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 Totomi 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 may 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, in 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.”
“I will give you a few more days,” he says, “and then you must be with me forever.”
I bow my head.
“I will see you again soon,” I tell him.
“Good night, my love.”
“Good night.”
He drifts away then, his feet not touching the ground, and he passes through the wall of the monastery.
I reach for my medicine and my brandy. A double dose of each . . .
22. Mt. Fuji from the Sumida River in Edo
And so I come to the place of crossing. The print shows a ferryman bearing a number of people across the river into the city and evening. Fuji lies dark and brooding in the farthest distance. Here I do think of Charon, but the thought is not so unwelcome as it once might have been. I take the bridge myself, though.
As Kit has promised me a little grace, I walk freely the bright streets, to smell the smells and hear the noises and watch the people going their ways. I wonder what Hokusai would have done in contemporary times? He is silent on the matter.
I drink a little, I smile occasionally, I even eat a good meal. I am tired of reliving my life. I seek no consolations of philosophy or literature. Let me merely walk in the city tonight, running my shadow over faces and storefronts, bars and theaters, temples and offices. Anything which approaches is welcome tonight. I eat sushi,I gamble, I dance. There is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow for me now. When a man places his hand upon my shoulder and smiles, I move it to my breast and laugh. He is good for an hour’s exercise and laughter in a small room he finds us. I make him cry out several times before I leave him, though he pleads with me to stay. Too much to do and see, love. A greeting and a farewell.
Walking. . . . Through parks, alleys, gardens, plazas. Crossing. . . . Small bridges and larger ones, streets and walkways. Bark, dog. Shout, child. Weep, woman. I come and go among you. I feel you with a dispassionate passion. I take all of you inside me that I may hold the world here, for a night.
I walk in a light rain and in its cool aftermath. My garments are damp, then dry again. I visit a temple. I pay a taximan to drive me about the town. I eat a late meal. I visit another bar. I come upon a deserted playground, where I swing and watch the stars.
And I stand before a fountain splaying its waters into the lightening sky, until the stars are gone and only their lost sparkling falls about me.
Then breakfast and a long sleep, another breakfast and a longer one . . .
And you, my father, there on the sad height? I must leave you soon, Hokusai.
23. Mt. Fuji from Edo
Walking again, within a cloudy evening. How long has it been since I spoke with Kit? Too long, I am sure. An epigon could come bounding my way at any moment.
I have narrowed my search to three temples—none of them the one in the print, to be sure, only that uppermost portion of it viewed from that impossible angle, Fuji back past its peak, smoke, clouds, fog between—but I’ve a feeling one of these three will do in the blue of evening.
I have passed all of them many times, like a circling bird. I am loath to do more than this, for I feel the right choice will soon be made for me. I became aware sometime back that I was being followed, really followed this time, on my rounds. It seems that my worst fear was not ungrounded; Kit is employing human agents as well as epigons. How he sought them and how he bound them to his service I do not care to guess. Who else would be following me at this point, to see that I keep my promise, to force me to it if necessary?
I slow my pace. But whoever is behind me does the same. Not yet. Very well.
Fog rolls in. The echoes of my footfalls are muffled. Also those at my back. Unfortunate.
I head for the other temple. I slow again when I come into its vicinity, all of my senses extended, alert.
Nothing. No one. It is all right. Time is no problem. I move on.
After a long while I approach the precincts of the third temple. This must be it, but I require some move from my pursuer to give me the sign. Then, of course, I must deal with that person before I make my own move. I hope that it will not be too difficult, for everything will turn upon that small conflict.
I slow yet again and nothing appears but the moisture of the fog upon my face and the knuckles of my hand wrapped about my staff. I halt. I seek in my pocket after a box of cigarettes I had purchased several days ago in my festive mood. I had doubted they would shorten my life.
As I raise one to my lips, I hear the words, “You desire a light, madam?”
I nod my head as I turn.
It is one of the two monks who extends a lighter to me and flicks forth its flame. I notice for the first time the heavy ridge of callous along the edge of his hand. He had kept it carefully out of sight before, as we sojourned together. The other monk appears to his rear, to his left.
“Thank you.”
I inhale and send smoke to join the fog.
“You have come a long way,” the man states.
“Yes.”
“And your pilgrimage has come to an end.”
“Oh? Here?”
He smiles and nods. He turns his head toward the temple.
“This is our temple,” he says, “where we worship the new bodhisattva. He awaits you within.”
“He can continue to wait, till I finish my cigarette,” I say.
“Of course.”
With a casual glance, I study the man. He is probably a very good karateka.I am very good with the bo. If it were only him, I would bet on myself. But two of them, and the other probably just as good as this one? Kokuzo, where is your sword? I am suddenly afraid.
I turn away, I drop the cigarette, I spin into my attack. He is ready, of course. No matter. I land the first blow.
By then, however, the other man is circling and I must wheel and move defensively, turning, turning. If this goes on for too long, they will be able to wear me down.
I hear a grunt as I connect with a shoulder. Something, anyway . . .
Slowly, I am forced to give way, to retreat toward the temple wall. If I am driven too near it, it will interfere with my strokes. I try again to hold my ground, to land a decisive blow. . . .
Suddenly, the man to my right collapses, a dark figure on his back. No time to speculate. I turn my attention to the first monk, and moments later I land another blow, then another.
My rescuer is not doing so well, however. The second monk has shaken him off and begins striking at him with bone-crushing blows. My ally knows something of unarmed combat, though, for he gets into a defensive stance and blocks many of these, even landing a few of his own. Still, he is clearly overmatched.
Finally I sweep a leg and deliver another shoulder blow. I try three strikes at my man while he is down, but he rolls away from all of them and comes up again. I hear a sharp cry from my right, but I cannot look away from my adversary.
He comes in again and this time I catch him with a sudden reversal and crush his temple with a follow-up. I spin then, barely in time, for my ally lies on the ground and the second monk is upon me.
Either I am lucky or he has been injured. I catch the man quickly and follow up with a rapid series of strikes which take him down, out, and out for good.
I rush to the side of the third man and kneel beside him, panting. I had seen his gold earring as I moved about the second monk.
“Boris.” I take his hand. “Why are you here?”
“I told you—I could take a few days—to help you,” he says, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Found you. Was taking pictures . . . And see . . . You needed me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Grateful, but sorry. You’re a better man than I thought.”
He squeezes my hand. “I told you I liked you—Maryushka. Too bad . . . we didn’t have—more time . . .”
I lean and kiss him, getting blood on my mouth. His hand relaxes within my own. I’ve never been a good judge of people, except after the fact.
And so I rise. I leave him there on the wet pavement. There is nothing I can do for him. I go into the temple.
It is dark near the entrance, but there are many votive lights to the rear. I do not see anyone about. I did not think that I would. It was just
to have been the two monks, ushering me to the terminal. I head toward the lights. It must be somewhere back there.
I hear rain on the rooftop as I search. There are little rooms, off to either side, behind the lights.
It is there, in the second one. And even as I cross the threshold, I feel that familiar ionization which tells me that Kit is doing something here.
I rest my staff against the wall and go nearer. I place my hand upon the humming terminal.
“Kit,” I say, “I have come.”
No epigon grows before me, but I feel his presence and he seems to speak to me as he did on that night so long ago when I lay back upon the couch and donned the helmet:
“I knew that you would be here tonight.”
“So did I,” I reply.
“All of your business is finished?”
“Most of it.”
“And you are ready now to be joined with me?”
“Yes.”
Again I feel that movement, almost sexual in nature, as he flows into me. In a moment he would bear me away into his kingdom.
Tatemae is what you show to others. Honne is your real intention. As Musashi cautioned in the Book of Waters, I try not to reveal my honne even at this moment. I simply reach out with my free hand and topple my staff so that its metal tip, batteries engaged, falls against the terminal.
“Mari! What have you done?” he asks, within me now, as the humming ceases.
“I have cut off your line of retreat, Kit.”
“Why?”
The blade is already in my hand.
“It is the only way for us. I give you this jigai, my husband.”
“No!”
I feel him reaching for control of my arm as I exhale. But it is too late. It is already moving. I feel the blade enter my throat, well-placed.
24 Views of Mt. Fuji, by Hokusai [Illustrated] Page 7