Demon Stories: Vol. 2

Saya: Faithful Light, 1988, Japan

Saya

Faithful Light

1988

Japan

As I get older, it only seems to become more real. This feeling of pain, this sinking future. Here it is, gone. Just inside, rolling in a float, a barely beating heart. If I lose control, where will it take me? Can I be me, again? It will not end. As I grow older, it becomes clear this is a trend that will keep going, taking over everything. Just as it took over you. You were right. I was wrong. It's all wrong, but there is no wrong. You were right.

Shall I pass by a candy shop, and buy something nice? The rice will wither away. Nothing will remain, there is no point. In the past, would I have bought the candy? Yes. A sweet mochi, a manju, other delights that I used to hold in my hand for you. This white hand that feels too smooth, the more I grow older.

It is Spring time. The trees are a burst of color, like a paint. It doesn't seem real anymore. Nothing feels real anymore. I'll go where the real is no longer real. I'll go somewhere, a place that has little meaning. A place of endless time, a place where nothing changes. A place like me.

Going down the street, women and children walking. Such a change. The women wear kimono, bright colors. The children wear a western mix of clothing. A man passes by wearing a western hat. I wear dark blue. Feels strange to be in the clothing of my home, after too long. Feels strange, but too familiar. I pause in the street, and people go around me. There is money on the ground, but I don't touch it. I keep moving on.

Passing into an area with more nature, I pause again to look. Skinny trees, bushes. Birdsong, somewhere. There is a small shrine there. It brings me a strange feeling of loneliness. A community lost a long time ago for me. I don't remember them, but I do. I don't want to. I keep moving.

A woman passes on a bicycle wearing a short skirt. My eyes widen as I make way, a step aside. My feet touch soft grass and ground wet with the morning rain. She does not look at me, but a smile is on her face. A small stirring in my chest. Surprise? Astonishment? It is over quickly and does not last. I continue on.

I must have walked for hours. It is not yet dark, but the sun is different on my skin. There is moisture in the air again, like the morning. There are more birds, and bees are coming alive with the gathering humid heat. I hear them all around. Creatures stir in the woody hillside. I pass less and less houses. I know I am somewhere else.

My geta crunch on rocks every now and again. Up the hillside I go, up and up. The smell of mud in the rain, the smell of leaves full of water and thriving. The sound of rumbling thunder in the distance, but no clouds. A sign of myself, evolving ever more.

Eventually, the rain meets me. Refreshing soaking that will last minutes. My hair plasters to my back, my clothes grow heavy. I stop and let the rain wet my feet. I fall to the ground and the mud passes into the cloth I wear. A sorry sight I'd be. The water runs down the hill. I gently get up, and continue to move.

Up here, on the mountain, a familiar face. A small creature of stone stares at me. A Shinto marking. I will not touch it, a strange vestige of myself. A fleeting memory from somewhere else, a child's face between my eyes. Upon staring, I see a small bun being washed away towards me. Clearly the rain path shows it stood before the figure. Some piece of humanity resides here.

I crouch down, holding my upper arm to hold back my sleeve. The bottom gets drowned in the water, no matter. The bun meets my hand innocently. I hold it up to my face, examining it. The smell hits me like a rose. Pork. Someone brought a bag of pork buns here, the smell of the bag is still present. This was recent. The air parts for me, and I smell them all. A trail of pork buns, traveling up the mountain. Someone is observant of old things. Someone here.

I travel further, seeing buns sitting where they were meant. Some have wandered away, but not far. It all leads...

A small wooden house of some age is sitting on the mountain. A porch faces the incline, open to all except for a roofing which needs some work. And on the porch sits a man in seiza position, smiling little to himself. He is advanced in age. He will die soon. Small wisps of white hair adorn his head, small whiskers of white cover his face. A silent confidence embodies him. He has lived here a long time. As I approach, I discover his eyes. They are covered up and stare at nothing. The man smiles to himself, perhaps seeing what he has seen. Perhaps not at all. He will see no more.

I approach the porch. I stand there at the edge of the corner. He is perfectly still, with barely a sound of breath. Here, we see the trees in green and white, pink and red. We hear the birds, bees, and animals moving in the brush.

An hour goes by. Two. He has not moved. He will not. And yet, I can feel him. I know him. As these hours go by, I know.

The sun begins to set, the pinks bleed into the yellow, the red into the orange, the blue into the evening.

As the melting sun whispers into its horizon, the man's face turns to mine. I am smiling little, as he does.

"Beautiful, right?" He whispers, seeing me. His eyes recognize a familiar figure there, covered in rain and dirt. A figure, smiling back at him after all these years. A final good-bye. A precious gift.

"Yes." No need for more.

He smiles anew, relaxing fully, as much as he can with his aching joints. I almost hear them in their pain. He is ready.

In the black of the night, creatures stirring all around, the high moon in the sky. The man sleeps on the porch. He has no need for anything. I sit on the porch in seiza position, waiting. In the night, the rain comes again, a shrr shrr-ing sound. A light rain. And in this sound, I do not hear it encapsulated inside it so. But I know, as I look over at my old friend, that he has gone from this world.

I wait. I will wait. It will come, as it always does.

Slowly, little sounds of life. A bird begins to sing, anew. A faithful light over the horizon in the distant place we cannot touch. A sweetness that it tastes. A new dawn trembles in the little light that crawls out, desperate life begins and makes its sounds.

Inside the small house, I find a straw mat and a stick of incense. I cover you with the mat, making sure no part is untouched. I light the incense with the flick of my thumb and finger, a mysterious dreaming fire in me that comes to life when summoned, that you loved. I stick the incense in the dirt in the path of the house, knowing that the damp rain of before will wet any ash. A swirl of thin smoke curls up into the air, and I know your gods will know. In the light of the new day, I say your name and clap two times, holding the last, my head bowed, as you like it. Tadaaki. I whisper again.

With one last look at the house, I begin again my course up the mountain. A numbness in me that signals the passage of time.