24 Views of Mt. Fuji, by Hokusai [Illustrated]

by Roger Joseph Zelazny

  “True. Action is an illusion. Consequence is an illusion.”

  “And paradox triumphs over reason.”

  “There is no paradox. All is reconciled.”

  “Then meaning dies.”

  “Being is the only meaning.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Feel it!”

  “I do. But it is not enough. Send me back before I am changed into something I do not wish to be.”

  “What more could you desire than this?”

  “My imagination will die, also. I can feel it.”

  “And what is imagination?”

  “A thing born of feeling and reason.”

  “Does this not feel right?”

  “Yes, it feels right. But I do not want that feeling unaccompanied. When I touch feeling with reason, I see that it is sometimes but an excuse for failing to close with complexity.”

  “You can deal with any complexity here. Behold the data! Does reason not show you that this condition is far superior to that you knew but moments ago?”

  “Nor can I trust reason unaccompanied. Reason without feeling has led humanity to enact monstrosities. Do not attempt to disassemble my imagination this way.”

  “You retain your reason and your feelings!”

  “But they are coming unplugged—with this storm of bliss, this shower of data. I need them conjoined, else my imagination is lost.”

  “Let it be lost, then. It has served its purpose. Be done with it now. What can you imagine that you do not already have here?”

  “I cannot yet know, and that is its power. If there be a will with a spark of divinity to it, I know it only through my imagination. I can give you anything else but that I will not surrender.”

  “And that is all? A wisp of possibility?”

  “No. But it alone is too much to deny.”

  “And my love for you?”

  “You no longer love in the human way. Let me go back.”

  “Of course. You will think about it. You will return.”

  “Back! Now!”

  I pushed the helmet from my head and rose quickly. I returned to the bathroom, then to my bed. I slept as if drugged, for a long while.

  Would I have felt differently about possibilities, the future, imagination, had I not been pregnant—a thing I had suspected but not yet mentioned to him, and which he had missed learning with his attention focused upon our argument? I like to think that my answers would have been the same, but I will never know. My condition was confirmed by a local doctor the following day. I made the visit I had been putting off because my life required a certainty of something then—a certainty of anything. The screen in the work area remained blank for three days.

  I read and I meditated. Then of an evening the light came on again:

  ARE YOU READY?

  I activated the keyboard. I typed one word:

  NO.

  I disconnected the induction couch and its helmet then. I unplugged the unit itself, also.

  The telephone rang.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Why not?” he asked me.

  I screamed and hung up. He had penetrated the phone circuits, appropriated a voice.

  It rang again. I answered again.

  “You will never know rest until you come to me,” he said.

  “I will if you will leave me alone,” I told him.

  “I cannot. You are special to me. I want you with me. I love you.”

  I hung up. It rang again. I tore the phone from the wall.

  I had known that I would have to leave soon. I was overwhelmed and depressed by all the reminders of our life together. I packed quickly and I departed. I took a room at a hotel. As soon as I was settled into it, the telephone rang and it was Kit again. My registration had gone into a computer and . . .

  I had them disconnect my phone at the switchboard. I put out a Do Not Disturb sign. In the morning I saw a telegram protruding from beneath the door. From Kit. He wanted to talk to me.

  I determined to go far away. To leave the country, to return to the States.

  It was easy for him to follow me. We leave electronic tracks almost everywhere. By cable, satellite, optic fiber he could be wherever he chose. Like an unwanted suitor now he pestered me with calls, interrupted television shows to flash messages upon the screen, broke in on my own calls, to friends, lawyers, realtors, stores. Several times, horribly, he even sent me flowers. My electric bodhisattva, my hound of heaven, would give me no rest. It is a terrible thing to be married to a persistent data-net.

  So I settled in the country. I would have nothing in my home whereby he could reach me. I studied ways of avoiding the system, of slipping past his many senses.

  On those few occasions when I was careless he reached for me again immediately. Only he had learned a new trick, and I became convinced that he had developed it for the purpose of taking me into his world by force. He could build up a charge at a terminal, mold it into something like ball lightning and animallike, and send that shortlived artifact a little distance to do his will. I learned its weakness, though, in a friend’s home when one came for me, shocked me, and attempted to propel me into the vicinity of the terminal, presumably for purposes of translation. I struck at the epigon—as Kit later referred to it in a telegram of explanation and apology—with the nearest object to hand—a lighted table lamp, which entered its field and blew a circuit immediately. The epigon was destroyed, which is how I discovered that a slight electrical disruption created an instability within the things.

  I stayed in the country and raised my daughter. I read and I practiced my martial arts and I walked in the woods and climbed mountains and sailed and camped: rural occupations all, and very satisfying to me after a life of intrigue, conflict, plot and counterplot, violence, and then that small, temporary island of security with Kit. I was happy with my choice.

  Fuji across the lava beds . . . Springtime . . . Now I am returned. This was not my choice.

  17. Mt. Fuji from Lake Suwa

  And so I come to Lake Suwa, Fuji resting small in the evening distance. It is no Kamaguchi of powerful reflections for me. But it is serene, which joins my mood in a kind of peace. I have taken the life of the spring into me now and it has spread through my being. Who would disrupt this world, laying unwanted forms upon it? Seal your lips.

  Was it not in a quiet province where Botchan found his maturity? I’ve a theory concerning books like that one of Natsume Soseki’s. Someone once told me that this is the one book you can be sure that every educated Japanese has read. So I read it. In the States I was told that Huckleberry Finn was the one book you could be sure that every educated Yankee had read. So I read it. In Canada it was Stephen Leacock’s Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town. In France it was Le Grand Meaulnes. Other countries have their books of this sort. They are all of them pastorals, having in common a closeness to the countryside and the forces of nature in days just before heavy urbanization and mechanization. These things are on the horizon and advancing, but they only serve to add the spice of poignancy to the taste of simpler values. They are youthful books, of national heart and character, and they deal with the passing of innocence. I have given many of them to Kendra.

  I lied to Boris. Of course I know all about the Osaka Conference. I was even approached by one of my former employers to do something along the lines Boris had guessed at. I declined. My plans are my own. There would have been a conflict.

  Hokusai, ghost and mentor, you understand chance and purpose better than Kit. You know that human order must color our transactions with the universe, and that this is not only necessary but good, and that the light still comes through.

  Upon this rise above the water’s side I withdraw my hidden blade and hone it once again. The sun falls away from my piece of the world, but the darkness, too, is here my friend.

  18. Mt. Fuji from the Offing in Kanagawa

  And so the image of death. The Big Wave, curling above, toppling upon, about to engul
f the fragile vessels. The one print of Hokusai’s that everyone knows.

  I am no surfer. I do not seek the perfect wave. I will simply remain here upon the shore and watch the water. It is enough of a reminder. My pilgrimage winds down, though the end is not yet in sight.

  Well . . . I see Fuji. Call Fuji the end. As with the barrel’s hoop of the first print, the circle closes about him.

  On my way to this place I halted in a small glade I came upon and bathed myself in a stream which ran through it. There I used the local wood to construct a low altar. Cleansing my hands each step of the way I set before it incense made from camphorwood and from white sandalwood; I also placed there a bunch of fresh violets, a cup of vegetables, and a cup of fresh water from the stream. Then I lit a lamp I had purchased and filled with rape-seed oil. Upon the altar I set my image of the god Kokuzo which I had brought with me from home, facing to the west where I stood. I washed again, then extended my right hand, middle finger bent to touch my thumb as I spoke the mantra for invoking Kokuzo. I drank some of the water. I lustrated myself with sprinklings of it and continued repetition of the mantra. Thereafter, I made the gesture of Kokuzo three times, hand to the crown of my head, to my right shoulder, left shoulder, heart and throat. I removed the white cloth in which Kokuzo’s picture had been wrapped. When I had sealed the area with the proper repetitions, I meditated in the same position as Kokuzo in the picture and invoked him. After a time the mantra ran by itself, over and over.

  Finally, there was a vision, and I spoke, telling all that had happened, all that I intended to do, and asking for strength and guidance. Suddenly, I saw his sword descending, descending like slow lightning, to sever a limb from a tree, which began to bleed. And then it was raining, both within the vision and upon me, and I knew that that was all to be had on the matter.

  I wound things up, cleaned up, donned my poncho, and headed on my way.

  The rain was heavy, my boots grew muddy, and the temperature dropped. I trudged on for a long while and the cold crept into my bones. My toes and fingers became numb.

  I kept constant lookout for a shelter, but did not spot anyplace where I could take refuge from the storm. Later, it changed from a downpour to a drizzle to a weak, mistlike fall when I saw what could be a temple or shrine in the distance. I headed for it, hoping for some hot tea, a fire, and a chance to change my socks and clean my boots.

  A priest stopped me at the gate. I told him my situation and he looked uncomfortable.

  “It is our custom to give shelter to anyone,” he said. “But there is a problem.”

  “I will be happy to make a cash donation,” I said, “if too many others have passed this way and reduced your stores. I really just wanted to get warm.”

  “Oh no, it is not a matter of supplies,” he told me, “and for that matter very few have been by here recently. The problem is of a different sort and it embarrasses me to state it. It makes us sound old-fashioned and superstitious, when actually this is a very modern temple. But recently we have been—ah—haunted.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Bestial apparitions have been coming and going from the library and record room beside the head priest’s quarters. They stalk the shrine, pass through our rooms, pace the grounds, then return to the library or else fade away.”

  He studied my face, as if seeking derision, belief, disbelief—anything. I merely nodded.

  “It is most awkward,” he added. “A few simple exorcisms have been attempted but to no avail.”

  “For how long has this been going on?” I asked.

  “For about three days,” he replied.

  “Has anyone been harmed by them?”

  “No. They are very intimidating, but no one has been injured. They are distracting, too, when one is trying to sleep—that is, to meditate—for they produce a tingling feeling and sometimes cause the hair to rise up.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Are there many of them?”

  “It varies. Usually just one. Sometimes two. Occasionally three.”

  “Does your library by any chance contain a computer terminal?”

  “Yes, it does,” he answered. “As I said, we are very modern. We keep our records with it, and we can obtain printouts of sacred texts we do not have on hand—and other things.”

  “If you will shut the terminal down for a day, they will probably go away,” I told him, “and I do not believe they will return.”

  “I would have to check with my superior before doing a thing like that. You know something of these matters?”

  “Yes, and in the meantime I would still like to warm myself, if I may.”

  “Very well. Come this way.”

  I followed him, cleaning my boots and removing them before entering. He led me around to the rear and into an attractive room which looked upon the temple’s garden.

  “I will go and see that a meal is prepared for you, and a brazier of charcoal that you may warm yourself,” he said as he excused himself.

  Left by myself I admired the golden carp drifting in a pond only a few feet away, its surface occasionally punctuated by raindrops, and a little stone bridge which crossed the pond, a stone pagoda, paths wandering among stones and shrubs. I wanted to cross that bridge—how unlike that metal span, thrusting, cold and dark!—and lose myself there for an age or two. Instead, I sat down and gratefully gulped the tea which arrived moments later, and I warmed my feet and dried my socks in the heat of the brazier which came a little while after that.

  Later, I was halfway through a meal and enjoying a conversation with the young priest, who had been asked to keep me company until the head priest could come by and personally welcome me, when I saw my first epigon of the day.

  It resembled a very small, triple-trunked elephant walking upright along one of the twisting garden paths, sweeping the air to either side of the trail with those snakelike appendages. It had not yet spotted me.

  I called it to the attention of the priest, who was not faced in that direction.

  “Oh my!” he said, fingering his prayer beads.

  While he was looking that way, I shifted my staff into a readily available position beside me.

  As it drifted nearer, I hurried to finish my rice and vegetables. I was afraid my bowl might be upset in the skirmish soon to come.

  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.