. On it sat a man. What kind of man, I couldn’t really tell.
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” I called out in a pleading voice, as if imploring him for help.
“Excuse me,” I said again, but received no reply. He looked like a child. His head was cocked to one side so that one ear almost touched his shoulder. He stared at me with small, expressionless eyes. He was so listless, it seemed he couldn’t even be bothered to move his pupils. His kimono was short, the sleeves only coming to his elbows. His vest was properly starched and tied in front, but his stomach protruded from the kimono like a huge, smooth drum, and his belly button stuck out like the stem of a pumpkin. He fingered it with one hand, while waving the other in the air as if he were a ghost.
His legs were sprawled out as if he had forgotten he had them. Had he not been seated squarely on the veranda, I’m sure he would have toppled over. He appeared to be about twenty-two or twenty-three years old. His mouth hung open, his upper lip curled back. His nose was flat and his forehead bulged. His hair had grown out and was long like a cockscomb in front, flipped all the way back to his collar and covering his ears. Was he a mute? An idiot? A young man about to turn into a frog? I was surprised by what I saw. He presented no real danger to me, but what a bizarre sight!
“Excuse me,” I said again.
Despite his appearance, I had no choice but to try to communicate with him. My words of greeting, though, made little difference. He only stirred slightly and flopped his head over so it now rested on his left shoulder, mouth still agape.
I couldn’t anticipate what he might do. But I did feel that if I weren’t careful, he might suddenly grab me and then, while fiddling with his navel, lick my face instead of answering my inquiries.
I stepped back. But then I thought that no matter how out-of-the-way this place might be, no one would leave such a person alone. I stood on tiptoe and spoke a little louder.
“Is anyone home?”
I heard the horse whinny again. The sound came from behind the cottage.
“Who is it?” It was a woman’s voice, coming from the storage room. My goodness! Would she come slithering out, scales on her white neck, trailing a tail behind her? I fell back another step.
And then she appeared—a petite, attractive woman with a clear voice and a gentle manner. “Honorable Monk,” she greeted me.
I let out a huge sigh and stood still. “Yes,” I finally said and bowed.
She sat down on the veranda and leaned forward, looking at me as I stood in the evening shadows. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She didn’t invite me to stay the night, so I assumed her husband was out. It seems they had decided not to take in any travelers.
I quickly stepped forward. If I didn’t ask now, I might lose my chance.
I bowed politely. “I’m on my way to Shinshō. Can you tell me how far it is to the next inn?”
11
“I’m afraid you still have nineteen miles or more to go.”
“Then perhaps you might know of a place nearby where I could stay the night?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” She stared into my eyes without blinking.
“I see. Well, actually, even if you were to tell me that I could find lodging nearby and that they’d put me up in their best room and fan me all night as an act of piety, I really don’t think I could take another step. Please, I beg you. Even a shed or the corner of a horse stall would be fine.” I said this because I knew that the horse I had heard couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else.
The woman considered my request for a moment. Suddenly she turned, picked up a cloth bag, and started pouring rice from it into a pot at her side. She emptied the bag as if it were filled with water. With one hand steadying the pot, she looked down and scooped up the rice with the other.
“You can stay here tonight,” she said at last. “We have just enough rice. Mountain cottages like this get cold at night, but it’s summer and you should be fine. So, please. Won’t you come in?”
As soon as she said this, I plunked myself down on the veranda. The woman got to her feet. “But, sir. There is one thing I have to ask of you.”
She was so forthright that I expected her to set down some impossible condition.
“Yes,” I said nervously. “What is it?”
“Nothing that important. It’s just that I have a bad habit of wanting to know what’s going on in the city. Even if you’re not in the mood to talk, I’ll keep asking you question after question. So you mustn’t tell me anything, not even a slip of the tongue. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’ll keep pestering you if you do. So you mustn’t say anything. Even if I beg you, you have to refuse. I just wanted you to know that.”
There seemed to be some hidden reason behind her request. It was the sort of thing you might expect to hear from a woman living in an isolated cottage where the mountains are tall and the valleys immeasurably deep. As it seemed an easy enough request to fulfill, I nodded. “That’s fine. Whatever you say.”
With this, the woman immediately became friendlier. “The house is a mess, but please come in. Make yourself at home. Should I get you some water so you can wash up?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. But I could use a washcloth. And would you mind getting it wet and wringing it out for me? I ran into a little trouble along the way. I feel so sticky I’d like to wash up, if I could trouble you for that.”
“You do look hot. It must have been hard traveling on a day like this. If this were an inn, you could take a bath. They say that’s what travelers really appreciate most. I’m afraid, though, you won’t get even a cup of tea here, let alone a tub of hot water. If you don’t mind going down the cliff behind the house, though, there’s a beautiful stream. You could go there and wash.”
Hearing those words, I was ready to fly to the river. “That sounds perfect.”
“Then let me show you where it is. I have to wash the rice anyway.” The woman picked up the pot, placed it under her arm, then put on her straw sandals. Stooping over, she looked under the veranda and pulled out a pair of old wooden clogs, which she clapped together to shake off the dust. She set them down on the ground for me. “Please, wear these. Leave your straw sandals here.”
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 13