Beasts Head for Home

by Abe Kobo

  In walking by the railway, one could somehow still sense the presence of people, even if this were only the tens or hundreds of coolies who worked here building it years or decades ago. In wandering further into the wasteland, however, one’s very breath changed weight, making one dizzy with an unbearable loneliness. Shortening the space between them, the two hurried along as if fleeing despite the fact that they had just started off. Yet the landscape was so vast! There were only pebbles and slightly larger stones, narrow, irregular ditches gouged out by heavy rains or floods, handfuls of withered grass dotted all about, and an endless repetition of low hills that continued on into the horizon.

  11:00. When they reached the top of a relatively larger hill, there appeared near the peak of the next hill two adjacent towers in the shape of overturned buckets. They seemed to be brick kilns. A sorghum field lay between the hills. Kyūzō felt a sense of relief. However, it would be quite troublesome to walk along the perimeter of the ridge. Also, the peace of mind that came about too quickly was all the less welcome in that it seemed to hint at some future anxiety. A narrow path created by the tracks of a wagon cut across the center of the field from east to west. If one listened, the cries of people could be heard on all paths. Leaving that behind required tremendous courage. If Kō had shown even the slightest hesitation here, Kyūzō would surely have stopped in his tracks and refused to go further. Perhaps sensing his feelings, Kō said nothing until they reached the brick kilns.

  The kilns, decayed and crumbling, looked like many years had passed since they had been last used. They were like ruins from ancient times. They gave off an eerie feeling, as if something would leap out from inside them. Kō stopped and abruptly announced, “Let’s rest.” Had he known that this would be the last place to rest for some time?

  They dug up some stumps of sorghum, but after digging up three of these the heels of their shoes seemed about to fall off. For the remainder, they made do with a bit of withered grass. The fire was quite poor. Not only could they not warm themselves, they were barely able to melt the snow that they placed in the cooking pot. They gathered the sparse snow and drank it without boiling it. It stank horribly of mud, making them both nauseous. They drank vodka to remove the bad taste.

  Rough breathing could be heard just behind them. Four stray dogs appeared, becoming entangled with one another as they circled the brick kiln towers. Although pretending to play innocently, they seemed to be trying to decide whether the two humans might make a suitable meal. Or perhaps their unpleasant frolicking meant that they had already decided to eat them. Waving their hands about, Kō and Kyūzō tried to chase the dogs off, but the animals showed no reaction. As if completely ignoring them, the dogs approached ever closer. They were no doubt used to people. Kō suddenly pulled out his pistol and fired. The most ferocious-looking dog—the one with the ripped tail—fell forward with a yelp, turning his body in circles with his muzzle flat on the ground. As if nothing had happened, the other three dogs leisurely ran off, abandoning the victim.

  XII

  Descending the hill, they found themselves back in the wasteland. They walked throughout the night, their backs bent stiffly as they stared at their feet. Their faces grew wrinkled in trying to cover too much ground. There was an endless repetition of stones, ditches, withered grasses, and swelling hills that continued far off into the horizon. And beyond the last hill, a door that could only be seen in the mind’s eye, on which was written the word “hope.”

  (“A town inhabited by men, women, and children, with a warm fire burning, a bed in which to mindlessly fall asleep, a garden outside the house, a road outside the garden, and nothing else. A safe and peaceful place where this deathly wasteland would become a mere joke, and one would laugh at something amusing, and quietly close one’s eyes leaning back against a chair if one were bored, knowing that all one’s actions had meaning.”)

  Kyūzō realized, of course, that if Kō heard such things he would burst out laughing. He and Kō were people who belonged to entirely different worlds. Precisely because of that, he was unable to shake off two questions that had been haunting him.

  What had driven Kō to undertake this two-week march? And why had Kō chosen him as a travel companion?

  He had probably just randomly decided on this period of two weeks. Doubtless he was planning to soon hire a wagon in some large town. It would then be cheaper for two people to pay for the wagon rather than one. And even prior to that, it was more reassuring to have someone else along on the journey. Even if such reasons were foolish, one had to believe them in order to stop thinking about these questions any further. Kō probably mentioned two weeks in order to drive away my fear and make me ready, Kyūzō added to himself. Yes, that is just what adults do …

  The morning sun was red, flabby, and absurdly large. For some reason, Kyūzō suddenly felt sleepy when he looked at their long shadows lined up alongside one another. His body suddenly felt light, and before he knew it he was sitting down. He felt no pain whatsoever as he collapsed to the ground.

  “It’s time we found a place to sleep,” Kō remarked.

  Yet the sights around them were so cruel! In this vastness, humans appeared exceedingly small, and for at least a four kilometer radius there was nowhere for these small humans to hide. To sleep there or here amounted to exactly the same thing. If one refused to sleep here, one would be forced to travel beyond the horizon in search of somewhere else. In any case, they decided to rest here for an hour each. They lined up two stones as a landmark so as to avoid mistaking the direction. Gathering grass, they made a small fire, and Kō went to sleep first. In this instance, Kyūzō’s blanket was like treasure. With the sparse fuel and strong wind, the fire quickly died if one neglected it. In a daze, Kyūzō collected more grass in anticipation of the next hour. The grass had frozen before withering, its color fading as a result, and was so fragile that it crumbled in his hand. He worried whether Kō would go to the same trouble of tending the fire for him.

  Now then, my turn to sleep. Lying on the edge of the spread-out blanket, Kyūzō rolled over together with the blanket so that it wrapped around his entire body. His head was covered, but he felt helpless when his feet stuck out. Feeling Kō tuck his feet back in the blanket, Kyūzō soon fell fast asleep. He awoke shocked by the punishing cold. It was like sleeping on ice. His body temperature seemed to be the same as that of the ground, and other than the tip of his nose it felt like he had frozen to death. The pain centered solely on his nose. He was then struck by the idea that Kō had abandoned him. Desperately moving his numbed body, Kyūzō finally crawled out of the blanket to discover Kō asleep, pitched forward with his knees splayed and head plunged into the extinguished fire.

  Kyūzō called out to him, shaking him, but he showed no response. Kō finally opened his eyes when Kyūzō hit him hard, but his teeth were chattering and his seeing eye was swollen a deep red. There was something wrong with him. He started to say something, shuddered, and then twice vomited a yellowish substance. Nevertheless, he curled his lips to the right, revealing a frozen smile spread across half his face. In that smile Kyūzō sensed affection.

  A large flock of crows flew by from south to north, squawking loudly. After one group flew by, another followed. It took four or five minutes for all the crows to fly past.

  Gesturing to the birds and then pointing south, Kō spoke in a hoarse voice that was barely audible. “There’s a river or forest.”

  Gently stopping him when he tried to immediately stand up, Kyūzō gave Kō some vodka and built a fire to boil water for him. People become strong when alongside those who are weaker than themselves. Conversely, they become weak when alongside those who are stronger than themselves. Yet Kō showed no weakness whatsoever. He insisted on leaving soon after drinking the hot water. Some hardship was needed so as to rest properly, he seemed to say. His gait was surprisingly steady.

  But it appeared that Kō had miscalculated the omen of the crows. No matter how far they walked, there wa
s neither river nor forest. They continued walking all day, but the landscape showed no change at all, as if they had constantly remained in the same place. However, the several hours of daytime were relatively more temperate. It was perhaps twenty degrees below zero—possibly even above fifteen. They looked for grassy places and, just as before, rested an hour each and ate their meal. Yet they regretted this later. Why didn’t they sleep then for at least two hours each? Night returned, and during the time of darkness before the moon rose—or rather, prior to that, when with bent backs and dragging feet they followed the sunset at a near trot (“the crows should have returned, but didn’t!”)—they bit their lips until the blood flowed, feeling terrified by a sense of despair, no longer able to believe that they could hold out any further, and continually wondered why they hadn’t slept for at least two hours each.

  Unable to find a resting place no matter how long they searched, they were forced once again to spend the entire night walking. Everything, from this to that, was exactly the same as last night. Stones, ditches, and, raising one’s eyes, an ocean that had been hardened and rendered motionless by lead. Their fatigue had increased several times over. Many times they wished to throw off and abandon their belongings. They wanted to lie down right on the spot and go to sleep. Prodding and dragging each other along with faltering steps, as if drunk, they moved through the vast expanse like tiny insects.

  “Give me some vodka,” Kō demanded, grabbing on to Kyūzō’s elbow for support. This was already the fifth time he had made such a request since sundown.

  Kyūzō shrugged him off without reply. Kō then forcibly took hold of Kyūzō’s belongings, attempting to snatch them away. Kyūzō didn’t wish to defy him further. Nevertheless, Kō refused to return the vodka after drinking. As if quite naturally, he corked the bottle and placed it in his pocket. At once Kyūzō grabbed hold of Kō’s left hand, grappling with him head-on. With a scream, Kō shook himself free, backed away covering his hand, and then stumbled to the ground.

  “Give it back!”

  These were the only words exchanged between them then, either before or thereafter. Silently, Kō responded by drawing his pistol. The incident was thus settled. Neither of them seemed to feel that this event was particularly significant. Kyūzō, somewhat absentmindedly, even interpreted it to mean that all was going well. As if nothing had happened, they once again set off walking. The northern wind continued blowing as always.

  Dawn broke. Soon they discovered a broad, gray expanse of low ground beyond a hill. This was a frozen wetland with a dense growth of tall, withered grasses that were as thick as bamboo poles.

  For them, the area was like a mountain of fuel. Shouting, they ran off at a stagger. Despite appearances, the stalks were quite fragile, breaking easily when touched by one’s body. Rolling around, the two flattened the grass and then gathered it together using every part of their bodies. Setting aside some of the grass for their beds, they piled up the remainder and started a fire.

  Thick, milky white smoke rose up, and flames soon burst forth loudly as if sprinkled with gunpowder, appearing to force back the sunlight. For some reason, however, the two didn’t feel especially warm. The parts of their body exposed to the fire were burning hot, and yet in their core they felt even more chilled. Perhaps the cold came from their sleeplessness, something that couldn’t be warmed by fire. Kō, in particular, looked miserable. Holding his left hand, he couldn’t seem to stop moaning and shivering. He complained that, from the tip of his pinky to the area below his ears, the left side of his upper body felt broken with pain.

  The fire, although strong, did not last long, and one was forced to add new grass nearly every five minutes. Imploringly, they gathered grass and threw it on the fire again and again. Half-awake and half-asleep, they repeated these actions until they found themselves at some point buried in grass, asleep, their arched backs turned toward the fire.

  They slept perhaps two or three hours. Kō woke up. In the cold fire lay Kyūzō, fast asleep and covered in ash. Kō was shocked when he looked up. While they were sleeping, everything around them had burnt down. The fire had fanned out downwind, and an expanse of several hundred meters was still smoldering. Come to think of it, Kō realized, the taste of smoke had permeated all the way to his chest.

  Wishing to gain a clearer sense of the situation, he exerted great effort to finally reach the top of the hill. In the open vista, there appeared a large marsh that seemed to be fully one kilometer around extending in a long, narrow strip in a north-south direction. The near bank was only fifty meters away. The fire had spread alongside the marsh’s western bank, leaving the eastern side virtually undamaged, perhaps because of the sparseness of grass there.

  Intuitively, with perhaps the instincts of a wounded animal, Kō felt that they must go there. Shaking Kyūzō awake, he dragged the bag and crept across the ruins of the fire, which emitted a slight purple smoke. The low ice surface had become a steep cliff. Between the ice and cliff lay an expanse of dry red clay, approximately two meters in length, covered in grass roots and forming a small sunny spot. This area received sunlight from the southeast, was sheltered from the wind, and appeared quite comfortable. As if tempted, Kō slid down when, suddenly blowing his nose loudly with his fingers, he lost all the strength in his body.

  (“We should have found this spot before building the fire. One makes a mistake by rushing. Before doing anything, one must make sure of things first. We should boil water, but at times like this some sugar can give one energy.”)

  Kō felt as if he were speaking to Kyūzō about these things, and yet fell into a frantic, senseless nightmare.

  Shocked by the change around them, Kyūzō watched still somewhat groggily, believing that Kō had lost his footing on the cliff. Kō leaned against the cliff, snoring. He was not dead yet, Kyūzō thought, but he surely would die. On the far bank of the marsh, a low thicket of shrubs spread out over the gentle slope. Two or three times, Kyūzō walked there and back carrying twigs. Allowing Kō to sleep, Kyūzō built a fire next to him and removed his shoes, warming his feet. He broke off some ice and boiled water. Holding him so that he would wake up and drink, Kō suddenly began laughing and, pointing to the marsh, shouted meaningless words: “Andara, tsoan, chii, rururu.”

  With that, he dropped back off to sleep. His entire face was swollen black and blue, a large tear covered his seeing eye, and his lips were white and dry, around which had formed a black ring of frostbite. Touching his forehead, Kyūzō discovered that it was surprisingly hot. He was terrified, convinced that Kō would die.

  XIII

  The fields in the distance were still burning. Kyūzō suddenly felt hopeful. Perhaps someone might see the smoke and come. A farmer, hunter, shepherd, woodcutter, or perhaps a traveler passing by or soldiers out on patrol.

  Kyūzō remembered that he had a map. He unfolded it, but at first had no idea where they might be. For it was impossible to believe that, after traveling for two nights, they could still be in such a place. Walking directly south (contrary to expectations, their course had veered slightly west), the abandoned, townless wasteland that extended for another hundred and seventy or eighty kilometers measured one hundred kilometers in width—the area appeared on the map as a small, unremarkable blank space—while the symbol for the marshland that he finally located appeared as if they had only just entered that space. Even then, the closest town (a place beyond the marsh called Daiqintala) was roughly fifty or sixty kilometers away. Who would possibly concern themselves with such a small fire in the plains? Kyūzō had heard of the Khingan Range fires that burned for ten or even twenty days. What of this tiny fire in the plains! And yet this small fire had just appeared utterly massive and terrifying to him.

  He burst out crying. He hated Kō so much that he wanted to kill him. Even if he didn’t kill him, however, the man was dying. He then began to feel immense anger at himself. The tears froze and began to itch, making him stop. He had already forgotten why he was crying anyw
ay.

  In Kyūzō’s mind, Kō would die that night. Without question, the large flock of crows had swooped down from the far bank of the marsh that evening because they wanted to eat him. He would take his last breath when the moon rose, Kyūzō suspected, taking care to avoid letting the fire burn out. He quietly took back the bottle of vodka.

  The moon rose while he slept. Kō, however, was still alive. Kyūzō stirred the fire and ate. Wishing not to depend solely on the provisions he had brought, he decided to search for food tomorrow, and thus ended up eating a bit more. Dissolving the dry bread in the hot water, he fed Kō. Kō, muttering gibberish, immediately spat out the liquid. “Idiot!” Kyūzō shouted, dropping Kō’s cradled head to the ground. He hit him one more time before covering him with the blanket.

  The night was filled with sounds. There were sounds that existed in reality and those that did not. The fluttering of the wind, the howling of beasts, and the screeching of birds all truly existed. As if plagued by nightmares, the beasts made incessant howling sounds that, Kyūzō suspected, must have been terrifying even to themselves. Yet it was the voices that had no real existence that were the most hostile. The wing flapping of countless phantoms. How could one possibly escape the phantoms created by one’s own desire to escape? The more tightly Kyūzō grasped the handle of the knife under his shirt, the more forceful those phantom lives became. Approaching footsteps, a voice calling out his name, approaching footsteps, screams of terror, approaching footsteps, sobbing, approaching footsteps, the creaking of a wagon … After hesitating a long time, he gently removed Kō’s pistol. This was a natural course of action under such circumstances. It was both his unbearable fatigue and the hatred he felt for those who had abandoned him that gave him just enough courage to endure. The night was a terrifying one.