by David Peace
‘This is the Mountain of Skulls,’ said the old man. ‘And I must leave you here, to face what you and only you must face. But no matter what you face, no matter what you see, do not speak, do not make a single sound. For if you speak, if you make one sound, then you cannot live as I live, you cannot be as I am; your wish will be denied. So no matter what, you must not speak, you must not utter one single sound. But then I will return.’
Slowly, Y let go of the old man’s hand, and said, ‘I understand.’
The old man nodded, and then the old man began to walk away, away, and down, down the mountain, soon but a distant speck, now out, out of sight.
Alone on the mountain, balanced on its shifting tide, his stomach turning with the sudden swells and his constant dread, Y waited and Y waited, his heart pounding and his thoughts racing, sometimes whispering, sometimes deafening, his body and soul churning …
‘Who are you,’ whispered a voice, a voice from behind him, closer now, in his ear, closer still, its breath fragrant with delicious food, expensive wine, again it whispered, ‘Who are you?’
But Y did not answer, Y did not speak, his mouth tight and eyes, too, not opening, not speaking.
‘Of course,’ laughed the voice, ‘the old man told you not to speak. But it matters not, for we know who you are: you are Yasukichi Horikawa, celebrated and successful author, once lauded by critics and loved by readers, but now suffering something of a slump, a little case of writer’s block, just a temporary crisis of confidence. And so here you are, draped in self-doubt, swathed in self-pity; how comforting for you, how easy for you. How pathetic! How pointless! Just say your name, just admit who you are, and all will be returned to you, all will be restored to you; your acclaim and your sales, your admirers and lovers, they are all still here for you, they are all just waiting for you, in your villa in Kamakura, in your house in Hongō. Just open your eyes, then open your mouth, and admit, admit: I am Yasukichi Horikawa, the celebrated and successful author!’
Still Y did not answer, still Y did not speak, his mouth and eyes shut, not opening, not speaking.
‘How predictable you are,’ sighed the voice, ‘how very vain the writer. Relishing your so-called pain, welcoming your so-called suffering. Well, let’s see how you’ll relish real pain, see if you’ll welcome true suffering …’
Suddenly, Y felt a rope tightening around his neck, suddenly Y felt a razor cutting into his wrists, suddenly his veins coursing with poison, suddenly his lungs filling with water …
‘Speak!’ screamed the voice. ‘Speak! For this is your last and only chance; say your name, admit who you are: I am Yasukichi Horikawa, the celebrated and successful author! Then all will be returned to you, all will be restored for you. But if you do not speak, if you do not admit who you are, then you will die, and die the death of the suicide, damned eternally, damned forevermore, to die, to die, and die again, over and over, a thousand deaths eternally, a thousand deaths forevermore, over and over, without end. So speak! Speak now! Speak now!’
But Y would not speak, still Y did not speak, did not speak …
‘Last chance,’ whispered the voice, ‘last chance …’
The rope tightening tighter, the razor cutting deeper …
‘For Yasukichi Horikawa …’
His veins coursing and his lungs filling …
‘Celebrated and successful author …’
But Y did not speak …
‘Last chance …’
Y did not speak …
‘Then here is death, now here is hell …’
Not speaking, not speaking, his neck broken, his blood drained, poisoned and drowned, Y fell back, back and down, down and into –
Here, death and hell, endless death and endless hell, here his neck endlessly breaking, here his blood endlessly draining, endlessly poisoned and endlessly drowning, here without end, here in the river, the River of Sins, bloody and boiling, here at the foot of the Mountain of Skulls, here Y was dying over and over, one moment pulled under, one moment pushed up, then under and up again, in the River of Sins, bloody and boiling, dying over and over, pulled under and pushed up again, under and up again, each time glimpsing, glimpsing, glimpsing a figure sat on a throne on the Mountain of Skulls, in a crow-black robe with a snow-white face, beneath a pale crown of broken mirrors, savagely reflecting all he surveyed, now staring at Y, glaring at Y, yet smiling at Y, laughing at Y: Satan-Yama, Lord of Hell!
‘No doubt’, said Satan-Yama, ‘you are in pain and you are suffering. But no doubt you believe you deserve this fate, so no doubt you will endure your martyrdom eternally. But look! Look about you, and see who suffers with you, see who suffers because of you, because of you …’
Dying over and over, pulled under and pushed up, Y now saw he was not alone in the bloody and boiling River of Sins: dying over and over, a thousand other deaths, pulled under and pushed up, in the bloody and boiling River of Sins, dying over and over, a thousand other souls; various friends and former lovers, and no! His wife, his children! No! Even his father and mother, dying over and over, pulled under and pushed up, endlessly –
‘One word from you,’ said Satan-Yama, ‘just one single word from you, and their suffering will cease, and they will be released. Just say one word, just speak, just speak one word …’
Dying over and over, Y watched his mother and his father, his children and his wife, one moment pulled under, one moment pushed up, each time their mouths filling with blood, each time their eyes filling with tears, pleading with Y, beseeching Y –
‘Just say one word…’
Dying over and over, his heart flayed and soul skinned, amidst the pitiful, wrenching stares of friends and lovers, of his wife and children, his father and mother, Y pulled under, Y pushed up, now Y saw another face, a face he struggled to recall, her eyes not pleading, her eyes downcast, but which now caught his own, and now Y remembered a night he thought forgotten, wished forgotten, in a dim and dirty Nanking room, a brass crucifix upon a wall, a bottle spilt upon the floor, an upturned chair, the coins across the bed, between her forced, reluctant thighs, his weeping, puss-filled cock, infecting her, condemning her, her eyes upon the cross, her name upon his lips, her name he had not known he knew, her name, her name Y cries, ‘Xin!’
The air thin, the wind biting and his footing precarious again, Y opened his eyes; the River of Sins, bloody and boiling, filled with his friends and former lovers, his wife and children, his father and mother, dying over and over, was gone, were gone, all gone, leaving Y alone again on the Mountain of Skulls, standing on the flowing heaping of tumbled fragments, rolling and turning under his feet, empty shells bursting beneath him, tears streaming down his face, knowing, knowing he had failed –
‘Yes,’ said the old man, again beside him now, dressed in his coat of shining white feathers, his head clean and shaved, his skin translucent and newborn. ‘You failed. But you had already failed, and you would have only failed again if you had not spoken.’
‘But I could have chosen not to speak,’ said Y. ‘The choice was mine. For I know I had a choice.’
‘Yes,’ smiled the old man. ‘There is always a choice.’
Y nodded, staring at the naked steeps of endless heapings of skulls and fragments of skulls, and Y said, ‘And I have chosen the Mountain of Skulls.’
‘Yes,’ said the old man, bending down to the eternal tide of skulls and bones, picking up one skull, now holding up the skull. ‘But you were already here, you have always been here. For this skull and each of these skulls is your own skull; each skull is you! And only you. The nest of your dreams, all your delusions and desires. Always you, already you, you and only you …’
‘I know,’ said Y, ‘I know.’
And Y closed his eyes, but now, now, now Y felt the sun strangely warm upon his face, its piercing rays dancing on his lids, the sound of boats upon the river, the scent of fukujusō on the breeze, and slowly, slowly, slowly Y opened his eyes again. The sky above him was a brilliant
bright December blue, with not one single cloud or wisp of smoke from a factory yet, a dull crick again, in his back and in his neck, and now Y sat up and looked around him: he had been resting his head upon a pillow again, again the pillow a large furoshiki, the cloth a pattern of red and white waves, enfolding a giant bundle, held together in its knot. But this time Y did not undo the knot, Y did not open up the cloth. This time Y got to his feet, and Y began to walk away, to walk away, away from the bundle, away from the city –
Some men go mad, some men go missing, some men do both.
*
The morning after our evening together, and the long night I had spent reading Tock’s manuscript, most concerned and keen to discuss Tock’s state of mind, I set out to call upon his friend Mag, the philosopher.
Mag was a very hospitable Kappa who loved nothing more than to open up his home to guests and, that grey day, there was already quite a congregation: Judge Pep, Dr Chack and Gael, the president of a glass corporation. They were all smoking heavily, a thick haze of tobacco smoke hanging in the room under the dim light of a glass lantern of seven colours.
Already, they seemed very much engaged in a conversation about rising crime rates and the penal code, and so, as I took my seat and lit a cigarette, and putting to one side for now my worries about Tock, I joined in, asking, ‘Do the Kappa have capital punishment?’
‘Yes,’ replied Judge Pep. ‘However, we prefer not to hang people as you humans do. I do admit, though, electric devices are occasionally used, but only in the very rarest of cases. Usually, we simply just announce the name of the criminal and the crime that has been committed.’
‘And that is enough to kill a Kappa?’
‘Of course,’ said Mag. ‘We Kappa have much more delicate and more sensitive nerves than you humans.’
‘But’, interjected Gael, ‘this is also how some murders are committed. Why, only the other day a bloody socialist called me a thief! I almost had a heart attack. I thought I was going to die!’
Mag nodded and said, ‘It seems to me such types of murder are becoming increasingly common. I know a lawyer who was killed that very way.’
‘Really,’ I asked. ‘But how?’
Mag smiled and said, ‘One day he was called a frog. And, as you know, there is no greater insult to a Kappa than to call him a frog. Who can possibly bear to be branded such a cold-blooded brute!’
‘And he dropped dead on the spot?’
‘Not instantly, no,’ said Judge Pep. ‘But day by day, he kept asking and arguing with himself, Am I really a frog? I can’t be a frog! I must be a frog, and so on. And so eventually he pined away and died.’
‘Is that not suicide,’ I asked.
‘No! Not at all,’ said Mag. ‘The evil fiend who called the poor lawyer a frog did so knowing damn well it would kill him. It was intentional, premeditated murder!’
‘Still sounds like suicide to me,’ I insisted. ‘And talking of which, I am most concerned for the well-being of our friend Tock …’
‘Me, too,’ exclaimed Mag. ‘Why, only the other day, I chanced to run into the poet in the street. He was far from his usual cheerful, carefree self, continuously wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, constantly glancing about. And then, just as we were saying goodbye to each other, Tock suddenly cried out and clutched my arm. Whatever is the matter with you, I asked him. And do you know what he said? He’d seen a giant black bird driving the motor car which had just sped past us, laughing …’
‘What utter rot,’ snorted Gael. ‘That Kappa is nothing but an attention-seeker, as self-obsessed as all artists are …’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Judge Pep quietly, staring at the end of one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. ‘I saw him, too, the other night. He was standing with his arms folded in front of a small house, staring in through the window at a family of Kappa at dinner: a husband, a wife and their three children. Of course, I asked him what on earth he was doing, peeping in on this family. But Tock sighed and then, shaking his head, said something about envying such scenes of family life, and how a good plate of scrambled eggs is much more wholesome than any love affair or work of art …’
‘Tock might have a point there,’ I said. ‘But I really do think we should encourage him to seek some help.’
‘I’ve already tried,’ said Mag. ‘I suggested he consult our good friend Dr Chack here, but Tock simply would not listen to me, muttering something about not being an anarchist, how I should always remember that, and how he would never have anything to do with doctors anyway, even with our good Dr Chack here …’
The doctor adjusted his pince-nez on his beak, then declared, ‘There is no such thing as a lost cause.’
‘You’re all wasting your breath,’ said Gael. ‘That Kappa is too narcissistic and self-absorbed to ever contemplate suicide, trust me …’
But at that very moment, the sharp report of a revolver rang out, echoing and reverberating, shaking the walls and the air, outside and in –
‘Tock,’ shouted Mag. ‘That came from Tock’s house, I’m certain, quite certain. Quick, quick, to Tock’s house!’
We all sprang to our feet and rushed round to Tock’s house, running up the stairs into Gakikutsu –
There in his study, amidst the piles of books and papers, sprawled among the pots of alpine plants, Tock lay face up on the mats, a revolver in his right hand, blood still pouring, streaming and spurting from the concave saucer on the top of his head, and by his side, on her knees, her face buried in his breast, a female Kappa was wailing and weeping loudly.
Gently, fighting my instinctive aversion to touching the slimy skin of a Kappa, I lifted her to her feet and asked, ‘What on earth happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ she cried. ‘I don’t know. He was just writing something, when, before I knew it, he’d picked up the revolver, stuck it to his head and pulled the trigger. Oh, what shall I do? Whatever shall I do?’
‘How thoughtless, self-centred and selfish Tock truly was,’ said Gael to Judge Pep. ‘Never thinking of others, always wanting his own way …’
Judge Pep lit another of his gold-tipped cigarettes and said nothing, silently watching Dr Chack at work.
The doctor was kneeling over Tock, examining the wound. Now he stood up, adjusted his pince-nez and announced, ‘There is nothing to be done. Tock is dead. I know he was suffering from chronic dyspepsia, and that alone would be enough to give someone of his disposition the excuse he needed.’
‘His woman said he was writing something,’ murmured Mag to himself, picking up a piece of paper from the desk. And as the others craned their necks, I looked down over Mag’s shoulder to read –
Now I shall up and go
to the valley which divides this secular world.
The rock-face is steep,
the mountain-spring clear,
this valley scented with flowering herbs.
Mag put down the piece of paper and, with a tart smile, he said, ‘Those words are by Goethe, from his poem “Mignon”. So even Tock’s last testament, even his suicide note, his very last words are cribbed from the work of somebody else. No wonder Tock blew out his brains! Our poet knew he was completely, totally and utterly burnt out.’
Of course, as they were all reading and discussing Tock’s last words, I was thinking of the postscript to The Book of Tock, the manuscript sitting on my desk back in my own study, wondering whether or not I should say anything. But motor cars were arriving now, crowds gathering outside, the room filling up; Craback the musician was already here, and Lap the student, too. And all the while, the female Kappa was still weeping bitterly, and the sight of one so lost and suffering so touched and tugged on my heart.
Softly, I put my arm around her shoulders and led her towards a sofa in the corner of the room where a very young Kappa, no more than two years old, was innocently still smiling. I began to play with the child, hoping to distract it and so ease its poor mother’s burden, until I felt the tears in my own eyes welling
up, too; I confess, throughout my whole time in the land of the Kappa, this was the only moment I ever shed tears.
‘What a pitiful misfortune,’ Gael was saying, ‘what a sorry lot, to find oneself a member of the family of such a selfish, self-centred and self-obsessed Kappa as Tock, don’t we all agree?’
‘Quite so,’ replied Judge Pep, lighting another gold-tipped cigarette. ‘Tock gave no thought whatsoever to his family, his poor offspring, and made no provision whatsoever for their future.’
‘Capital!’ cried Craback the musician to the surprise of us all, the draft of Tock’s last poem still clutched in his hand. ‘I’ve just thought of an absolutely splendid funeral march. I’ve not a moment to lose. Farewell …’
With a bright spark in his narrow eyes, Craback shook Mag’s hand and dashed for the door. But by now, the whole neighbourhood had amassed outside Tock’s house, all loudly trying to push or peep their way in. Undeterred, Craback forced his way through the crowd, sending Kappa this way and that, then jumped in his motor car and swiftly made his exit, to the sound of his engine backfiring.
‘Will you stop gawping! Have some respect,’ shouted Judge Pep, slamming the door in the faces of the crowd of Kappa outside, the room now becoming suddenly quiet, suddenly still. Even the female Kappa on the sofa next to me had stopped her wailing, her shoulders still heaving and her body still shaking, her tears still falling, but silently now as her child stared down at the open palms of his tiny hands, the stench of Tock’s blood and the scent of the flowers of the alpine plants mingling, engulfing us all in this sudden quietness, this sudden stillness.
I got to my feet and walked over to Mag, who was standing, staring down at Tock’s dead body. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to leave now.’