Holmes paused for a moment and then replied deliberately. “I accept you wager, sir. For what you have just told me is that you are willing to accept that there is a ten percent chance that I may be right. Are you, sir, sure that you can afford even that degree of risk, given the possible consequences?”
Again the Envoy glared at Holmes for an entire minute without speaking. He then slowly leaned back in his chair and reached for the bell cord and gave it a tug. A moment later a young man, who looked the part of an English secretary, appeared.
“You called, sir?”
“I did, Johnson. Please send an encoded message to Whitehall informing them that I have had a change in my plans and will not be able to attend the meetings in Singapore.”
The young fellow looked horrified. “But sir, it’s your investiture.”
“I know what it is, Johnson. Unfortunately, an emergency has arisen that precludes my attending. Please get that off straight away and it is to remain unknown to anyone else in the legation. Is that understood, Johnson.”
“Yes… yes … your Excellency.”
The lad looked over at Holmes and me with a hostile expression on his face.
“Very well, Holmes. I will see you on Saturday at the top of Mount Fuji. I will have two Royal Marines with me as snipers, fully prepared to shoot anyone who appears ready to harm the Emperor. That will be all, gentlemen.”
He gestured toward the door. We rose in silence and departed.
Chapter Fourteen The Yellow Ribbon
I CONFESS THAT THE BLOOD had departed from my face, and my knees were trembling. Holmes appeared unaffected, except for the quickening of his pace as we marched out of the legation and back to the hotel.
Upon entering our rooms, I immediately grabbed for the brandy bottle and poured myself a stiff one.
“Well Holmes, this takes the biscuit. God only knows what could happen if the Emperor is assassinated and it comes out that a Brit and a Russian were in on it.”
“Precisely, Watson. Any further insights you might have on this concern would be welcomed.”
“Frankly, Holmes, my mind has moved on to matters more pressing.”
“And what could those possibly be?”
“Finding Tommy and sorting out how two middle-aged Englishmen get to the top of Mount Fuji without dying several thousand feet below the summit.”
Mount Fuji is the highest mountain in Japan and for over a thousand years has been sacred to the people. It rises, according to the geographers who claim to be able to measure such things, twelve thousand, three hundred and eighty-eight feet above sea level. The mountain’s appearance is striking and induces a feeling of awe in those who gaze upon it. The conical shape is nearly symmetrical and is rises far above all of its surroundings. The climb, we were warned, is not for the faint of heart.
Tommy was thrilled when told of our planned hike up the mountain. He spent a full day hustling us all over Tokyo to procure proper footwear, jackets, trousers, hiking sticks, and thick socks. On the Wednesday, he insisted on taking us north the mile or so to the Asakusa neighborhood and the great Senso-ji temple.
“If you expect good fortune on your climb up Fuji-san,” Tommy explained, “it is customary to make a prayer and give an offering here before going.”
“How interesting,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You buy a stick of incense from the priest, light it, and place it in the sand inside the great kettle. Then you ascend the staircase, face the Buddha, pull on the bell, clap your hands three times, and toss a coin into the box in front of you.”
“I suppose I could do that,” I said. “But I have no Japanese coins.”
“This is not a problem, Doctor-san. The priests accept foreign currency but discount the exchange rate.”
I suppose I should have known. I turned to Holmes, smiling, and asked, “Well, Holmes, are you going to contribute a shilling to our good fortune?”
He did not return the smile. “Watson, you know perfectly well that I have no use for superstition either here or in England. This is nothing but stuff and nonsense.”
“Holmes,” I said, “odds are that you are absolutely right. But a gambler knows to hedge his bets when the stakes are running high.” I made my way up the stairs to pay Mr. Buddha.
The following day, Thursday, we boarded the local train and took it as far as the Gotemba station. There we hired a carriage that Tommy had arranged and moved quite quickly along a winding and climbing road. The last mile or two was a series of switchbacks as we ascended the southern slope of the mountain.
“The road takes us to the fifth station,” Tommy explained. “This is a great help to climbers. You are already up over six thousand feet before you even have to start. This is good, yes?”
Although I may have forgotten my algebra, I could still do simple arithmetic. If we were at six thousand feet, we only had another six thousand to go. Knowing this did not help my confidence.
We spent the night in a comfortable lodge that, while overpriced, offered decent accommodations and food appropriate to both Japanese and foreigner. We met with the guide and two porters that Tommy had arranged for us and agreed to meet following breakfast the next morning to begin our trek.
“If my understanding is correct,” said Holmes the following morning, “we climb today as far as the seventh station, where there is another lodge. We sleep over there and then, very early in the morning, rise and try to make it to the top before sunrise.”
“Yes, Sherlock-san” confirmed Tommy. “If we are most fortunate, there will be clear skies, and we will enjoy the sacred experience of watching the sunrise from the top of Fuji-san.”
“And what about the Emperor and all the officials and dignitaries?”
“The Emperor,” said Tommy, “has already started his ascent. His carriers departed over one hour ago, after he had made a visit to the shrine. A tent is already waiting for him at the summit. He will sleep tonight at the top of Mount Fuji. It is a very special occasion for the nation. He has never done this before. We are most honored to be here and be part of it.”
And so our climb began. What astounded me was that the guides and porters began at a snail’s pace, plodding one slow, small step after another along the slight incline. I was tempted to shout that we should get a move on but held my tongue. Within an hour, as the pitch of the trail had markedly increased, I thought the pace just fine. After three hours it occurred to me that I might not mind if we slowed down and took a few more rest stops.
From time to time, as I forced myself to breathe the thinning oxygen as deeply as I could, I took a moment to turn and look out and the vast expanse of land and lakes below me. It was truly stunning, and I looked forward to the experience at the top, assuming that I did not die before getting there.
Holmes, being thin and wiry, was doing somewhat better that I was, but I could see him struggling for breath as well.
“Are you prepared,” I asked, “finally to swear off tobacco? It does you no good at a time like this.”
Holmes actually smiled at that one. “My dear doctor, it appears you had not noticed that I stopped using it the day we climbed Mount Jinba and have not touched it since. Had I not done so I might have had to arrange a carrying service like the Emperor, and I do not believe I could have charged the expense and sent the bill to Whitehall.”
The open path on which we started had long since disappeared. Now we were climbing up rough hewn stairs and over volcanic rocks. On many an occasion I had to reach up with my hands to the rocks above me and climb on all fours. I took to counting my steps and determining that I could do at least two hundred between stops to catch my breath and let my heartbeat subside.
Three, then four, and finally five hours passed since we started. What kept my spirits up was knowing that there was a comfortable lodge up at the seventh station. Assuming that it was of similar quality to the one in which we had passed the previous night, I could look forward to hot tea and some decent foo
d as we sat on the deck and absorbed the unparalleled view in front of us.
“I think I can, I think I can,” I kept repeating to myself. As I plodded my weary way up the last few steps, I looked for the deck and chairs on which I could sit and enjoy the spectacular view. There was no deck and no chairs. Some of the climbers who had arrived before me had parked their backsides on the few black rock rocks that were large enough to accommodate them. None of the rocks were flat and the few that were unoccupied had a shape to them that discouraged anyone from even thinking of sitting down.
The building itself was no more than an elongated shack. Planks were laid down to resemble a floor, hammered willy-nilly in upright positions to form walls, and laid flat and covered with tarpaper to form a roof. I sat down on a bench only to have one of the staff shout rudely at me in Japanese and English telling me to get off the table. The only place to sit was on the floor. Such an arrangement might be acceptable to a young man or even an older Japanese fellow but the discomfort that crept into my weary bones after only a few minutes was annoying.
The food that was served was likewise Spartan even by Japanese standards. The portions were small and consisted mostly of cold rice cakes and pickled vegetables. Being famished, I devoured it quickly and then thought I should, like Oliver Twist, ask if there were any more. There was not, and I had to make do with some pieces of fruit that our dear porters had carried all the way up for me.
“Tommy,” I whispered, “this is dreadful service. I have not been treated this poorly anywhere in the entire country. How is this tolerated?”
“They have, how do you say, a monopoly. This family bought the rights to have the only lodge. They can do what they want and charge whatever they wish. There is nowhere else to stay if you want to be close enough to the top to watch the sunrise.”
I had heard of the trust-busting efforts of Theodore Roosevelt and his gang in America as they set out to break up the exploitive monopolies of the oil and railroad companies. Something like that, I thought, would be a good thing on Mount Fuji.
Tommy led us to the ‘bedroom’ that again caused my spirits to fall. There were no beds, only four large wooden platforms onto which five people each were expected to fit, all packed in like sardines. A mattress, if you can call a one-inch pad a mattress, was provided along with a blanket. Visiting the WC required and treacherous trip outdoors and down a small slope of slippery rock.
I was fairly certain that Holmes was not fairing much better than me. He is, at the best of times, very taciturn and keeps his counsel to himself. He uttered not a word of complaint and appeared to still be absorbed with the monumental case that had been presented to him and about which I had, at least temporarily, ceased to be concerned.
I had slept before in dormitories full of young men who smell and snore, but the last time was over thirty years ago while serving in the Afghan Campaign. A couple of the larger climbers made sounds similar to a Triumph motorcycle starting up six inches from my ear. I was, however, dead tired and involuntarily fell off into a deep sleep.
The next thing I knew I heard Tommy speaking into my ear and felt his hand rocking my shoulder.
“Doctor John-san. It is time to get up. It is already past three o’clock in the morning. If we want to see the sunrise we have to leave now.”
I truly cannot recall the next twenty minutes, but I came to full consciousness once I stepped outside into the cold night air a few hundred feet below the summit. The wind was light, and the sky was cloudless. I gazed up into the dome of the heavens and was overcome with the beauty of what I was observing. But my moment of reverie was not to last. Torch bearers were interspersed with the climbers, and we began our final ascent like some giant shining centipede crawling up the final stretch of mountain.
Holmes, Tommy, and I found a stretch of flat rock and sat down with our legs folded underneath us and fixed our gaze at the orange glow that was beginning to flow upwards from one spot on the horizon. It became brighter and brighter and then, suddenly, a brilliant flaming dot of fire appeared. I could hear murmurs all around me as folks from many different nations, languages and faiths all shared the universal experience of the start of a new day.
“You know, Watson,” said Holmes quietly as the circle of the morning sun crept upwards, “At times like this I could be almost persuaded to be thankful to the divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may.”
I felt the same way and went so far as to place my hand on the shoulder of my dearest and best friend as we shared the sublime experience.
The moment passed. Soon the sun was fully up, and people were standing and milling about. The hour of five o’clock had already come and gone, and preparations were underway for the arrival of the runners. As I looked around, I could see a warren of small huts, shrines and tents. Some were permanent and had clearly been sitting on the summit for years. Others had most likely been erected the previous day as part of the yellow ribbon event. One rather richly colored tent sat off by itself, and I assumed that it must be where the Emperor Himself was staying.
The runners, I was informed, had already started their race up the mountain at first light. Again the men took off first, followed by the women. As the number of participants allowed to enter had been winnowed down by the first two events and the slower ones all eliminated, the total of men running was only forty, and of women a mere twenty. But those sixty people had to be among the best on the planet at this type of event. The strength, endurance, and determination required was beyond imagining.
Because of the reduced numbers, there would be no heats. The men started in a pack, and thirty minutes later the women. The race began along the wide, gently sloping trail that I had found so easy early yesterday. By the time they reached the stretch where they would be clambering over the rocks and bounding up the narrow stairs, they would have spread out.
It took a gentleman of my age a full seven hours of climbing to make it from bottom to top. The fastest runners were expected to do it in just under four.
“Tommy,” I said, “this is inhuman. No one can keep up a climb like that without stopping for four hours. They will collapse.”
“Oh no, Doctor John-san. The officials know this. There are five stations set up along the way. When a runner arrives there, he must stop and wait for five minutes before he is allowed to go again. They are given tea and fruit juice and some rice cakes and sushi if they want it. It is the same for every runner at every station. So it is fair to everyone. But these runners are the best of the best. They will all be fine, Doctor-san.”
I hoped he was right.
With three hours to wait, I took out my notebook and began to draft this story that you are now reading. At the time, I still did not know if it would end in an international disaster of the first order, or in the fizzle of an event that never happened.
When there was only an hour left to wait, Holmes, Tommy and I made our way over to one of the larger tents that had been pitched on the rim of the crater. It bore a large Union Jack, and I assumed that it would be packed with officials from what yesterday, at a ceremony in Singapore, was elevated to the rank of our Embassy. Holmes was still the guest of honor and had not had the role of prize-giver snatched away from him in spite of the anger of the invested-in-absentia Ambassador. (Reader: I shall henceforth address Mr. Munro by his elevated title.)
The finish line was laid out not far from the Emperor’s tent. The winning runners, one man and one woman, would be allowed to cool off and wrapped in a brilliant yellow kimono. They would then be presented to the Emperor, where they would kneel, be awarded the yellow ribbon and medal around their necks, and have the golden arrow placed in their outstretched hands. Then they would walk over to our tent where Holmes would congratulate them and give them their citation promising a full scholarship to Oxford.
We assumed our places at the front of the British tent. In an inner section, cut off by canvas partitions, I could hear the voice of Grant Munro, but he did not emerge to gr
eet us.
Soon a cry went up. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
Our wonderful porters miraculously produced three sets of field glasses from their packs, and we stood at the edge of the mountain looking down. Still several hundred feet below, the running bodies of a cluster of men could be made out. There was a pack of five of them all running nearly together at the front. Behind them came several other packs and then they spread out. But from the front of the first pack to the last man, there was no more than one hundred yards distance. Anyone of them who had retained enough strength could still win the race.
I watched each of them as they bounced up one set of stairs or pile of rocks after another. I must admit that I was trying to identify the crazy Russian. Somehow I had taken a bit of a liking to Nick, and I was hoping he might defy all odds and win.
I spotted him. He was not difficult to pick out. He was taller than most of the Japanese men, and his pale skin color stood out, but he was well back of the leaders, and I knew that he would have to demonstrate a superhuman effort to move ahead.
Ten minutes later they had reached the final staircase of unevenly cut steps hewn out of the rock. Three men had pulled away from the rest of the pack and were almost stepping on each other’s heels. But there was not enough room for any one of them to pass, the steps being so narrow. One of the fellows was quite tall, the same height or more than Holmes and the same thin body. The other two were shorter, but not one of them had any extra weight on his lithe body.
Now they were almost at the rim of the crater. The final stretch would be a flat sprint along the rim for about one hundred yards to the finish line.
The three leading runners popped up from the final step all within a fraction of a second of each other and in unison turned and began the sprint to the finish line. The path was wide enough now for them to run abreast and they looked as if they were joined together, moving like a powerful mass of human flesh. I kept waiting for one of them to pull ahead, but none did. Arms and legs were moving almost in lockstep with each other. The arms were pumping, and the strain on the face was frightening. Then, when they were just three yards from the finish line, and moving at incredible speed, the unthinkable happened. One of them, and no one could say who, tripped. On mass all three of them fell and tumbled over the finish line, their faces, hands and shoulders falling into the volcanic cinders. The runners who were immediately behind them jumped to the side or leapt over the fallen bodies, or fell themselves when they tried to avoid the ones who were lying blackened and in pain. Officials scrambled out on to the path and tried to help remove the fallen only to further contribute to the blockade. There was complete mayhem for the next five minutes.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 34
