Crackling Mountain and Other Stories

by Osamu Dazai

  Melos stamped the ground in anger. He wouldn’t utter another word.

  Late that night Selinunteus was brought to the castle, and the friends met in the presence of the king. Though two years had passed since their last meeting, Melos had only to explain the situation to Selinunteus who nodded and firmly embraced his friend. Nothing more was required between them. After Selinunteus was bound with a rope, Melos set off under an early summer sky filled with stars.

  He hurried along the road, never pausing to rest. By the time he reached home, the sun was high and the villagers were busy in the fields. His sister was there too, tending the flock. Seeing her weary brother approach with faltering steps, she began to ply him with questions.

  “No,” Melos replied, “nothing’s wrong.” Forcing a smile, he went on. “I’ve still got something to do in town, so I must go back soon. The wedding will take place tomorrow—the earlier the better.”

  His sister blushed.

  “Are you pleased? Look, I bought a nice dress for you. Now go tell the villagers the ceremony will be tomorrow.”

  After tottering on home, Melos barely managed to decorate the family altar and arrange the banquet chairs before collapsing to the floor. There he slept the entire day, hardly seeming to breathe. When he awoke, he went to see the bridegroom. There was a problem, he said, and the wedding would take place tomorrow.

  That was impossible, the amazed shepherd replied. He hadn’t been able to prepare anything yet, and so he asked that the wedding wait until the grapes were harvested.

  It couldn’t wait, Melos insisted. The groom would simply have to arrange the wedding for tomorrow.

  But the shepherd was stubborn, just like Melos, and he would not agree to the idea. They continued the dispute through the night until finally, after much soothing and cajoling, Melos prevailed. By then, it was already dawn.

  At noon the bride and groom took their marital vows before the gods. Yet, even as the ceremony was taking place, dark clouds began to cover the sky. At first, just a few drops fell, but then the rain started coming down in torrents. The guests at the banquet felt something ominous, but they roused themselves and began clapping their hands and singing lively songs in spite of the warm, stifling air. For the time being, Melos could smile with delight, his promise to the king forgotten.

  The banquet grew even livelier as dusk fell and the guests stopped worrying about the rain. They were good company, and Melos wished he could stay. But he was bound by a pledge and could not do as he wished. Although he must leave the banquet, he could still have a nap before setting out. It was a long time until sunset tomorrow, and it would be best to leave only after the rain had let up. Even a hero such as Melos feels attached to his home, and that’s why he would linger there as long as possible.

  Melos went up to the bride, who seemed almost dazed with happiness, and offered his congratulations. “I’m very tired,” he went on, “and so I’ll sleep awhile and then leave for town to take care of that business I mentioned to you. You’re married to a fine man, so you won’t miss me when I’m gone. You know the two things I hate most, don’t you? Being suspicious of someone and telling lies. All I have to say is that I hope you’ll be honest with your husband. And be proud of your brother, too, for he may well achieve something.”

  After the bride nodded to him as if she were dreaming, Melos went up to the groom and clapped him on the shoulder. “The wedding had to be performed all of a sudden,” he explained, “and neither one of us could do anything about this. I’ve got only two things of value—my sister and the sheep. I don’t have anything else to give you. There’s just one more thing to say,” he went on. “We’re brothers now, and I want you to be proud of that.”

  Melos smiled as the embarrassed groom rubbed his palms. Then he bade farewell to the villagers too and left the banquet. When he reached his own sheeppen, Melos crawled inside and fell sound asleep.

  He awoke in the pale light of dawn. Oh God, he thought, springing to his feet, have I overslept? No, there was still time. If he left at once, he could reach Syracuse by sunset. He would show the king that men kept their word. And then he would laugh as they fastened him to the cross.

  The rain seemed to slacken as Melos calmly prepared for the journey. When he was ready to leave, he swung his arms in a circle and dashed out into the drizzle like a flying arrow.

  Tonight I shall die, he told himself. I will be put to death for having run. But I will rescue my hostage friend and defeat the wicked king as well. I must run—run that I may be put to death. Melos, be faithful even in your youth. Farewell, my native village.

  It was heartrending to leave, and young Melos almost halted several times. But each time he rebuked himself, crying “Faster! Faster!” until his village receded behind and he found himself cutting through fields and woods. By the time he reached the next village, the rain had stopped and the sun was well up in the sky. Clenching his hand, Melos wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Having come this far, he no longer yearned for home. The wedding had taken place, so he needn’t worry any longer about his sister. He need only go straight to the castle—and, since there was plenty of time before sunset, he could walk the rest of the way. Lapsing into his usual nonchalant manner, Melos strolled along chanting his favorite ballads.

  He covered two more leagues, then a third. When he was halfway to Syracuse, disaster suddenly confronted him. Melos stopped dead in his tracks. What a sight! The river before him had flooded from yesterday’s downpour in the mountains. The muddy torrent had gathered strength and knocked the bridge out; now it roared past, smashing the fallen girders to pieces. Melos stood in amazement before looking around and calling for help as loud as he could. But the boats had been swept from their moorings without a trace, and there was no longer even a ferryman present.

  The river kept rising until it spread out like the sea. Melos could only crouch on the bank and weep like a child in spite of his years. Lifting his arms, he prayed to Zeus: “I beseech you, hold back this surging current. Time is going by, and the sun is high already. If I cannot reach the castle before dusk, my faithful friend will die.”

  As if to mock his plea, the muddy torrent rose even further. Wave engulfed wave, whirling and spreading out as the moments slipped by. Melos decided there was only one way across, and that was to swim. Calling on the gods to witness that the love and fidelity within him were stronger than this swift current, Melos plunged in. It was a desperate struggle, for the churning waves coiled about him like a mass of serpents. But Melos plowed ahead, putting all of his strength into each stroke. What matter if the swirling waves pounded him and pulled at his body? Perhaps the Powers That Be helped the fiercely struggling youth out of pity. In any event he was being swept away when—bravo!—he grasped a tree trunk on the opposite bank and held on.

  Praise be the gods! Melos shook the water from his body like a horse emerging from a stream. With the sun already going down, he could not waste a moment. And so he set off running again. Gasping for breath, he climbed a mountain pass. Having reached the top, he let out a sigh of relief only to have a gang of thieves leap forth and cry, “Don’t move!”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Melos responded. “Get away! I’ve got to reach the king’s castle before sunset.”

  “Leave your goods. Then be off.”

  “All I’ve got is my life. And I’m taking that to the king.”

  “We’ll take it to him for you.”

  “So the king sent you to ambush me, then?”

  Without a word the thieves began swinging their clubs. Melos ducked quickly, then flew at the nearest assailant and wrenched away his weapon.

  “Sorry,” he declared, “I wouldn’t do this if my honor weren’t at stake.” A ferocious assault sent three of them sprawling. As the others cringed, Melos raced down the pass without even pausing for breath.

  As he ran on, however, the sun beat down on him and he felt exhausted. One bout of dizziness succeeded another, but he wo
uld not give in. With each attack he summoned his strength and stumbled ahead a few steps. But finally his knees buckled, and he lay helpless. Gazing at the heavens, he wept in despair.

  Ah, Melos, you swam a muddy torrent and knocked down three thieves. A mighty effort had brought him this far; he had run like Skanda himself, the Indian god who caught up with the fleeing culprit who made off with the ashes of the Buddha. But now he was exhausted and could not go on. How tragic that a dear friend would die for trusting him. The king had been right: Melos would be known as a notorious traitor.

  Melos reproached himself, but his sagging body could not even maintain a snail’s pace. He rolled into the grass by the roadside. When the flesh is weary, the spirit too gives up; and somewhere within the body a sense of indifference takes root. In this extremity, Melos simply gave up.

  He had already struggled valiantly, never questioning his pledge, and the gods knew he had done his best. He had run until he could no longer move. He wasn’t a traitor. Oh, if only he could rend his breast and reveal the heart within. Then Selinunteus would see that love and loyalty were in his very blood. But at this crucial moment his strength was gone, leaving him utterly wretched. Surely he would be mocked and his family name besmirched. He had deceived his friend. Better if he had not set out at all than to collapse along the way. But fate had taken over and he no longer cared what happened.

  Forgive me, Selinunteus. You always trusted me, and I have been loyal. Our friendship has never once been darkened by clouds of suspicion. Even now you await me, confident of my arrival. I am so grateful for that, Selinunteus. Trust between friends is the world’s finest treasure, and I can hardly endure what has happened. I ran, Selinunteus; I never intended to deceive you. Believe me! I ran faster and faster. I swam a muddy torrent and escaped a pack of thieves. I raced down the mountain pass in one breath. I did it because that’s the sort of person I am. But don’t expect anything more. Let me be. I don’t care any longer. I’ve lost. I’m a good-for-nothing. Oh, go ahead and laugh at me.

  The king whispered that I should return a little late. The hostage would be dead by then and I could go free, he promised. I hated the king for being so deceitful, but things are turning out his way. I’ll probably be late, and he’ll just assume he was right. He’ll have a good laugh and then let me go. And that will be worse than death. I’ll always be a traitor, the lowest of creatures. Selinunteus, I too shall die. Let me die with you. You alone trust me, that’s certain. (Or, Melos suddenly wondered, am I merely taking you for granted too?)

  Ah, perhaps I should just be a scoundrel. I’ve got a home in the village and the sheep too. If I live, my sister and her husband will surely welcome me back. Justice, love, fidelity—they’re really worthless when you think about it. We kill others to save our own skin—that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? Oh, nonsense! I’m just a disgraceful traitor. It’s all over for you, Melos, you’re finished. Go ahead and do as you please.

  Stretching his limbs, the hero dozed off.

  Melos awoke to the sound of trickling water. Holding his breath, he slowly raised his head. The sound seemed to come from just beyond his outstretched legs. Struggling to his feet, Melos saw clear water bubbling from a rock. He bent over the spring as if drawn down into it. Then he scooped a handful of water and swallowed it. Melos breathed deeply, as though awakening from a dream. He could walk.

  He must be off. Perhaps he could still fulfill his pledge and die with honor. The rays of the setting sun still shone on the branches and leaves of the trees. Dusk had not yet fallen, and his friend must be waiting—quietly, trustfully. Compared with that trust, Melos’ life meant nothing. He could take his own life to make up for his suspicion, but that would be too simple. He must live up to his friend’s trust— that alone mattered. Thereupon he cried out, Melos, run!

  Someone trusted him. The evil dream of moments before was a delusion and he must forget it. When exhausted, anyone might have such a dream. Melos' honor was still intact, and he was brave as ever. He figured that if he started running now, he could still arrive on time. How fortunate! He could die honorably, then. But he realized that the sun was going down fast, and soon it would be gone. Oh Zeus, he pleaded, please don’t hurry things so much. I grew up loyal, so don’t let me die a traitor.

  He fled like the very wind, shoving aside or knocking down wayfarers in his path. There was group of revelers picnicking in a meadow too, and Melos ran right through them, leaving everyone bewildered.

  He kicked away a dog and hurdled a stream, his pace far exceeding that of the sun. Racing by another group of travelers, he caught an ominous remark— “The fellow should be hanging from the cross about now.” Ah, this was the friend for whom Melos ran, the friend who must not die. Hurry, Melos. You mustn’t be late. Reveal the power of love and fidelity. Don’t worry about your appearance.

  Melos was almost naked. He could hardly breathe, and blood spurted now and again from his mouth. Then he saw it—the Tower of Syracuse. Small and far off, the tower glittered in the setting sun.

  Then a voice seemed to groan in the wind, “Ah, Melos.”

  “Who is it?” Melos called even as he ran.

  “Philostratus, apprentice to your good friend Selinunteus,” cried the youth even as he hurried after Melos. “Stop, it’s too late. He can’t be saved.”

  “But the sun’s not down yet.”

  “They’re putting him to death this very moment. You’re too late. What a shame. If you had only been a little faster . . .”

  “But the sun’s still up,” cried Melos, his heart nearly bursting as he stared at the huge, red orb. He knew that he must persevere.

  “Stop, please. Don’t run any farther. Your life’s at stake now. Selinunteus believed in you. He was calm when they led him to the gallows. Even as the king mocked him, he remained faithful. He simply replied, ‘Melos will return.’”

  “That’s why I run,” Melos retorted, “because he trusts me. It doesn’t make any difference whether I’m on time. I’m running for more than a life. Follow me, Philostratus.”

  “Ah, you must have lost your senses,” exclaimed Philostratus. Then he gave in and said, “Well, maybe you won’t be late. So keep on running."

  This was well said. The sun had not yet disappeared, and Melos ran with his last ounce of strength. His mind was blank; he didn’t think of anything. Impelled by a mysterious force, he merely ran. Finally, as the quivering sun dipped beneath the horizon and the twilight began to fade, Melos raced like the wind onto the execution grounds. He was in time.

  He tried to cry out, “Wait! Don’t execute him! Melos has returned. Here I am, just as I promised.” But with his throat so raw, he could barely whisper, and no one heard him. The cross had been raised, and Selinunteus, a rope wound about his body, was being slowly hoisted. Melos plunged into the crowd, struggling forward with all his remaining strength just as he had when he had swum the muddy torrent.

  “Hangman, it’s me.” Though hoarse, Melos cried out as best he could. “I’m the condemned one— Melos. I left Selinunteus as a hostage. Now I’m back.”

  Finally Melos climbed the platform and caught hold of his friend’s ascending feet.

  A stir ran through the crowd and everyone cried out together, “Hurrah! Let him down.”

  Selinunteus was freed of his bonds.

  With tears in his eyes, Melos addressed his friend. “Strike me, Selinunteus. Strike me with all your might. I had an evil dream on the way back. If you don’t strike me, I shall not be worthy to embrace you. Strike me.”

  Selinunteus nodded as though he understood everything. Then he slapped Melos forcefully on the right cheek, the blow resounding throughout the grounds. Thereupon Selinunteus smiled gently and said, “Strike me, Melos. Strike me on the cheek just as hard. Once during the three days you were away, I lost my trust in you—for the first time ever. If you don’t strike me, I won’t be able to embrace you.”

  His hand whizzing through the air, Melos slapped his fr
iend on the cheek.

  “Thank you, friend,” they both said at the same time. Then they embraced each other firmly and wept with joy. In the crowd too weeping could be heard.

  The tyrant Dionysius, who had been gazing from the rear, silently approached the two friends with a look of shame on his face.

  “You have won me over, and your hopes are fulfilled. Loyalty isn’t just a hollow word,” he said. “Will you both accept me as a friend? Please listen to this request. I wish to be your friend.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd. “Long live the King! Long live the King!”

  A girl came forward, holding a scarlet cloak. Melos was confused, so his friend stepped in and said, “Melos, don’t you realize you’re utterly naked? Hurry up and put the cloak on. This pretty girl doesn’t want everyone here seeing you like that.”

  The hero blushed deeply.

  (From a traditional legend and the Schiller poem)

  On the

  Question of

  Apparel

  Fukusō ni tsuite

  The narrator of “Memories,” it will be recalled, had a secret yearning to dress in style. This interest in clothes crops up regularly in Dazai’s writings. Dazai wrote one story entitled “The Dandy” and began another with a sketch giving the narrator’s thoughts on suicide and dress. Having received some fabric for a summer kimono, the narrator postpones committing suicide until he can wear the new garment.

  The present tale is a comic tour-de-force, the author portraying himself as one who gets into trouble even in trying to escape the hold of fashion. Here the emphasis on dress and appearance becomes a means whereby the author can create and manipulate his own self-image. Several incidents are described in turn, each of them more complicated than the previous one. The author-figure involved in these incidents is jaunty and sociable enough. But his companions—whether his drinking buddies or his wife—are kept more or less in the background, and his jauntiness readily lapses into a kind of mordant humor. In a more thorough way than his counterpart in “Memories,” this narrator is playful and self-mocking. The mood of pathos and humor that he creates out of these attributes is one quite common in Dazai’s anecdotal reminiscences.