The priest glanced back when he heard the movement of the staff along the flagstones.
“You will not need that,” he said. “As I explained, these demons are not aggressive.”
I shook my head as I swallowed another mouthful.
“This one will attack,” I said, “when it becomes aware of my presence. You see, I am the one it is seeking.”
“Oh my!” he repeated.
I stood then as its trunks swayed in my direction and it approached the bridge.
“This one is more solid than usual,” I commented. “Three days, eh?”
“Yes.”
I moved about the tray and took a step forward. Suddenly, it was over the bridge and rushing toward me. I met it with a straight thrust, which it avoided. I spun the staff twice and struck again as it was turning. My blow landed and I was hit by two of the trunks simultaneously—once on the breast, once on the cheek. The epigon went out like a burned hydrogen balloon and I stood there rubbing my face, looking about me the while.
Another slithered into our room from within the temple. I lunged suddenly and caught it on the first stroke.
“I think perhaps I should be leaving now,” I stated. “Thank you for your hospitality. Convey my regrets to the head priest that I did not get to meet him. I am warm and fed and I have learned what I wanted to know about your demons. Do not even bother about the terminal. They will probably cease to visit you shortly, and they should not return.”
“You are certain?”
“I know them.”
“I did not know the terminals were haunted. The salesman did not tell us.”
“Yours should be all right now.”
He saw me to the gate.
“Thank you for the exorcism,” he said.
“Thanks for the meal. Good-bye.”
I traveled for several hours before I found a place to camp in a shallow cave, using my poncho as a rain-screen.
And today I came here to watch for the wave of death. Not yet, though. No truly big ones in this sea. Mine is still out there, somewhere.
19. Mt. Fuji from Shichirigahama
Fuji past pine trees, through shadow, clouds rising beside him . . . It is getting on into the evening of things. The weather was good today, my health stable.
I met two monks upon the road yesterday and I traveled with them for a time. I was certain that I had seen them somewhere else along the way, so I greeted them and asked if this were possible. They said that they were on a pilgrimage of their own, to a distant shrine, and they admitted that I looked familiar, also. We took our lunch together at the side of the road. Our conversation was restricted to generalities, though they did ask me whether I had heard of the haunted shrine in Kanagawa. How quickly such news travels. I said that I had and we reflected upon its strangeness.
After a time I became annoyed. Every turning of the way that I took seemed a part of their route, also. While I’d welcomed a little company, I’d no desire for long-term companions, and it seemed their choices of ways approximated mine too closely. Finally, when we came to a split in the road I asked them which fork they were taking. They hesitated, then said that they were going right. I took the left-hand path. A little later they caught up with me. They had changed their minds, they said.
When we reached the next town, I offered a man in a car a good sum of money to drive me to the next village. He accepted, and we drove away and left them standing there.
I got out before we reached the next town, paid him, and watched him drive off. Then I struck out upon a footpath I had seen, going in the general direction I desired. At one point I left the trail and cut through the woods until I struck another path.
I camped far off the trail when I finally bedded down, and the following morning I took pains to erase all sign of my presence there. The monks did not reappear. They may have been quite harmless, or their designs quite different, but I must be true to my carefully cultivated paranoia.
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.