A Night on Mount Kurama
My fascination with the story of Minamoto no Yoshitsune in the Heike Monogatari coupled with his intriguing time on Mount Kurama left me with questions. Chapter 12 of the Heike chronicles how Yoshitsune ultimately killed himself in northern Japan after spending a good deal of time running from Yoritomo, his half brother, who feared that his former military leaders would threaten his power. I wanted to know how Yoshitsune wound up in that position, however. The time in-between consumed me. I wanted to understand how a warrior is made. Was it jiriki or tariki? Perhaps a mixture of the two? So, I decided to do what anyone would do and spend a sleepless night on the top of Mount Kurama, the very place where Yoshitsune was said to train with Sojobo, in search of the tengu king himself. Just another weekend in Japan, right?
Let me be clear, there are very few reasons to spend a night on top of Mount Kurama in early November. In fact, I can think of only two: meditation and tengu hunting. Luckily, I have a friend who is as crazy as me to keep me company. We spent the night in the small shrine you see in the picture above, burning incense, drinking sake, and attempting to summon the tengu king, Sojobo. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, depending on your perspective), we did not see any tengu. However, it was quite creepy on top of the mountain in the middle of the night. The lulls in conversation, the times when everything was dark and silent, the only light coming from the tips of the burning incense, those were the most profound. You could feel the history of the place. It brought about a feeling in me that is hard to put into words, one I will not soon forget.
Eventually, the atmosphere led to talk of Japanese ghost stories. This was the inspiration that led me to attempt to write a short story about Mount Kurama. After mulling over ideas throughout the night, changing the plot, and altering the characters, I finally decided on a story. Hopefully, it will shed light, in some subtle way, on the choices we make and the forces that shape us in making them.
Kurama Beads
The door slid open with a hitch. It was in the wood, not the hand
upon it. The first sandaled foot stepped into the night air and was met with
autumn’s chill. Within an instant the door was shut and the empty house left
alone in the veiled moonlight, the sound of a nearby stream it’s only company.
The street was dark. Every house along it was dark. Even the inn, usually lit
well into the night, was dark. The man on the street had no guess of the time.
Every other second, the liquor on his breath mingled with the crisp breeze and
vanished.
The walk to the foot of the mountain wasn’t a long one, a few minutes in
the noon sun. This night was different. Perhaps it was the drinks. The shadows
cast by the flameless lanterns only moved with the passing of clouds over the
moon. Together they were entwined in some secret dance. A back and forth, a
conversation too murmured for a clumsily drunken ear to make out. Focus was
neither here nor there, but surely enough the first steps up the slope came
closer and closer.
At first it was insurmountable. A solid four minutes spent resting on the
sixteenth step. The moss thereon felt damp, and fingertips could recall a
sensation of an old sweater that was thrown out in the chaos of the last few
months. At that moment, out of some unknown place, the strength came. Before
long he rounded the first switchback. This first leg was, in fact, the easiest
part.
There was light, streaming from red lanterns all along the way. For one
reason or another they were only lit on the right side, surely some esoteric
ritual. It brought both a sense of calm and uncertainty to the scene. Some strange paradox. He
wasn’t expecting anything but the moon. He’d never seen the mountain at night, and
mentally he had prepared differently. Adjusting was the only option. So he
walked in the light.
Finally, he reached a large open space. His eyes took a second to adjust;
there was no light here. After he waded his way through the haze of whiskey, he
realized it was the courtyard of the temple. He briskly continued but was cut
short. His movement had ceased. He could hear sounds coming from inside the
temple and a small light, that of incense, just outside. Someone was chanting. As
quietly as possible, he walked across the open ground, pebbles gently crunching
with each step. Finally on the other side, he found the way to the top. It was
utterly dark. No sound. No movement. Nothing. He walked through a small arch,
out of the temple grounds and up the path.
The monk finished his prayers. He gracefully rose and made his way back
into his living quarters. Something was wrong though. Perhaps he smelled
something on the breeze. Maybe it was the way the moon shone on the stone to his
right. His gaze shifted to the way up the mountain. He didn’t think. He quickly
stepped towards the path, paused if only for an instant, and continued on. In
that moment, that slight quiver, he felt it.
The path was treacherous. There were roots running across here and there,
complicating every step. The monk knew the way well though. He had walked it in
the dark before. He had walked it at all hours of the day. In a flurry, he made
his way to the top. He came to the little clearing in the trees, the top of the
mountain. A small, familiar shrine was before him. Next to it stood an ancient
tree, the rope around it just visible in the filtered light.
He called out, “Hello? Where are you?"
There was no response. It was dead, nothing but the rustle of the wind.
Then, from the corner of his eye he saw a shadowy figure lurch. He turned
his head and found himself feet away from a monstrous figure, dressed in
magnificent red robes that flowed around a body of unknowable size. Its nose
protruded from its face in almost comical fashion. The monk was petrified.
Without opening its mouth, it spoke,
“What have you come here for at this late hour? Don’t you know that this
realm is not of the temple?” Its yellowish eyes gleaming as the words echoed
in the monk’s head.
Every hair on the monk's body was erect. He could barely muster words.
“I’ve come here because I felt someone was in danger. I only want to help
them, no more. I have no business but that.”
His body grew even taller. His voice deepened, “No business? No
business being in my kingdom? Treading on my ground!? It's far to late to not have business now.”
The monk knew the stories of old. The wrinkled face, the looming voice, hair silver like the moon, this was
Sojobo, King of the Tengu. His air was unmistakable. The monk had come face to face with the demon of the mountain.
He slipped his hands into his robes and tightly gripped his prayer beads.
“Again, I’m not here to intrude. Please accept my apologies. I seek only to help someone in need. I
fear there is someone in grave danger here. Please, understand me, hear my plea,
and allow me to help this lost soul.”
Sojobo’s mouth still closed, a bellowing laugh burst out through the
night air. “My, my. Are you that foolish young monk? You can no more change the
path up the mountain than you can a man’s heart. Leave! Go back down the
mountain! Or, if dare, stay.”
A smile widened on Sojobo’s face, and a pair of black wings rose behind
him. His teeth were pointed, unnatural monstrosities. The monk knew his fate hung by a thread.
His grip tightened so much that the beads dug into his skin. Something within him welled up,
something he had seen in dreams and read of on scrolls. Something spoken of but not yet realized. His posture changed, as if a string was connecting his head to the heavens. His eyes drooped and
sweating stopped.
Sojobo’s voice became a whisper, fading into the forest, “Nothing,
nothing, nothing at all you can…”
The monk’s eyes opened with the morning sun. His body indistinguishable
from the trees surrounding it, his feet intertwined with the gnarled roots. His robes were dotted with dew. He had completely forgotten the beads in his hands. Putting them away, he could just make out a figure, limp on the ground near the timeless, roped tree. He called out. There was no response. The monk bent down, and finally, with
a shake, the body stirred. The man reeked of liquor. Beside him
lay a blade, glinting in a new day's light with that same dew.
“Are you…is everything okay?"
A initail grumble turned into distinguishable words, “I failed. I…I…" As if coming out of a dream, he continued, "This
morning air…Hmmnn.”
He closed his eyes and contorted his arm as if trying to remove a crick.
“My wife... I couldn’t do it. She's so far, but somehow I couldn't. That final moment, there was no more strength. At the top of the mountain, all the way to the highest peak. At last there was nothing left at all.”
The monk let out a sigh, smiled the slightest smile, and offered the man his hand.
Let me be clear, there are very few reasons to spend a night on top of Mount Kurama in early November. In fact, I can think of only two: meditation and tengu hunting. Luckily, I have a friend who is as crazy as me to keep me company. We spent the night in the small shrine you see in the picture above, burning incense, drinking sake, and attempting to summon the tengu king, Sojobo. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, depending on your perspective), we did not see any tengu. However, it was quite creepy on top of the mountain in the middle of the night. The lulls in conversation, the times when everything was dark and silent, the only light coming from the tips of the burning incense, those were the most profound. You could feel the history of the place. It brought about a feeling in me that is hard to put into words, one I will not soon forget.
Eventually, the atmosphere led to talk of Japanese ghost stories. This was the inspiration that led me to attempt to write a short story about Mount Kurama. After mulling over ideas throughout the night, changing the plot, and altering the characters, I finally decided on a story. Hopefully, it will shed light, in some subtle way, on the choices we make and the forces that shape us in making them.
Kurama Beads
The door slid open with a hitch. It was in the wood, not the hand
upon it. The first sandaled foot stepped into the night air and was met with
autumn’s chill. Within an instant the door was shut and the empty house left
alone in the veiled moonlight, the sound of a nearby stream it’s only company.
The street was dark. Every house along it was dark. Even the inn, usually lit
well into the night, was dark. The man on the street had no guess of the time.
Every other second, the liquor on his breath mingled with the crisp breeze and
vanished.
The walk to the foot of the mountain wasn’t a long one, a few minutes in
the noon sun. This night was different. Perhaps it was the drinks. The shadows
cast by the flameless lanterns only moved with the passing of clouds over the
moon. Together they were entwined in some secret dance. A back and forth, a
conversation too murmured for a clumsily drunken ear to make out. Focus was
neither here nor there, but surely enough the first steps up the slope came
closer and closer.
At first it was insurmountable. A solid four minutes spent resting on the
sixteenth step. The moss thereon felt damp, and fingertips could recall a
sensation of an old sweater that was thrown out in the chaos of the last few
months. At that moment, out of some unknown place, the strength came. Before
long he rounded the first switchback. This first leg was, in fact, the easiest
part.
There was light, streaming from red lanterns all along the way. For one
reason or another they were only lit on the right side, surely some esoteric
ritual. It brought both a sense of calm and uncertainty to the scene. Some strange paradox. He
wasn’t expecting anything but the moon. He’d never seen the mountain at night, and
mentally he had prepared differently. Adjusting was the only option. So he
walked in the light.
Finally, he reached a large open space. His eyes took a second to adjust;
there was no light here. After he waded his way through the haze of whiskey, he
realized it was the courtyard of the temple. He briskly continued but was cut
short. His movement had ceased. He could hear sounds coming from inside the
temple and a small light, that of incense, just outside. Someone was chanting. As
quietly as possible, he walked across the open ground, pebbles gently crunching
with each step. Finally on the other side, he found the way to the top. It was
utterly dark. No sound. No movement. Nothing. He walked through a small arch,
out of the temple grounds and up the path.
The monk finished his prayers. He gracefully rose and made his way back
into his living quarters. Something was wrong though. Perhaps he smelled
something on the breeze. Maybe it was the way the moon shone on the stone to his
right. His gaze shifted to the way up the mountain. He didn’t think. He quickly
stepped towards the path, paused if only for an instant, and continued on. In
that moment, that slight quiver, he felt it.
The path was treacherous. There were roots running across here and there,
complicating every step. The monk knew the way well though. He had walked it in
the dark before. He had walked it at all hours of the day. In a flurry, he made
his way to the top. He came to the little clearing in the trees, the top of the
mountain. A small, familiar shrine was before him. Next to it stood an ancient
tree, the rope around it just visible in the filtered light.
He called out, “Hello? Where are you?"
There was no response. It was dead, nothing but the rustle of the wind.
Then, from the corner of his eye he saw a shadowy figure lurch. He turned
his head and found himself feet away from a monstrous figure, dressed in
magnificent red robes that flowed around a body of unknowable size. Its nose
protruded from its face in almost comical fashion. The monk was petrified.
Without opening its mouth, it spoke,
“What have you come here for at this late hour? Don’t you know that this
realm is not of the temple?” Its yellowish eyes gleaming as the words echoed
in the monk’s head.
Every hair on the monk's body was erect. He could barely muster words.
“I’ve come here because I felt someone was in danger. I only want to help
them, no more. I have no business but that.”
His body grew even taller. His voice deepened, “No business? No
business being in my kingdom? Treading on my ground!? It's far to late to not have business now.”
The monk knew the stories of old. The wrinkled face, the looming voice, hair silver like the moon, this was
Sojobo, King of the Tengu. His air was unmistakable. The monk had come face to face with the demon of the mountain.
He slipped his hands into his robes and tightly gripped his prayer beads.
“Again, I’m not here to intrude. Please accept my apologies. I seek only to help someone in need. I
fear there is someone in grave danger here. Please, understand me, hear my plea,
and allow me to help this lost soul.”
Sojobo’s mouth still closed, a bellowing laugh burst out through the
night air. “My, my. Are you that foolish young monk? You can no more change the
path up the mountain than you can a man’s heart. Leave! Go back down the
mountain! Or, if dare, stay.”
A smile widened on Sojobo’s face, and a pair of black wings rose behind
him. His teeth were pointed, unnatural monstrosities. The monk knew his fate hung by a thread.
His grip tightened so much that the beads dug into his skin. Something within him welled up,
something he had seen in dreams and read of on scrolls. Something spoken of but not yet realized. His posture changed, as if a string was connecting his head to the heavens. His eyes drooped and
sweating stopped.
Sojobo’s voice became a whisper, fading into the forest, “Nothing,
nothing, nothing at all you can…”
The monk’s eyes opened with the morning sun. His body indistinguishable
from the trees surrounding it, his feet intertwined with the gnarled roots. His robes were dotted with dew. He had completely forgotten the beads in his hands. Putting them away, he could just make out a figure, limp on the ground near the timeless, roped tree. He called out. There was no response. The monk bent down, and finally, with
a shake, the body stirred. The man reeked of liquor. Beside him
lay a blade, glinting in a new day's light with that same dew.
“Are you…is everything okay?"
A initail grumble turned into distinguishable words, “I failed. I…I…" As if coming out of a dream, he continued, "This
morning air…Hmmnn.”
He closed his eyes and contorted his arm as if trying to remove a crick.
“My wife... I couldn’t do it. She's so far, but somehow I couldn't. That final moment, there was no more strength. At the top of the mountain, all the way to the highest peak. At last there was nothing left at all.”
The monk let out a sigh, smiled the slightest smile, and offered the man his hand.