Chapter 1: 1.1

The Moon Over the Mountain (Part 1)

Original story by Nakajima Atsushi (1909-1942).

Li Zheng, a proud government official, forsakes the world in order to throw himself into the world of poetry. Based on Renhuzhuan , a Chinese tale from the Tang dynasty.

There once was a student who possessed great renown among a select few in the Yoshida neighbourhood of Kyoto.

His name was Saitō Shūtarō.

He lived in a wooden apartment building near Hōzenji, at the foot of Mt. Daimonji. He spent his days as the mood struck him: strolling down the Philosopher’s Walk deep in thought; lying on the floor with cigarettes and coffee, imagining himself traveling around the world; conducting investigations into the mysteries of the gecko footprints left behind on the bathroom window; drinking centipede-infused shōchū and just barely living to tell the tale. Mackerel was a great favourite of his, and his love for it was such that he once set up a charcoal brazier at the laundry racks in order to grill fish and ended up nearly burning the apartment to the ground.

Perhaps the only thing besides mackerel for which he held such flaming ardour was writing. Seldom did he hold wild bacchanals; little did he care for worldly concerns such as sex or grades. He could most often be found with his pen flying across paper, writing Dostoevsky-esque epics. Not a single person read them.

“Is this really how you expect to get through life?”

During his third year at university his peers began to express concerns such as these, but none of it perturbed him in the slightest. Was he high-minded, or just an idiot? None of them were sure, and it is rather difficult to tell the difference between the two.

Eventually his circle shrank considerably, for his friends were all graduating.

Rain drizzled from the sky as he headed to observe the ceremony. As his friends streamed out of the grey auditorium building, he stood in front of them all, cackling drily, and proclaimed the following.

“There is no doubt in my mind that one day I will make my name. Rather than waste my life in some dead-end job as a cog in the wheel of society, I will gain the fame and renown my skill so justly deserves, such that even when I am dead the name of Saitō Shūtarō will be spoken of 500 years hence! Four years is too long a period to spend idle, yet too short a time in which to accomplish anything. Fare thee well, normies!”

His friends forced themselves to smile. And then, they left him to become cogs in the wheel of society.

　　　　　　　＊

By cunningly repeating years and taking leaves of absence, Saitō boldly managed to extend his time at school to lengths which many had once thought impossible. His was a solitary march, unpraised and unsung, as though he was alone on an arduous expedition far from home. His parents quickly tired of his idealism, and soon cut off his allowance.

Yet he remained a literary unknown, and day by day his life became more unbearable.

His fellow super seniors graduated; those who went on to graduate school finished their master’s degrees; and even those who pursued their doctorate eventually left with diploma in hand. He heard of people getting assigned jobs overseas, getting married, starting their own businesses, running for office in their hometowns: blockheads he had once scorned as being below his attention, now securing footholds in society.

It was during this period that his face became bitter and grim, and his bones began to poke through his skin. The fresh-faced, ambitious young man he had been was nowhere to be found; only a futile gleam remained in his eyes.

In mid-July of the eleventh year since he had entered college, he made a rare evening excursion into town to see the Yoiyama celebration of the Gion Festival. Testimony from other residents of the boarding house indicates that he returned to his room at 9 in the evening, where he remained, unnaturally quiet, into the small hours.

In the still of the night, he suddenly burst through his door, screaming for some odd reason, “Somersault! Somersault!” and rushed out into the night. Galloping through the thicket behind the building he dashed off towards the mountains, never to return.

He was never found.

That was because nobody bothered to look for him.

　　　　　　　＊

A year went by.

One night early in August, a young officer from the Kawabata station by the name of Natsume Takahiro was on duty at the Ginkakuji police box. He had joined the force only a short time ago.

Officer Natsume headed for the sink. An old rice cooker puffed out steam as the officer used the muscles he had acquired through weightlifting and practising criminal apprehension techniques to chop ingredients for oyakodon with surprising dexterity. In a small pot he heated dashi, tossing in chopped chicken. Under the fluorescent lighting, another officer by the name of Corporal Maejima reviewed documents, sniffing in the scrumptious fragrance that filled the police box.

The canal that carries the waters of Lake Biwa up from the old temple of Nanzenji turns to the west at the foot of Mt. Daimonji. The Ginkakuji police box is built along its banks. East of the police box is the lazy slope that leads to the gate of Ginkakuji, tourist shops and restaurants jostling on either side. On weekends this slope was usually bustling with tourists, but now it was late at night, and the stream of foot traffic had petered out.

It had started to rain during the evening, and for a time the night was cool. But as the hour grew late a tepid breeze began to blow from the direction of the woods that loomed beyond Ginkakuji, and now there was a vague restlessness in the air. Every so often, Corporal Maejima would glance at the darkness which lay beyond the door of the police box.

At last dinner was ready. Having been kept too busy by their duties to eat a proper meal all day, the ravenous two gobbled up their food. After finishing half his bowl, Maejima stopped chewing long enough to say, “Delicious. Wouldn’t mind you doing this more often.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“I can feel something brewing tonight. Eat up while you can.”

Maejima drained his cup of cold barley tea and smoothed the wrinkles on his blue summer uniform.

A series of strange incidents had been occurring on Mt. Daimonji since the summer of the previous year. People who approached the mountain had been assaulted by a mysterious apparition, and just the other day a member of the Daimonji Preservation Society had come to the police for assistance.

But even supposing that there really was someone skulking on the mountain, smoking them out would be no simple task. Behind the famous Mt. Daimonji towered Nyoigadake, one of the Thirty-Six Peaks of Higashiyama, and the dense forest stretched all the way to the border of Shiga prefecture. If this phantom really was roving around those vast woodlands, it would take a massive manhunt to apprehend them. All the lowly patrolmen could do was urge hikers to exercise caution.

As Officer Natsume was clearing the table, he heard the rattle of the front door sliding open.

In piled a group of students, panting and gasping for breath, begging Corporal Maejima for help. “It attacked us at the firepits!”

Officer Natsume tossed down the utensils and quickly wiped off his hands.

“He’s here. Grab the flashlights!” Maejima shouted.

　　　　　　　＊

The trail up Mt. Daimonji begins north of Ginkakuji.

It was pitch black in the dense foliage, and the further they walked from the parking lot at the trailhead, the harder it was to make out anything. The two officers moved cautiously up the path, guided by the beams from their flashlights.

Rumours of strange phenomena occurring around Daimonji had already spread far and wide, and few were bold enough to brave the mountain at night. But these students didn’t seem to have put much credence in those stories.

They belonged to an odd group known as the Sophistry Debate Society. Each spring they preyed on newly matriculated students, forcing them to swear an oath: We sophistrize to everyone and doesn’t afraid of anything! Their crushing of budding hopes and dreams had become something of an annual tradition.

Each year this despicable event was capped off by a gathering at the firepits of Daimonji, where they would hock loogies at the lights of Kyoto below and whirl madly in the throes of the Sophists’ Dance. But just as one of the newly inducted students was on the verge of consummating this contemptible act, a gigantic gob of spittle fell out of the sky and knocked him off his feet. Giant drops of spit rained from the sky, bowling the rest of his compatriots down like ninepins.

“What in tarnation!?” the club president bellowed, covered in sticky strings of spit, when all of a sudden he was picked up into the sky. The club members could only watch as he was twirled around like a yo-yo, bobbling up and down between the stars until he was bawling and drooling all over himself.

After a while the chief was finally lowered to the ground, and abandoning his dignity as well as the despicable, sophistry-encrusted ideals which he had espoused so proudly, he ran off between the fireplaces screaming, “Mooommmmyyyyyyyyy!” The rest of the club members hastily followed behind. As they scattered and fled, they heard behind them a roar of laughter.

“It must be a tanuki playing tricks!” Corporal Maejima murmured as he walked along the dim path.

“But how will we deal with it?”

“You’re right, the law doesn’t extend to them.”

Halfway up the mountain they came to the eerie Sen’ninzuka clearing, but saw nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Corporal Maejima shone his flashlight around the area, scanning the gloomy grove.

“Let’s head up to the fireplaces.”

Proceeding further up the trail, they emerged onto the firepits, where the view opened up before them.

Firepits dotted the steep west-facing slope in the shape of the character “dai”. With no trees to block the view, they could gaze down on the lights of Kyoto below. A cool breeze swept across the vista, drying their sweat. Wiping their brows, the two squinted down at the twinkling view.

They searched the area around the shrine to Kōbō Daishi at the center of the firepits, but found nothing to arouse suspicion.

“Let’s go a little further up.”

Behind the small altar, a steep staircase led upwards forming the vertical bar of the “dai” character. At the top of the stairs the path lead up to the triangulation point before vanishing once more into the darkness of the trees.

Just as Corporal Maejima stepped foot on the first stair, there was a great whoosh, and the corporal was laid out by a great gob of spit. It seemed to have come from the top of the stairs. Officer Natsume caught Maejima before he hit the ground, then unsheathed his baton.

Deftly avoiding another flying gob of spit, Natsume shouted into the darkness, “Police!” The following gob of spit went awry out into the sky, the erstwhile spitter seemingly having been thrown off.

“Oh, what are you doing here?” a voice suddenly moaned from the darkness.

Officer Natsume seemed to recall having heard that voice before.

“Is that you, Saitō?” he asked.

For a moment there was no answer, only the occasional muffled sound of what seemed to be quiet weeping. After a short while, the voice answered in a low tone.

“Indeed, I am none other than Saitō Shūtarō.”

　　　　　　　＊

During his student days, Natsume Takahiro had been mad about mahjong.

The word “mahjong” holds a frightening power around campus. Many are the students who, obsessing in their Chinese language studies day and night, end up inadvertently throwing their lives away. The alleys behind mahjong parlours are piled high with their corpses, which passersby can but look upon and sigh with pity.

It had been Nagata, a graduate student in the science department, who had first taught Natsume the thrill of mahjong. They had become acquainted while working on the parade at the Aoi Festival. Nagata was a levelheaded and easygoing fellow, transparent and guileless as a clear autumn sky, never allowing his love of mahjong to lead him astray from his scholarly pursuits.

Natsume and Nagata frequented mahjong parlours, and hung out at acquaintances’ homes immersing themselves in the game. Nagata often broke away in the middle of a game to return to his laboratory, then came back to the table once his experiments had been completed, in a display of truly astounding willpower. Though he witnessed many of his friends succumb to the game, the sight of their corpses never seemed to interfere with his enjoyment of the game.

Natsume heard rumours of an exceedingly eccentric man the same age as Nagata. This man was known as one of the Four Lords of Mahjong, though no one actually knew who the other three lords were. Though Nagata was in the second year of his master’s program, this man was still an undergraduate, and was apparently still a long way off from graduating. Then again, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he found it beneath him to even make any attempt to graduate. Natsume particularly admired how he had coolly told his friends at their graduation, “Fare thee well, normies!” This man’s name was Saitō Shūtarō.

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Natsume had first sat at a mahjong table with Saitō at the Ichijōji Cup, a competition held at Natgata’s lodgings in a boarding house in Ichijōji. Saitō had showed up late at night, on a rickety bike that was more fit to sit in a scrap heap than for a human to sit on it; his face was as thin as a cucumber, reminiscent of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke in the last days before he took his own life, emanating a forbidding aura.

He was a devil of a mahjong player.

He smoked everyone else’s cigarettes, downed everyone else’s drinks, and after easily winning the cup as well as the prize money, quietly departed without so much as saying good night. The other players watched him go, deeply impressed. They couldn’t even be angry at the contemptuous disregard he showed them in victory, for it felt almost like they had witnessed a mythical creature in their midst.

“Remember, Natsume. That is a truly great man,” Nagata said happily as they walked down Shirakawa Street towards a gyūdon joint, the first rays of dawn peeking over the horizon. “He’s the one guy in college I truly respect. Me and everyone else, we’re all just half-assing it.”

　　　　　　　＊

The proud, independent Saitō Shūtarō rarely socialized, but he did have a friendly relationship with Nagata. Not only was Nagata the same year in school as Saitō, but the depths of his heart were as deep and boundless as the waters of Lake Towada, which enabled him to take Saitō’s haughty arrogance in stride. Nagata truly respected Saitō, which Saitō seemed to take for granted, soaking in that respect as though he was drinking water from a faucet.

As he got to know Nagata better, Natsume began to occasionally visit Saitō Shūtarō’s residence.

One night in late summer, Nagata went to deliver some of Saitō’s favourite mackerel, so Natsume tagged along.

Saitō’s door was thrown wide open into the corridor, and when they entered his room he welcomed them in, stark naked. His mind was ablaze with the fires of creation, and so he had taken all of his clothes off.

“I didn’t want to die of heatstroke before I was finished, see.”

“Is your novel reaching its climax, then?” asked Nagata.

“It’s been climaxing the entire time,” said Saitō matter-of-factly.

“Sit where you like,” he told them, but it was rather difficult not to think about the fact that his bare bottom had been resting on those mats. Natsume gingerly lowered himself to the floor, thinking for the first time that perhaps he wasn’t such a slob after all.

Saitō was overjoyed when Nagata took out the mackerel. Rummaging around in his closet, he brought out a charcoal brazier, saying, “Mackerel isn’t mackerel unless it’s roasted over one of these!” And succumbing to the allure he attempted to march out into the corridor.

“Don’t you think you should put on some underpants first, Saitō?” Nagata reminded him. “And at least make some rice to go along with it.”

Given the task of carrying the brazier, Natsume followed Saitō out to the laundry racks. Cool air flowed towards them from the forest that pressed near behind the building, and he could hear the cicadas singing. Saitō placed charcoal in the brazier and lit the flame, his motions clearly practiced. Nagata went down to the shared kitchen and started the rice cooking before joining them at the racks. When he was at last able to put the wire mesh down on the brazier and begin to grill the fish, Saitō beamed at Natsume like a little kid.

“Life is nothing without fish, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sure,” Natsume replied.

“My mother always used to say eating fish makes you smarter. And she was absolutely right. Just look at me.”

Saitō suddenly closed his mouth, and stared at the corner of the balcony. There was a hint of anger in his voice when he continued.

“Cats are the cleverest of all the beasts, but it’s eating fish that makes them so cunning.”

Following Saitō’s gaze, Natsume spotted a large black cat squatting in the corner, awaiting its chance to steal a mackerel from the grill. And just as Saitō had feared, the feisty feline eventually made an attempt to satiate its greed. Slipping through Saitō’s outstretched fingers, the cat snapped at the fish tails, risking burning its tongue in its bold endeavour.

In his attempts to drive it away, Saitō accidentally knocked over the brazier. Red-hot coals spilled out all over the balcony. And most unfortunately, someone had laid out a grubby futon to dry that day. As soon as the burning coals landed upon it, ominous coils of smoke rose into the air.

While Natsume and Nagata rushed around trying to put out the fire, Saitō chased the cat through the building, trying to retrieve his mackerel.

　　　　　　　＊

Even Saitō Shūtarō had once known love, Natsume heard from Nagata.

No one would think anything of it were they to hear that Saitō had spent night after night writhing in the throes of unrequited love. It seemed a cruel trick of the gods, then, that it had rather been the girl who had fallen in love with Saitō.

She was a mutual acquaintance of Nagata and Saitō, but in the end, her attentions to Saitō unavailing, she had ended up—after a series of delicate twists and turns—going out with Nagata instead.

“What does it matter to me?” Saitō had said to Nagata. “Be happy then, if it pleases you.”

Whether his words truly came from the heart, Natsume couldn’t say.

In any case, Natsume was glad for the girl, for having chosen the correct partner. He had seen her only once. Her face had been gentle, and she seemed a calm, kind person. He assumed that she was not the type to bewitch a man with her beauty, but rather to soften him with kindness before going in for the kill. Whether or not this assumption was accurate was another matter.

Saitō refused to divulge the particulars of this romance, so it was Nagata who instead whispered the tale in Natsume’s ear.

It was in a dim café on the path to Ginkakuji that the girl professed her love. The inimitable Saitō quivered like a leaf. The realization that he was quivering in turn made him wroth, and he furiously stirred his cold cup of coffee. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he indignantly stood and stormed out of the café. The girl paid their bill and followed him outside, finding him standing in the drizzling rain with his arms folded ostentatiously, gazing in the direction of Mt. Daimonji.

“Leave me alone!” he huffed, when she came up to him. “What do you hope to gain by being kind to me?” he growled. “What you have done, you have done in vain!”

　　　　　　　＊

Thus did Saitō Shūtarō set aside his dabblings with the fairer sex and retreated into his castle.

His castle was built of his bookshelf, his desk, and a wooden cabinet with many small shelves which took up nearly an entire wall. This last Natsume found intriguing, and when he enquired about it Saitō pulled open a drawer and took out a sheaf of paper to show him, each page covered with minute handwriting.

“The universe on a shelf,” Saitō said.

This peculiar cabinet contained the writings of Saitō Shūtarō pertaining to every subject imaginable, arranged in a classification system known only to the writer.

He always kept a bundle of papers on hand, which he called his traveling study, and whenever he was struck by inspiration he would scribble down the thought, quick as a flash. Whether he was soaking in a bath, or engrossed in mahjong, or eating a hotpot with Natsume and Nagata, this custom never wavered. He organized all of these accumulated writings and shut them safely in the cabinet. Then, whenever the need arose he would gather dozens of these fragments of writing and go to his desk, whether noon or night.

Even Nagata had never read the novel that Saitō was writing. An unfinished novel is naught but rubbish from beginning to end, he insisted, and unfit to show others. And his novel was always a work in progress.

An acquaintance of Saitō once said to him the following:

Can you really write a novel just by sitting at your desk? If you never go outside and experience things for yourself to write about, it all amounts to nothing but hot air.

Saitō laughed this off.

The world is made of words. Hence, because novels are written with words I can write freely about everything that exists, and through this act I can uncover all the secrets of the world. When unconnected words are joined together, they sometimes burst into light, and what they illuminate are the secrets of the world. Human civilization, at its core, is built on words and mathematics. Of those who do not choose the latter, there can be none greater than one who masters words. And that means that I am the greatest of all.

He said this all with supreme confidence.

Natsume didn’t find any of it convincing at all.

In practice of this theory, Saitō would sometimes read the dictionary from cover to cover.

“Do you know how the somersault got its name?”

Saitō would occasionally pose these sorts of questions in the middle of a round of mahjong, perplexing Natsume.

“I have no idea.”

“Does your ignorance know no bounds? A somersault is so named, because during summer in the olden days, people would tumble on the ground to coat their heads with salt, so that the sweat would evaporate faster.”

“That’s why it’s called a somersault?” Natsume asked in astonishment.

Saitō burst out cackling. “Of course not, you idiot.”

That was the kind of person Saitō Shūtarō was.

For the remainder of his time at college Natsume stayed close to Saitō, though not too close. He never could tell what this aloof fellow wished to accomplish, but at least being around him was never dull.

Nagata went on to enter his doctoral program, still as loftily devoted to his studies as ever, and Natsume began to ponder what to do after graduation. In the end, he decided to become a policeman.

He remembered very well the day he had last seen Saitō Shūtarō.

It had been a cloudy day, with two and a half months to go before graduation, and the whole town was frozen stiff. Snow began to fall as he strolled along the Philosopher’s Walk. He reached the boarding house to find it desolate and seemingly deserted amidst the dancing snow.

Saitō was wrapped in a grubby blanket in his frigid room, glaring at a composition written on the back of an advert. Shivering with cold, the two smoked the cigarettes that Natsume had brought.

“Do you really want to graduate so badly? Why the rush, what on earth do you even intend to do?” Saitō said. “Really, you are very dull!”

Hearing that Natsume intended to join the National Police Agency rather put Saitō out. He did not hold with such things as duty and rule of law.

This was all very typical for Saitō, so Natsume didn’t mind it one bit, but he had noticed that despite his rapier tongue, sometimes Saitō Shūtarō did sound a bit lonely. His novel seemed no closer to being finished than when he had begun, and in fact he had become mired in writer’s block. Natsume had vaguely noticed that Saitō had recently begun showing an irritation that was out of sorts, even for him.

“Well, never mind,” muttered Saitō, after spewing venom for a time. He stood up and pulled the blanket around him like a cloak.

“Graduate then, if it pleases you,” he declared, looking down at Natsume sitting on the floor.

After that day, Natsume never saw Saitō again.

For development purposes only

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