Wakanomiya

CHRISTOPHER BLASDEL

A gravel path led up the mountain from Nara to the door of a wooden hut surrounded by trees. The last rays of the setting sun filtered through the structure’s walls, faintly illuminating a solitary profile poised deep in contemplation.

He knew from the activities in the village below that they were preparing to come get him. After all, it was that time of year; the harvests had been gathered, the firewood was cut and stored, and the frost line was slowly inching its way down the mountain. Soon the nights would grow very cold, and he had already noticed that his visitors—the few that came his way—were dressing more warmly and were moving more briskly through the forest. He also knew their numbers would increase over the next days, until the night when they all arrived with their torches and the official summons.

Although he went down the mountain only once a year, it seemed he had been doing it for a very long time. Right now, however, he couldn’t recall exactly why. Each year, before his journey began, he recognized the sounds and smells which wafted up the mountainside from the village. The villagers were working on the feasts and entertainment. This part he remembered very well; it was meant for him.

During the days of waiting he often recalled what the previous feasts had been like: table after table of the best the village could offer, fish brought in from faraway coasts, nuts and mushrooms from the forest, bales of the finest rice, fresh winter fruits, brightly colored cakes, and great barrels of local sake. The food was always tasty, and the villagers took great effort to arrange each serving on individual trays of fresh cedar carefully festooned with red, white, and golden bands. Then with great ceremony and fanfare they carried and set it before him. He had been told by the old ones, long ago, that it was the food of his ancestors, made for him each year with a specially kindled fire of pine shavings set smoldering by the friction of a string and crossbow.

The space they provided for his village sojourn was always the same; a small grassy area, half-way between the mountain and the village, surrounded by the old pines and new, hastily constructed tents. His vantage point faced south, and from it he could see the sun rise over his mountain home and set on the village below. From here he could also get a good look at the villagers who came up to greet him. There were the children who regarded him with a fear-tinged awe, the ruddy faced boys and girls who were too busy looking at each other to notice anything else, the village merchants trying to appear pious, and the wizened elders who were the only ones who seemed to see him. He loved gazing and being with these people, though he long ago stopped trying to recognize any faces; he was given only a short time—a day and a night—to be among them.

Through the years, however, he noticed gradual changes in the villagers; changes which made him happy but also worried him. Certainly they seemed more content than before. They were well fed, and no one looked hungrily at his food as they had so often in the past. The villagers’ clothing had also become richer. He was amazed at the many woven textures of soft, colorful materials with intricate designs. Before, only the wealthiest priests or land barons could afford such attire, but now it seemed even the laborers enjoyed sumptuous garments.

He also admired their increasingly handsome faces; elongated noses, fine lips, and brows arched in an expression which seemed through the years to have gained in worldly intelligence and happiness. In spite of their laughter and merriment, however, he sensed in many a deep and dark discontent. He wanted to think about this some more—did they themselves realize it? He longed to look into their hearts to see if he could discover some clues, but he had lost that ability long ago. Or perhaps it was they who had lost the ability to become transparent to his gaze.

His thoughts turned to the ancient orchestral music which would be performed for him on the grassy arena. Suddenly his heart quickened to imagine the soothing sounds of the hichiriki and sho flutes which would accompany his trek down the mountain. The tones of the flutes, drums, and the shrill reeds always thrilled him as they pierced the still mountain night and reached deep into the forest. Listening carefully, he thought he could detect several melodies going on at once, but it was actually the same tune played slightly differently on each instrument. The collusion of melodies sometimes had the effect of sending him reeling back in time, reminding him of occasions, years ago, where several poets would gather and all recite the same poem, simultaneously but minutely out of sync. The result was that each word echoed and emphasized its counterpart, confusing the sense of linear time.

But lately he had been hearing new sounds which didn’t make sense and disoriented him in a different way. These sounds didn’t come from musicians playing his songs but seemed to emanate from metal containers or from poles set along the pathway. The sounds were sharp, and the rhythm, though executed very quickly and efficiently, induced a sense of leaded dullness which carried no respect for the dignity of his world or for the people who listened. Yet, he thought, these people appeared to worship these sounds as they had once worshiped his music. The tones of his music resounded in his memory long after he returned to his mountain home, the other was quickly forgotten.

After his music would be the dances, another of his beloved memories. Four young men, dressed in the finest costumes, solemnly queued in front of him on the grass and took their place on stage. With slow, concentrated movements, they danced in choreographed symmetry, re-living battles and stories from faraway lands, so ancient and remote that even the old ones could not remember them.

He remembers however, each year the same dance, the same music, and the same pathos. The dances used to be performed in firelight, but now powerful white, electric torches illumine the stage. These lights were made for easier watching, but nowadays fewer people seemed to take the time to watch, except for the omnipresent troupes of scribes who recorded the events with devices which were held and pointed at the dancers like small cannons. These scribes, however, had an extremely short span of attention and always left soon after the dances began. Nonetheless, he wondered if the dancers were not dancing for their sake rather than for his.

After the night dances had finished and the dawn had broken, he could look forward to the theater. He imagined actors and musicians slowly taking their place on the grassy stage in front of the great pine next to him. With great deliberation they began chanting, their words a simultaneous combination of narration and song. The stillness of their voices calmed him, yet there emanated a vital energy from the actor’s highly measured movements. Through their masks the players seemed to speak directly to him; they spoke his language, and they knew its secrets. Their acting and dancing nourished him more than any of the choice foods. He decided that although the villagers might have become opaque in their speech and action, the actors had remained perfectly transparent behind their delicate, wooden masks.

The sounds of wood being chopped awoke him from his recollections. Yes, they were cutting the fragrant pines to make torches for the procession, he thought. This means that they will come tonight, at the stroke of midnight. He was glad for the clear weather and the half moon which would illuminate the path for the villagers. But right now it was almost dark, and he realized he must soon begin his own preparations, though he couldn’t quite remember what it was he was supposed to do. He loved the music, food, and the chance to mingle with the villagers, but it was invariably confusing for him to be removed from his familiar surroundings and carried down the hill, and there were surely some new changes waiting for him again this time. He still had so much to think about, and there seemed so much expected of him.

Midnight approached. The sound of the torch-bearing procession on the gravel leading to his home grew louder, their flames brighter. Suddenly, everything became completely dark—no fires, no lanterns—and the villagers gathered quietly, solemnly in front of his doorway. There was a hush, and the men in front, dressed in white robes, began to intone a chant that recalled from somewhere deep inside him a vague longing. It was the summons, the call to life. The pine torches were again set aflame and the censers lit. He could hear the doors of his home being opened, and the sounds of the flutes and drums becoming louder, mingling with the smells of incense and pine.

Then he remembers. It is for this moment he yearns and waits; it is the moment he is rejoining the world of the living and his loved ones.

As the deity Wakanomiya is removed from his mountain shrine and carried down in the arms of the chief priest, the villagers rejoice. They know this year’s festival will be successful and next year’s harvest bountiful, and they know that if they become chilled from the crisp winter air, they can retire to the warmth of their living rooms and watch the rest of the yearly festival on television.

[1994]