Crackling Mountain and Other Stories Read online

  Pain. The heavy body almost numbed her. Then she smelled the reeking breath.

  “Fool!” she screamed. Blindly she fled outside.

  Snow! Whirling this way and that, it struck her right in the face. She sat down, her hair and dress already covered with flakes. Then she got up and trudged ahead her shoulders heaving as she gasped for breath. She walked on and on, her clothes whipping about in the gale.

  The sound of the falls grew steadily louder. On she marched, wiping her nose over and over with the palm of her hand. Now the roar of the falls was almost at her feet.

  There was a narrow gap among the wintry, moaning trees. She leapt through it, murmuring one word.

  “Papa.”

  IV

  When she came to, it was dim and shadowy all over. She sensed the rumbling of the waterfall far above. Her body, vibrating with the sound, felt chilled to the bone.

  Ah, the bottom of the waterfall pool. With that realization she felt refreshed and clean.

  She stretched her legs, sliding ahead without a sound. Her nose nearly bumped against the edge of a rock.

  Serpent!

  Yes, she had turned into a serpent. How fortunate that she could never again go back to the hut. Telling herself these things, she tried moving her chin whiskers in a circle.

  In fact, she was only a small carp. Her tiny mouth nibbled at the water while the wart on her nose wiggled back and forth.

  The carp then swam about in the pool, near the deep basin beneath the waterfall. Moving her pectoral fins, she rose close to the surface, then suddenly dove, her tail thrashing hard.

  She chased after tiny shrimp in the water, hid in the reeds along the bank, and tugged at the moss growing upon a rock’s edge.

  Then the carp lay still. Once in a while the pectoral fins twitched ever so slightly. It remained this way for a time, as if in contemplation.

  Then, with a twisting motion, the carp headed straight toward the waterfall basin. In an instant the waters were swirling about, sucking it down like a leaf.

  Monkey

  Island

  Sarugashima

  Two of the eleven works in this volume have animals as the principal characters—and another has a pet animal of human inclinations playing a crucial role. Though hardly a persistent motif in Dazai, the use of animals as real characters is striking, especially when it is the human psyche under duress that so monopolizes the attention in the author’s best-known novels and stories.

  For a brief tale, “Monkey Island” has more than its share of color and suspense. Dazai carefully draws the proper physical perspective for the characters he creates and the place they inhabit. Still, the illusion that real people are involved does persist, helped along by the lively dialogue and by the totally natural reaction of the characters to their changing circumstances.

  The two principal characters have been sent across an ocean from Japan to some other island. In certain descriptive passages this island appears to be England, an identification confirmed in the coda of the story. The date 1896, also mentioned in the coda, was likely chosen after some deliberation. At this point, over midway through the Meiji Period, Japan was beginning to extricate itself from the unequal treaties by which the principal Western maritime powers, England included, had imposed such restrictions as extraterritoriality upon the country.

  The allusions to history, though marked, are somewhat incidental to the story, the focus of which remains on the contrast between the two principal characters. One of them, a recent arrival on the island, displays considerable pluck and bravado, while his companion, a longer occupant of the island, is more settled and conservative in his outlook. While gradually learning the truth about the unfamiliar surroundings, the new arrival comes into conflict with his somewhat reluctant tutor. He is prepared to take a chance, even if this means rejecting a life of security and ease; his cohort would prefer to adapt to circumstances, relinquishing much of his freedom but avoiding any risk to his present status.

  The issues involved, then, are serious ones. Dazai, however, treats them quite casually, as if he were more intent on offering the reader a bit of diversion than a moral lesson.

  Imagine how bleak those early moments were. I had come all the way across the sea, and the island was shrouded in mist. Was it night? Or day? I couldn’t even tell which as I blinked my eyes and tried to look the place over. Finally I made out some large, bare rocks heaped upon one another to form a steep slope. Here and there, among the rocks, the dark mouth of a cave loomed. Could this really be a mountain? Without even one blade of grass?

  I tottered along the beach at the foot of the slope. A strange cry reached my ears now and then—and not from far off, either. Was it a wolf? Or maybe a bear? I was exhausted after the long voyage, but that only stiffened my will. Ignoring the cries, I followed the path that ran along the beach.

  I was amazed at the monotony of the place. No matter how far I walked, the path went on and on. The mountain was on my right, with a vertical wall of rough, pebbly stones on the left. Between them ran the path, six feet wide and utterly bare.

  As long as it continued, I would keep on going. I was too tired and confused for words, but that made me absolutely fearless.

  I must have come about a mile when I found myself back where I had started. Only then did I realize that the path merely went around the foot of the mountain. But hadn’t I passed by this very spot even after I started out? Of course. I must have gone around twice without realizing it. So the island was smaller than I had first imagined.

  The mist was gradually lifting, and the mountain-top now seemed to press directly upon my brow. Irregular in shape, the mountain had three different ridges. The middle one was a mound, maybe thirty or forty feet high. This mound sloped gently on one side toward a ridge below; on the opposite side, it dropped off sharply until, about halfway down, it bulged out into another ridge. In the gap between the cliff and this ridge, a waterfall descended straight down. The rocks on this misty island were dark with moisture, especially those that were by the waterfall. There was a tree at the crest of the falls, apparently an evergreen oak. Another tree stood on top of the bulging ridge, but I had never seen anything like it before. Both of the trees were bare.

  For a time I gazed at this desolate scene in utter amazement. The mist kept lifting until sunlight fell upon the high middle ridge, its surface wet and glistening. This was the morning sun, no doubt about it. I can tell morning from evening because of the difference in fragrance. Had the dawn finally arrived then?

  Somewhat revived, I started to scramble up the mountain. The slope had looked steep from the bottom, but it was easy to climb. I found one foothold after another and soon reached the crest of the falls.

  Here the morning sun came directly down, and a gentle breeze played upon my cheek. I went over to the tree that had seemed an evergreen oak and sat down. Was it really an evergreen oak? Or a Japanese oak instead? Maybe it was a fir? I looked all the way to the tip. Thin, dead branches stood out against the sky all along the trunk, with most of the lower ones roughly broken off. Should I climb up?

  The blowing snow

  Is calling me.

  That sound was probably the wind. I found myself shinnying up the trunk.

  Calling me

  From captivity.

  One hears all kinds of singing when exhausted. Reaching the tip, I swung back and forth on a withered-looking branch.

  Calling me

  From a wretched life.

  Suddenly the branch snapped. Grabbing the trunk, I slid down recklessly.

  “You busted it! Damn you!”

  I definitely heard this, from somewhere above. Clinging to the tree trunk, I stood up and gazed in the direction of the voice. Instantly a shiver ran down my spine. From the gleaming, sunlit cliff a lone monkey was nimbly making his way down. At that moment the rage that I had kept down suddenly flared up.

  “C’mon,” I bellowed, “all the way down too! I broke it. If you want a fight, I’
m ready.”

  He had reached the bottom of the cliff. “That’s my tree,” he said, coming toward the waterfall. I stood my ground, but he merely wrinkled his forehead. While gazing at me, he seemed dazzled by the sun. Finally he broke into a broad grin and laughed aloud. The laugh irked me.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” he replied. “I’ll bet you came here from across the sea, didn’t you?”

  “Yep,” I remarked, nodding. My gaze remained on the crest of the falls where the water kept billowing wave upon wave. I was thinking of the long voyage by sea in the small wooden crate.

  “I mean the wide sea, whatever it’s called.”

  “Yep.” I nodded once more.

  “Just like me, then.”

  After uttering these words, he scooped some water from the falls and drank it. In a few moments we were sitting side by side.

  “We’re from the same neck of the woods. One look and you can tell. It’s the glossy ears. All the fellows from there have them.”

  He seized my ear and pinched it hard. Angrily I knocked his hand away. Then we looked at one another and broke out laughing. For some reason I felt relaxed.

  Suddenly a shriek went up nearby. Startled, I looked around. A flock of hairy, thick-tailed monkeys were standing guard atop a mound and screaming at us. I leapt up.

  “Hey, calm down! They’re not looking for a fight. We call them howlers. They face the sun and howl like that every morning.”

  I kept standing, dumbfounded. Monkeys had gathered on each ridge, bending down to bask in the sun.

  “Are they all monkeys?” I asked. I might have been dreaming.

  “That’s right. Not the same as us, though. They’re from a different woods.”

  I looked closely at the monkeys, one by one: a mother nursing a baby, her fluffy, white hair riffling in the wind; a crooner humming a tune, his large, red nose lifted toward the sky; a lover mounting his mate in the sun, his gorgeously striped tail wagging; a frowning malcontent busily striding about.

  “Where could this be?” I whispered.

  His eyes filled with compassion as he said, “I don’t know, either. It doesn’t seem like Japan, though.”

  “H’mm,” I wondered, letting out a sigh. “But look at this tree—it’s like the Kiso oak.”

  He turned around and rapped the trunk of the withered tree. Then he looked all the way to the tip.

  “No, it doesn’t. The branches are different. And, the bark on this one doesn’t reflect the sun, does it? Of course, we can’t really tell until the buds come out.”

  I leaned against the withered tree even as I stood there. Then I asked, “Why aren’t there any buds?”

  “It’s been withered all spring, ever since I got here. Let’s see, April, May, June—that’s three months now. It just gets more and more shriveled. Maybe it’s a cutting; there certainly aren’t any roots. The tree beyond is even worse—it’s covered all over with their dung.”

  He pointed at the howlers as he said this. They had ceased their howling, and the island had become quiet.

  “Why don’t you sit down. Let’s talk this over.”

  I sat down right next to him.

  “It’s not a bad spot—the best on this island, at least. Plenty of sunshine here, and the tree too. And there’s the sound of water, besides.”

  He glanced contentedly toward the cascade at his feet and went on talking. “I’m from northern Japan, near the Tsugaru Strait. From my birthplace you can just hear the waves breaking in the night. Waves— ah, there’s a sound that really grows on you. It’s just unforgettable.”

  I wanted to speak about my home. “I was born in the mountains, right in the middle of Japan. For me, it’s the woods rather than the sound of waves. I’ll take the smell of fresh leaves anytime.”

  “That’s right! We all yearn for the woods. That’s why every fellow on this island wants to settle down near a tree—just one will do.”

  As he spoke, he divided the hair in his crotch, revealing a number of large, dark-red scars.

  “It took some doing to make this place mine.”

  I thought I’d better be off. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was yours . . .”

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind. You see, I’m all alone here. There’s room for you, though. Just make sure you don’t break any more branches, okay?”

  The mist had disappeared entirely, and a fantastic scene lay before us. Fresh leaves—that’s the first thing I noticed. I realized this was exactly the season when the oak leaves back home were at their peak. Nodding with pleasure, I gazed ecstatically upon a row of trees with their fresh leaves. But not for long. Another amazing sight opened up below the branches. There, on a gravel path sprinkled with fresh water, human beings were streaming past. They had blue eyes and were dressed in white. The women wore gaudy feathers in their bonnets while the men waved their heavy snakeskin canes and smiled hither and thither.

  I was already trembling when my partner gave me a reassuring hug and quickly whispered, “Easy, now. It’s like this every day.”

  “What’s going to happen? They’re all looking for us.”

  I remembered the whole ordeal—from my capture in the mountains to when I arrived on this island. I bit my underlip.

  “They’re putting on a show,” he quickly remarked. “Just for us. Quiet down, now, and we’ll have fun.”

  Once again he slipped his arm about me. Then, waving his other arm toward this person or that, he spoke to me in a whisper. That one’s a wife, he began, and she knows only two ways to live—either she’s the husband’s boss or else his toy. I’ve heard this strange word belly-button, and I often wonder if people use it with someone like her in mind. There’s a scholar, he went on, a creature who earns his bread by footnoting a dead genius or sniping at a living one. Just looking at the likes of him will make you drowsy. He pointed to an actress next, calling her an old hag. He told me how she played her own life more dramatically than any stage role. He groaned with exaggeration then, and he said, Oh, how this back tooth of mine hurts! And there, he continued, goes a landlord, a coward who always grumbles about how hard he works. Whenever you see him, you feel as though lice were crawling along the bridge of your nose. And over there, sitting on that bench and wearing white gloves—he’s the worst one of all. Look at him! All I can say is, when he shows up, the air seems to smell like yellow shit.1

  I listened to his chatter half-heartedly, for something else had caught my attention. For some time now, two children had been peeping at the island, their faces just above the pebbly wall. They had a greedy look about them, and their clear blue eyes seemed on fire. Both must have been boys, with short blond hair that riffled in the breeze. One had a nose with dark freckles, while the other had cheeks fresh as peach blossoms.

  Presently the boys cocked their heads, as if thinking something over. Then the freckled one pursed his lips and whispered excitedly into the ear of his friend. I seized my companion and shrieked, “What’s he saying? Tell me! What’re those kids talking about?”

  The monkey seemed to be stunned. He stopped jabbering right away, then looked back and forth between the boys and me. Lost in thought, he twisted his mouth about and muttered, giving me the impression that he was greatly troubled. Even after the boys sputtered some words or other and disappeared behind the wall, he remained hesitant, his hand touching his forehead one moment and scratching his rump the next. At last, the corner of his mouth twisted in a cynical grin. “Those boys,” he slowly drawled, “were grumbling how everything’s the same whenever they come.”

  Finally, I caught on—everything’s the same. My suspicions, which I had kept to myself until now, were right on target. If they were complaining, then we were putting on the show.

  “I see. You lied to me before, didn’t you.” I could have thrashed him on the spot.

  His arm tightened about my waist and he replied, “The truth is cruel.”

  I sprang upon his enormous breast, disgu
sted at his concern for me. I was even more ashamed of my own stupidity.

  “Stop your whimpering. It won’t do any good.” Then, gently patting my back, he went on in a weary voice. “There’s a long, narrow signboard over there. You see it, sticking above the stone wall? The back side is facing this way—just a piece of weatherbeaten wood. But the other side’s got something written on it. Maybe it says, ‘The Japanese Monkey, known by its glossy ears.’ Or else, something even more humiliating.”

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I let go of him and raced over to the withered tree. Scrambling all the way up the trunk, I caught hold of a branch and looked out over the entire island. The sun was already high, and patches of haze were forming here and there. Beneath the blue sky, at least a hundred monkeys basked peacefully in the sun. He remained crouched near the waterfall, but I shouted down to him anyway, “None of them realize?”

  Without looking up, he replied, “Them? Probably just you and me.”

  “Can’t we make a run for it?”

  “You want out?”

  “I’m going,” I insisted. The green leaves, the gravel path, and the stream of people rushed before my eyes.

  “You’re not scared?”

  He shouldn’t have said that. I shut my eyes tight, trying to block out his words.

  In the breeze caressing my ears, there echoed a low, melodic voice. Was he singing? My eyes grew warm. It was the very song that had brought me down from the tree before. I closed my eyes and listened.

  “No, no. Come down. It’s lovely here. There’s sunshine and trees. You can hear the sound of water. Best of all, there’s no worry about where your next meal’s coming from.”

  I heard his voice as if from afar. And also the low laugh that followed.

  Ah, how tempting it was. And close to the truth as well. Maybe it was the truth. Something almost collapsed within me. And yet, the stirring—the stirring of my mountain blood—would not be quelled.