Japanese Gothic Tales

The Holy Man of Mount Kōya (Kōya hijiri, 1900)

¥ 21 ¥ The Holy Man of Mount Koya (Kòya hijiri, 1900) 1 “I knew it wouldn’t do much good to take another look. But because the road had become unimaginably difficult, I lifted the sleeves of my kimono, made hot to the touch by the sun’s rays, and reached in for the ordinance survey map that I had brought with me. “There I was on an isolated byway, making my way through the deep mountains between Hida and Shinshû. Not a single tree offered the comfort of its shade; and on both sides were nothing but mountains , rising so close and so steeply that it seemed as though I could reach out and touch them with my hand. Despite the towering heights of these mountains there rode still others beyond them, each raising its crest above the next, blocking both bird and cloud from sight. “Between earth and sky, I stood alone, the crystalline rays of the blistering midday sun falling white around me as I surveyed the map from beneath the brim of my sedge hat.” Saying this, the itinerant monk clenched both fists, placed them on his pillow, bent forward, then pressed his forehead against his hands.¯ 22 ¥ Izumi Kyoka We had become traveling companions in Nagoya. And now, as we were about to retire for the night in Tsuruga, it occurred to me that he had maintained this humility with perfect consistency, and that he had shown none of the airs of the self-righteous. I remembered how we met on the train. I was traveling west on the main line that connects the cities of the Pacific Coast, when he got on at Kakegawa. He sat at the end of the car with his head bowed, and because he showed no more life than cold ashes, I paid him little attention. But then the train reached Nagoya, and everyone else got off at once, as if by previous arrangement, leaving only the monk and myself to share the coach. The train had departed from Tokyo at nine-thirty the night before and was scheduled to arrive in Tsuruga that evening. As it was noon when we reached Nagoya, I purchased from the station vendor a small box lunch of sushi, which happened to be what the monk also bought. When I eagerly removed the lid, however, I was disappointed to find only bits of seaweed scattered on top of the vinegar-flavored rice and knew immediately that my lunch was sushi of the cheapest kind. “Nothing but carrots and gourd shavings,” I blurted out. The monk, seeing the look on my face, couldn’t help but chuckle. Since we were the only two passengers in the car, we naturally began a conversation. Although he belonged to a different sect, he told me that he was on his way to visit someone at Eiheiji, the great Zen monastery in Echizen, and planned to spend the night in Tsuruga . I was returning home to Wakasa; and because I also had to stop over in the same town, we decided to become traveling partners. He told me he was affiliated with Mount Kòya, headquarters of the Shingon sect. My guess was that he was about forty-five or -six. He seemed a gentle, ordinary, likeable sort. Modestly dressed, he wore a woollen traveling cloak with ample sleeves, a white flannel scarf, a pillbox hat, and knitted gloves. On his feet he had white socks and low, wooden clogs. Though a man of the cloth, he looked more like a poetry master or perhaps someone of even more worldly interests. “So where will you spend the night?” His question prompted a deep sigh from my lips as I contemplated the drearier aspects of staying alone in a strange place: the maids who doze off with their serving trays still in hand; the hollow flattery of desk clerks; the way everyone stares at you whenever you leave your room and walk the halls; and, The Holy Man of Mount Koya ¥ 23 worst of all, how they snuff out the candles as soon as dinner is over and order you to bed in the dim shadows of lantern light. I’m the sort who doesn’t fall asleep easily, and I can’t begin to describe the loneliness of being abandoned like that in my room. And now that the nights had gotten longer, ever since leaving...