Menshiki and I stopped talking, and sat still, listening carefully. The insects had stopped chirping, just like they had two days ago, and again yesterday. In the midst of that deep silence I could again make out the tinkling of the bell. It rang a few times, with uneven periods of silence in between before ringing once again. I looked over at Menshiki, seated across from me on the sofa. I could tell he was hearing the same sound. He was frowning. He lifted up his hands on his lap, his fingers moving slightly in time to the ringing of the bell. So this wasn’t an auditory hallucination.
After listening intently to the bell for two or three minutes, Menshiki slowly rose from the sofa.
“Let’s go where that sound’s coming from,” he said drily.
I picked up my flashlight. He went outside and retrieved a large flashlight from his Jaguar. We climbed the seven steps and walked into the woods. Though not as bright as two days before, the autumn moonlight clearly lit the path for us. We walked in back of the little shrine, pushing aside pampas grass as we went, and emerged in front of the stone mound. And again we perked up our ears. No doubt about it, the sound was coming from the cracks between the stones.
Menshiki slowly circled the mound, cautiously shining his flashlight into the cracks between the stones. But nothing was out of the ordinary, just a jumble of old, moss-covered stones. He looked over at me. In the moonlight his face resembled some mask from ancient times. Perhaps my face looked the same?
“When you heard the sound before, was it coming from here?” he whispered.
“The same place,” I said. “The exact same spot.”
“It sounds like someone underneath the stones is ringing a bell,” Menshiki said.
I nodded. I felt relieved to know I wasn’t crazy, but I had to admit that the unreality of the situation had now, through Menshiki, taken on a reality, creating a slight gap in the seam of the world.
“What should we do?” I asked Menshiki.
He shone his flashlight on where the sound was coming from, his lips tight as he considered the situation. In the still of the night I could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind.
“Someone might be seeking help,” Menshiki said quietly, as if to himself.
“But who could have possibly gotten under these heavy stones?”
Menshiki shook his head. He had no idea either.
“Anyway, let’s go back to the house,” he said. He lightly touched my shoulders from behind. “At least we’ve pinpointed the source of the sound. Let’s go home and talk it over.”
We cut through the woods and came out onto the empty space in front of the house. Menshiki opened the door of his Jaguar and returned the flashlight. In its place he took out a small paper bag. We went back inside the house.
“If you have any whiskey, could I have a glass?” Menshiki asked.
“Regular Scotch okay?”
“Of course. Straight, please. With a separate glass of water, no ice.”
I went into the kitchen and took a bottle of White Label from the shelf, poured some into two glasses, and took them and some mineral water out to the living room. We sat across from each other without speaking, and drank our straight whiskey. I went back to the kitchen to get the bottle of White Label and poured him a refill. He picked up the glass but didn’t drink any. In the silence of the middle of the night, the bell continued to ring out intermittently. A small sound, but with a delicate weight one couldn’t fail to hear.
“I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my time, but something this strange is a first,” Menshiki said. “Pardon me for saying this, but when you first told me about this I only half believed you. It’s hard to believe something like this could actually happen.”
Something in that expression caught my attention. “What do you mean, could actually happen?”
Menshiki raised his head and looked me in the eyes.
“I read about this sort of thing in a book once,” he said.
“You mean hearing a bell from somewhere in the middle of the night?”
“No, what they heard was a gong, not a bell. The kind of gong they would ring along with a drum when searching for a lost child. In the old days it was a small Buddhist altar fitting that you would hit with a wooden bell hammer. You’d strike it rhythmically as you chanted sutras. In the story someone heard that kind of gong ringing out from underground in the middle of the night.”
“Was this a ghost story?”
“Closer to what’s called a tale of the mysterious. Have you ever read Ueda Akinari’s book Tales of the Spring Rain?” Menshiki asked.
I shook my head. “I read his Tales of Moonlight and Rain a long time ago. But I haven’t read that one.”
“Tales of the Spring Rain is a collection of stories Akinari wrote in his later years. Some forty years after he finished Tales of Moonlight and Rain. Compared with that book, which emphasized narrative, Tales of the Spring Rain was more an expression of Akinari’s philosophy as a man of letters. One strange story in the collection is titled ‘Fate over Two Generations.’ The main character experiences something like what you’re going through. He’s the son of a wealthy farmer. He enjoys studying, and one night he’s reading late when he hears a sound like a gong coming from underneath a rock in the corner of the garden. Thinking it odd, the next day he has people dig it up, and they find a large stone underneath. When they move that stone they find a kind of coffin with a stone lid. Inside that they discover a fleshless emaciated person, like a dried fish. With hair down to his knees. Only his hands are still moving, striking a gong with a wooden hammer. It was a Buddhist priest who long ago chose his own death in order to achieve enlightenment, and had himself buried alive in the coffin. This act was called zenjo. The mummified dead body was unearthed and enshrined in a temple. Another term for zenjo is nyujo, meaning a deep meditative practice. The man must have originally been quite a highly revered priest. As he had hoped, his soul reached nirvana, and the soul-less physical body alone continued to live on. The main character’s family had lived on this plot of land for ten generations, and this burial must have taken place before that. In other words, several centuries before.”
Menshiki ended there.
“So you’re saying the same sort of thing took place around this house?” I asked.
Menshiki shook his head. “If you think about it, it’s not possible. This was just a take on the supernatural written in the Edo period. Akinari knew that this tale had become part of folk legend and he adapted it and created the story ‘Fate over Two Generations.’ What I’m saying is, the story does have strange parallels with what we’re experiencing now.”
He lightly shook his glass of whiskey, the amber liquid quietly oscillating in his hand.
“So after he was unearthed, what happened?” I asked.
“The story took off in strange directions,” Menshiki replied, sounding hesitant to go into it. “Ueda Akinari’s worldview late in his life is deeply reflected in that story. A quite cynical view of the world, really. Akinari had a complicated background, a man who went through a lot of troubles in his life. But rather than hearing me summarize, I suggest you read the story yourself.”
Menshiki took an old book out of the paper bag he’d brought inside from the car, and handed it to me. A volume from a collection of classical Japanese literature. The book contained the entire text of Akinari’s two most famous books, Tales of Moonlight and Rain and Tales of the Spring Rain.
“When you told me what was going on here, right away I recalled this story. Just to be sure, I reread the copy I had on my shelves. I’ll give you the book. If you’d like, please take a look. It’s a short tale and doesn’t take long to read.”
I thanked him and accepted the book. “It’s all pretty strange,” I said. “Kind of unbelievable. Of course I’ll read it. But apart from all that, what am I actually supposed to do? I don’t think I can just leave things the way they are. If somebody really is buried beneath those rocks, ringing a bell or gong or whatever, sending out a call for help every night, we have to help get him out.”
Menshiki frowned. “But the two of us would never be able to move that pile of stones.”
“Should we report it to the police?”
Menshiki shook his head a few times. “The police won’t be any help. Once you report that you’re hearing a bell ringing from under stones in a woods in the middle of the night, they’re not going to take you seriously. They’ll just think you’re crazy. It could make things worse. Better not go there.”
“But if that bell keeps ringing every night, I don’t think my nerves can take it. I can’t get much sleep. All I can do is move out of this house. That sound is definitely trying to tell us something.”
Menshiki considered this. “We’ll need a professional’s help to move those rocks,” he said. “There’s a man I know pretty well who’s a local landscape designer. He’s used to moving heavy rocks in landscaping. If need be, he could arrange for a small backhoe. Then it’d be easy to move the rocks and dig a hole.”
“Okay, but I see two problems with that,” I said. “First, I’d have to get permission to do that work from the son of the owner. I can’t decide anything on my own. And second, I don’t have the funds to hire someone to do that kind of job.”
Menshiki smiled. “Don’t worry about the money. I’ll take care of that. What I mean is, that designer owes me one, and I think he’ll do it at cost. Don’t worry about that. As for Mr. Amada, why don’t you get in touch with him? If you explain the situation, I think he’ll give permission. If somebody really is shut away underneath those rocks and we just leave him to his fate, Mr. Amada will be liable for it as the property owner.”
“But to ask you, an outsider, to go to all that trouble—”
Menshiki spread his hands wide on his lap, as if catching the rain. His voice was quiet.
“I mentioned this before, but I’m a very curious person. I’d like to find out how this odd story will play out. It’s not something you run across every day. So, like I said, don’t worry about how much it’ll cost. I understand you have your own position to consider, but let me arrange everything.”
I looked Menshiki in the eye. There was a keen light there I hadn’t seen before. Those eyes told me that no matter what happened he was going to pursue it to the very end. If you don’t understand something, then stick with it until you do—that seemed to be Menshiki’s basic approach to life.
“Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll get in touch with Masahiko.”
“And I’ll contact the landscape designer,” Menshiki said. He paused. “By the way, there’s one thing I wanted to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“Do you often have these kinds of—what should I say?—paranormal experiences?”
“No,” I said. “This is a first. I’m a very ordinary person who’s lived a very ordinary life. That’s why I find it all so confusing. What about you, Mr. Menshiki?”
A faint smile rose to his lips. “I’ve had many strange experiences. I’ve seen things common sense can’t explain. But something this strange is a first.”
After this we sat there in silence, listening to the ringing of the bell.
As always the bell stopped completely a little after 2:30. And the mountains were again blasted with the buzz of insects.
“I’d best be going,” Menshiki said. “Thank you for the whiskey. I’ll get in touch soon.”
Under the moonlight Menshiki got into his glossy silver Jaguar and drove off. He gave a short wave out the open window and I waved back. After the sound of his engine had faded away down the slope, I remembered that he’d had a glass of whiskey (the second glass he hadn’t touched), but his face hadn’t turned red at all, his speech and attitude no different than if he’d drunk water. He must be able to hold his liquor. And he wasn’t driving far. It was a road that only local residents used, and at this hour there wouldn’t be any cars coming the other direction, or any pedestrians.
I went back inside, rinsed out our glasses in the kitchen sink, and went to bed. I thought about people coming with heavy equipment to move the stones behind the little shrine, and digging a hole. It was hard to picture it as real. Before that happened, I needed to read the Ueda Akinari story he’d mentioned, “Fate over Two Generations.” But I’d leave everything for tomorrow. Things would look different in the light of day. I switched off the bedside light, and to the background noise of buzzing insects, I fell asleep.
At ten a.m. I called Masahiko Amada’s office and explained the situation. I didn’t bring up Ueda Akinari, but told him how I’d had an acquaintance over to make sure that bell ringing in the middle of the night wasn’t just an auditory illusion I was having.
“That is really creepy,” Masahiko said. “But do you really believe there’s someone underneath those stones ringing a bell?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t just ignore it. I hear it every single night.”
“What will you do if, when you dig it all up, something weird emerges?”
“What do you mean, something weird?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Some mysterious thing that’s best left alone.”
“You should come at night sometime and hear that sound. If you heard it yourself you’d understand why I can’t just let it be.”
Masahiko sighed deeply on the other end of the line. “No thanks,” he said, “I’ll pass. I’ve always been a bit of a coward. I hate scary stories, anything frightening. No thanks. I’ll leave it all up to you. It’s not going to bother anyone if you move those old stones and dig a hole. Do whatever you like. Just make sure not to unearth anything weird, okay?”
“I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but once I know, I’ll be in touch.”
“If it were me, I’d just wear earplugs,” Masahiko said.
After I hung up I sat in a chair in the living room and read the Ueda Akinari story. I read it first in the original classical Japanese, then in the contemporary-language version. A couple of details were different, but as Menshiki had said there was a strong resemblance between the story and what I was experiencing here. In the story the character heard the gong sounding at two o’clock in the morning, about the same time. But what I heard wasn’t a gong but a bell. In the story the buzz of insects didn’t stop. The protagonist hears the gong mixed in with the sound of the insects. But these small details aside, what I experienced was exactly the same as in the story. It left me dumbfounded, in fact, at how close the two were.
The unearthed mummy was completely dried up, just its hand doggedly moving, striking the gong. A terrifying vitality made the hand move almost mechanically. No doubt this priest gave up the ghost while reciting sutras and beating out a rhythm on the gong. The main character put clothes on the mummy and poured water on his lips. Before long he was able to eat some thin rice gruel and gradually put on flesh. Finally he recovered to the point where he looked like a normal human being. But you got no sense from him at all of a priest who had attained enlightenment. No intelligence or wisdom, and not a hint of dignity. And he had lost all memory of his former life. He couldn’t recall, even, why he’d gone underground like that for so very long. He ate meat now, and had a considerable sexual appetite. He got married, and managed to make a living doing menial work. People nicknamed him “Nyujo no Josuke”—Josuke, the meditation guy. His pathetic figure made the villagers lose all respect for Buddhism. Is this the kind of wreck you end up as, they wondered, after all the strict ascetic training he went through, risking his life in pursuit of Buddhism? They started to despise faith, and stopped going to temple. That was Ueda’s story. As Menshiki had said, the story reflected the author’s cynical worldview. It’s not merely some tale of the supernatural.
For all that, Buddhist teachings were in vain. That man must have been underground, ringing that gong, for well over a hundred years. Yet nothing miraculous came of it, and people were fed up that all that came from it were bones.
I reread the short story “Fate over Two Generations” several times and found myself utterly confused. Say we used heavy equipment to move the stones, dug up the soil, and what emerged was a bony, pathetic mummy, then how was I supposed to handle that? Would I be responsible for resuscitating him? Was it wiser, as Masahiko had advised, to not meddle, and simply plug up my ears and leave it all alone?
But even if I wanted to do that, I couldn’t simply make it go away. I would never be able to escape that sound, no matter how tightly I plugged up my ears. And say I moved somewhere else; that sound might follow me. Plus, like Menshiki, I was curious. I had to find out what lay hidden beneath those stones.
In the afternoon Menshiki called me. “Did you get Mr. Amada’s permission?”
I told him pretty much everything about my conversation with Masahiko. And how he’d told me to handle it any way I wanted.
“I’m glad,” Menshiki said. “I’ve arranged things with the landscape designer. I didn’t tell him about the mysterious sound. I just asked him to move some stones out in the woods and then dig a hole there. It was a sudden request, but his schedule happened to be free, so if you don’t mind, he’d like to come and look over the site this afternoon and start work tomorrow morning. Is it all right with you that he comes to check out the work site?”
“He can come over whenever he wants,” I said.
“After he inspects the site, he’ll arrange for the equipment he needs. The work itself should be done in a few hours. I’ll be present when they’re working,” Menshiki said.
“I’ll be there, too. When you find out what time they’ll start, let me know,” I said. “By the way,” I added, remembering, “about what we were talking about last night, before we heard that sound…”
Menshiki didn’t seem to follow. “I’m sorry, you mean—”
“It was about the thirteen-year-old girl, Mariye. You said she might be your real daughter. We were talking about her when we heard the bell, and that’s as far as we got.”
“Ah yes,” said Menshiki. “Now that you mention it, we did talk about that. I’d totally forgotten. Yes, we should talk about that again sometime. But there’s no rush. We can talk about it again once we take care of the matter at hand.”
After that I couldn’t concentrate. I tried reading, listening to music, cooking, but all I could think of was what lay beneath those ancient stones in the woods. I couldn’t shake the thought of a blackened mummy, shriveled up like a dried fish.