Segaki (5 page)

He stepped through the monastery gate and set his feet on the path, with something like wonder. Others had left the monastery from time to time, but he had not seen the outside world for ten years.

It was fresh to him and astonishing. It made him feel wet as a newborn chick, and he blinked, scratching a
little at the rough road, crossed by the determined silver highways of the snails.

He looked back once, and to his surprise, Oio was still there, and lifted a forlorn hand to wave. He bowed back, and then he turned and entered the black sullen turbine of the forest for himself. He was not aware at first that he was being followed. He had forgotten about forests, and thought it only the movement of a parallel deer.

But he realized it soon enough, from the absurd behaviour of the dog, and then he lost his temper and did a wrong thing, for which he was to be most sorry.

As he began to descend the hill, the presence also followed him. Soon he was in the midst of the mist. He had not been down in it for years, and it rattled him badly. It grew thicker and thinner, and more than one kind of thing seemed to move about in it. It turned everything into an illusion, until what he feared to find in front, as suddenly closed in behind, as the warm gusts of rain blew the fog and steam about.

Soon he lost even the sound of running water to guide him, the rain ceased with a final scurry over the leaves, and there was only a sullen, irregular drip, distributed in every direction around him.

That pursuit had now become sullen and plodding, but it was steady. And it made him angry. It was impertinent. Once he even thought he caught the glint of armour, and he knew very well who it was.

It was mid-afternoon by the time he reached level ground. The fog had shrunk back into the hollows, and there was a sun somewhere, to guess by the radiance of the mist. He came out into a fertile meadow that had
something wrong with it. He moved around it cautiously through its skirting trees, with the presence ever behind him, and the dog had taken to making darting
expeditions
in opposite directions. It was clearly torn two ways, and looked at him, when it looked at him at all, reproachfully.

The valley closed in, he went through a belt of trees, found himself in another clearing, and there in the middle of it were the gutted ruins of the Lord of Noto’s castle. The dog was beginning to limp. He did not notice. He looked at the burnt timbers.

It was then he stepped into the band of soldiers. They were not gentle with him. It was because they did not believe he was a monk. This made him angrier with soldiers than ever. They had been able to loot and sack Noto, and they boasted of the slaughter, except for one son, who was missing.

It was then Muchaku struck his bargain. If they let him go, they could have the son. They loosened their grip on him at that. He was not frightened. He was angry. And that was what made what he did all the more wicked: that he did not do it deliberately and responsibly, but out of irritation. Behind him in the forest the sounds of that following presence were silent, but he could almost hear the watchfulness.

“He is behind me in the wood. The dog is his. It will lead you to him.” He urged the dog to follow its master. But with a peculiarly cunning glint in its eye, the dog cringed and would not go. It wrapped itself around his feet.

The soldiers watched the dog, were convinced, and then ran at double time towards the wood, lurching
merrily, because they were drunk. A priest was good enough, but for the last Noto there would no doubt be a reward to whoever brought in the head.

But at the edge of the wood they stopped. Out of the wood came the enraged bellow of the young Lord of Noto. “Very well, old man,” he roared. “I know what you are now, and I know where you are going. But if they do not get me, then I will come to get you; and I will come for you, whether they get me or not.” The voice shattered the air. The light pines swayed, and there was a crashing sound in there, which the soldiers followed.

Muchaku was shaken, but there was nothing for him to do, now he had done this. He had struck his bargain. He went on his way. The dog gave a discouraged little sigh, a last glance behind it, and pattered after him.

He was contrite. Despite self-discipline he had done the wrong thing. But there was nothing to do but forget it, and to go on, determined not to do such a thing again. For the soldier he could not feel sorry. For the gallant indifference of the dog he could.

Some things, however, will not remain forgotten. It is only that they survive the period of their neglect by lying dormant for a while, like bulbs. Even a bad
conscience
knows when the time has come for it to push up shoots, when trouble thaws it out.

From Noto Province to Kamakura is a distance of some 430 kilometres, many of them mountainous, all of them hard to travel, even on foot, and
certainly
in the midst of anarchy and civil war, but Muchaku did not notice, he was so intent upon his errand, though he still did not know what that errand was.

It was true that the deeper woods disturbed him, but then what takes place in a forest does not entirely concern us. Besides, he had a certain essential innocence sufficient to protect him against anything but himself, and had turned his back on the world for so long, that naturally he now expected it to contain marvels.

With the first three weeks of that travelling we need not concern ourselves. Except that he reached some sort of agreement with the dog, and even began to understand it a little, and to rely upon it for affection, he passed through that troubled countryside almost unnoticed and entirely undisturbed. But shortly after catching a glimpse of the sacred imperturbable snow-capped mountain, and approaching as he was over the mountains of the north, he reached those great forests which lay between him and his destination. Here, it is true, there were pockets of peace, since his brother did not live at Kamakura itself, but forty miles away, in one of these, but here also the
war had released unpleasant forces. It was not just soldiers and the banditry. Much of the area had an
unwholesome
reputation. It was now the middle of July, a month when one’s mind runs in somewhat thoughtful and hazardous channels, and it must be confessed that he hesitated for some time before entering the trees. He had only to rub the trunk of one, and dust came off on his fingers like the smelly powder of an old black bronze.

And the sacred imperturbable mountain soon
disappeared
from view. These woods were not like his own woods of Noto. They were a little tired. They had the abrupt damp coolness of a family crypt.

For the past few days the dog had been something of a nuisance. He had not been able to discipline it, for it was true, Muchaku realized ruefully, he was too learned, so he had nothing to teach. It was not pleased to be here. Sometimes he would wake up in the night to find it squirming towards him on its belly, with a glazed look in its eyes, and though it clearly did its best to be playful and to keep up an interest in things, there were times when it would unexpectedly vomit, surprised that such a thing could be done without first eating the right kind of grass.

He had given it no name. It was easier to come to terms with it if it had none, and besides he did not want to remind it of its master, an episode too painful to be left open by calling it anything. Yet he was deeply
concerned
about it. He now rapped it in a cotton quilt at night, and let it lick his face when it wanted to. After all, they had become friends. But though the dog seemed better, it did not seem happier, and it did not relax.

He and the dog had subsisted by begging from door to
door with a lacquer bowl, even in those places which no longer had a door, and they had not gone hungry. But in the process he had seen a little more of the world than he would have wished, and this had left him apprehensive. There were fleeting shapes now, that no matter how closely he peered at them, never came any closer.

On the 10th of July he reached a small upland clearing, with a brook and the ruins of what until recently must have been a hardy, prosperous farm. Now it was burnt out, but though all the livestock was gone, one had only to lift a plant out of the earth, to find a taro under it; that evening a bedraggled white chicken tottered indignantly back out of the wood; and there were fish in the brook.

Muchaku felt unwell and feverish, and decided to stay there at least for a day and a night. The dog, also, was happier. In the pool to one side of the brook, the fat fish gathered like a washing of wet black socks, and
marvellously
, they were carp. Muchaku lit a fire and soon had a dinner ready for them both, carefully boning a fish for the dog. But when the shadows fell, the fire, though it burned brightly, grew less cheerful, it hissed too much, and he found himself unwilling to go to sleep. The dog began to whine.

He had had four weeks to grow accustomed to woods in their non-ornamental aspect, and it is not true to think we can tame them. At best we either hack them to pieces or suborn them for a while. Usually, since it is easier to tolerate us than to fight back, they are on their best behaviour. But someday, when we have goaded her too far, nature may turn on us, out of sheer nervous
irritability
. For nature is more ruthless and self-seeking than even people are. It is merely that she usually disguises
herself with beauty, a thing too few people ever take the pains to do.

There was little beautiful about this wood. It was too old and too weary to be venerable; and the wall of the forest, which at Noto was of such sinister complexity, but had its own thoughts, here was only concerned to crowd a little closer, and was too stiffling to support any natural bird. It was days since he had heard a bird.

In fact he was finally up against the thing none of us will ever admit, that to the natural world we are merely phenomenal, and can scarcely be said to exist at all. Man is only one corner of the vast canvas, a mere insect incident in a summer’s day, a gadfly if you wish. The world has only to roll on him, perhaps not even knowing he is there, to remove him entirely. Whole cultures rise and fall in a single genera, but the species itself is never missed. There will always be another one, another rock, another man, another universe. This particular one has no importance whatsoever, except to itself.

And though one may fight to survive good and evil, there is nothing one can do to survive a force that is neither.

He shivered and so did the dog. For to the eyes of the forest, one realizes, one is nothing more than a wad of mobile incipient loam. And though nature is unmoved by even the finest of our desires, it is always waiting to get its chemicals back again, for it can only survive by a constant redistribution of its constituent parts, which it lends out to one thing or another, here a crystal of
feldspar
, there a peninsula or a man. For when there are too many men, then the supply of crystals falls off, and that is something nature will not abide.

It is something everyone must learn, who would live at all, but equally something that the living would rather not remember.

To the nature of those things which really frighten us we customarily give, not names, but shapes. And when we are too tired or too ill to see, the shapes take over, and do our seeing for us, with the inner eye. We would not be half so frightened of ghosts, could we be sure that they were really there and only ghosts, for if they are not, then they are only a name we give to something that is there, and which is far more terrible.

There are, for instance, kappa, those little
blotting-paper
coloured creatures with water in washbowls in their heads. Kappa are mischievous and seldom seen and quite sparkling and may do us either good or evil,
according
to their mood that day, and for that matter, according to what may be good or evil that day, for their own
conduct
is quite consistent. They exist only to amuse
themselves
, but they have limpid, insolent, knowledgeable eyes, and the morals of a child of five. They have their own amusements, and we are one of them. If you can tip out the water, you rob a Kappa of his strength, but
nobody
has ever been able to do so. They are strangely enough well loved.

Other creatures of this supernatural dark are not so charming. And their time sense is different from ours. Everything takes longer to be watched, and then when violence occurs, the emotions are so sudden, that they scarcely seem personal at all. And to them repose means to be a little more aware, always ready to be alert.

That unique ability of the Japanese to be primitive and sophisticated at the same time is not always an advantage.
Muchaku lay on his back, gazing down into the sky. So much of life is spent waiting, we never know for what.

The stars here were not quite the same as at Noto. They were no less cold, but dimmer, and their positions were just slightly unfamiliar enough to make him look twice. And yet he had spent his childhood not too far from here, with his brother. They had been petty lordlings then, who had leapt out of the pond, though in different directions, before it dried up completely and stifled them.

Now he no longer knew who he was. Perhaps his brother would know. Meanwhile the fire crackled and the dog was warm beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he seemed to see a vague flapping shadow, of a dingy shade of grey. But he was too tired to respond to the warning. He fell asleep.

The fire, which glowed in that darkness like a bloodshot eye, at the same time sent an inconstant smoky beam straight up, as though it had been a lantern overturned in flight, that goes on burning while the curtains flap against the palace poles. In that ascending column sparks were born and died, and the pungent pine boughs embalmed the bitter air. It was indeed a signal. The dead had not known that there was anything living in that wood.

If the living may rob the dead, there is no reason why the dead should not rob the living. They began to gather, timidly, afraid of an army, but then with more assurance, as their numbers increased. Around the edges of the wood, the grey shapes became more distinct, circling hungrily, glancing towards the centre of the clearing. Their hair was matted. Their clothes were in rags. For weeks their fingernails had been cut only against stones,
or chipped by digging into raw fish, when they could get fish. They sucked in their breath with an admiring,
gluttonous
ah, a little disappointed that it was only a man and a dog, though men were better than fish, and a dog was delectable.

Then they slipped out, one by one, onto the surface of the upland meadow, boggy underfoot, moving like skaters on ice they were unsure of, but then with more confidence. They glanced at each other. They hovered, hung back, or went forward, flapping in the night air. It might be an ambush set for them. They could not be sure.

Then one of the female ones screamed and began to sob, knowing she was one of the weaker ones, and would be cheated of a meal by the others, even if she got there first.

The dog was up instantly, growling and bristling. But even he did not bark. Except for that one scream, it was all done quietly. He grovelled on his belly, and
whimpered
.

This shocked the mothlike creepers. Unexpectedly they broke into a spontaneous, howling, hilarious ghost of a formal dance. They, too, had been aristocrats once. It was as though the field had suddenly tilted, and they must all keep their balance somehow. It was shamelessly beautiful. The female began to sob again, the sound thin and
long-drawn
out.

Muchaku leaped to his feet. They were so close now. He looked into the pendulous, burnt out faces, with their coals for eyes, their jagged fingernails poised over him. He grabbed the biggest embers from the fire, and with one in each hand, the flaming end outward, twirled in a rapid circle. The movement through the air made the
wood hiss and burn up brightly. He let go of both of them, they roared through the air, and something screamed. He grabbed two more, twirling to save his life, and then letting go. He could not keep that up forever.

He did not have to. Even as the second pair winged flaring through the air, they hit nothing, but sent up showers of sparks from the ground. These were timid ghosts. With a toothless babble, they took off in all directions for the trees, with a tired rushing of torn garments in the wind behind them. But at the same time they carried off the one who had been hit. She, too, was edible.

He stood there, with another brand in his hand, blinking, but he could see nothing. They had gone. They might watch, but they would not return while the fire was burning. He threw more wood on the fire, it caught, and flaring, lit up the whole abandoned glade. It was too much for him. He was feverish and fever shows us things we were not meant to see.

He did not realize that this upland farm had been devastated only in order to make it the better trap. The night was moist and warm. There would soon be fogs again. It would not be safe to stay there longer, even though it seemed as dangerous to go on.

Beside him the dog whimpered. He had forgotten the dog. Now he looked at it with a new-found tenderness, for he realized that now he owed it something. It had saved his life for a little while.

Though he felt tenderness towards it, he could not bring himself to like it, for it was the symbol of something he had wrongly done. None the less, he called it to him, turned his back, and trudged towards the forest path,
which was badly marked in the starlight. He had almost reached it, when he realized he was alone. He missed the warm worried pattering behind him, with head and tail down. He turned around. There was something grey fluttering at the edge of the trees. The dog gave a terrified whimper, but it must be hugging the ground so closely that he could not see it. The fire was dying down again.

He went back, reluctantly. The dog was flat on the ground, its hind legs splayed out with terror. It could not walk. He felt disgusted, since fear is nothing but a
negative
self-interest. But there was only one thing to do. He stooped and lifted the beast into his arms. It was heavy and slippery with sweat, but it tried to scramble around to lick his face. To prevent that he held it upside down, with its paws clawing at the air like the sticks of a mantis. Then, tucking his shirt into his belt, he stumbled
forward
.

The grey shape hovered, seemed to sigh with
disappointment
, and disappeared.

The dog was too heavy for him, but fever gave him strength, and determination a compass. He tottered weavingly along the ill-defined path, the air so cold that his breath and the dog’s made clouds in front of them. Close though they were, the two puffs never intermingled. The hairs in his nose were frozen.