数時間の列車移動、山を登るケーブルカー、蛇行する長い道を揺られるバスを経て、ようやく目的地に到着した。Nと私は降り立つと、冷たい高野山の空気を大きく吸い込んだ。宿泊する寺の質素な木製の門をくぐり、周囲に敷き詰められた完璧に整えられた薄い灰色の砂利を乱さないよう、石から石へと飛び移りながら進んだ。玄関で靴を脱ぐと、受付の僧侶が笑顔で迎えてくれ、施設の仕組みを説明しながら部屋へ案内してくれた。温泉はいつでも利用可能、夕食と朝食は指定時間に提供、丁寧に畳まれた浴衣はあそこに用意されている、そして希望すれば翌朝五時、庭園を挟んだ向かいの部屋で行われる早朝の読経に参加できると。日が沈みかけていたので、荷物を置いて墓地へ向かった。ここまで来た目的だ。
奥の院の奥へ進むにつれ、時間の流れが鈍くなった。苔むした古墓の間を歩きながら、次第に私たちを飲み込んでいく、圧倒的な高さの杉の大聖堂に魅了され、畏敬の念を抱いていた。入口で読んだ情報によれば、この地には20万基以上の墓があるという。大半は僧侶や領主のものだ。私は想像してみた――20万人という数を。数値化しようと試みた。結局思い浮かんだのは、中規模のサッカースタジアムが四つ並んだ光景だった。膨大な数に感じられた。
After a few hours on a train, a funicular ride up a mountain, and a bumpy bus trip down a long snakey road, we were finally dropped at our destination. N and I stepped out and took large gulps of the cold Kōyasan air. We passed the modest wooden gate of the temple we would be staying at, hopping from stone to stone, making sure not to disturb the sea of fine, perfectly raked light-grey gravel that surrounded us. After we had removed our shoes on the porch, the monk at the desk greeted us with a smile and showed us to our room while explaining how the place functioned. We could use the onsen any time, dinner and breakfast would be served at this and that hour, there laid our carefully folded yukatas, and if we wanted to, we could join the next day’s early morning prayer, at five, in the room across the garden. The sun was falling down, so we dropped our bags and headed out in the direction of the cemetery: the reason we had come all this way.
As we got deeper into the oku-no-in, time began to slow around us. We had been walking amongst the ancient moss-covered stone graves, both mesmerised and awestruck by the cathedral of staggeringly tall cedar trees that was gradually swallowing us. The place held more than 200,000 graves, I’d read at the entrance. Mostly monks and lords. I tried to picture that – 200,000 people. I tried to quantify it. I ended up with the image of four decently sized football stadiums lined up next to each other. It felt like a lot.
The silence was only intermittently broken by the singing of birds. The scent of wet stones and mossy cedar bark enhanced the magical Ghibli-like atmosphere of the place as the light was fading. Much more quickly than we expected, the night wrapped us up in a smooth blanket of pitch black, punctuated only by the tiny bright lanterns scattered in their hundreds along the path. I guess it could have felt spooky, being on our own in that ancient forest, so far away from anything even faintly familiar, surrounded by the dead, all 200,000-plus of them. But instead, it was likely the most serene experience we had during our trip. “Do you want to attend this early morning prayer?” I asked N. “I don’t know,” she said, “I think it’s also partly why one would stay in a temple for the night, isn’t it?” Neither N nor I are Buddhist – or very spiritual in general – as a matter of fact. That’s why I was wondering. I didn’t want it to turn into some kind of voyeuristic experience.
N is a firm atheist; she’s the more grounded one. Though I am more or less on the same page, I still tend to want to leave the door ajar for the possibility of ghostly visions and other apparitions. My dad is, and wanted my sister and I to be, Jewish, while my mom was born and raised Catholic. This made us three goys in the eyes of his synagogue. My mom’s spiritual journey has at times bordered on the esoteric, featuring episodes marked by sporadic manifestations of various divine signs and other jinns. During these periods, when her antennae are out, synchronicity usually becomes her compass. Sadly, this has occasionally given her the status of an unwanted witch in the eyes of some in the family.
Reaching the end of the cemetery, we entered the large mausoleum that was hidden there. We saw a group of monks kneeling with their backs to us. Their deep, grave humming elevated and softly bounced on the walls of the tall, dimly lit building. N and I turned towards each other, our eyes wide open, sending flushed emoji faces.
We walked our way back in the dark, holding hands in silence. Atop the door to another temple, a splendid dragon carved in wood was seemingly kept captive behind a green plastic net. His eyes were fixed, both strong and sad at the same time. They followed our quiet steps into the night.
The ceremony ended. Even though I had been deeply touched by it, I couldn’t help but feel a certain uneasiness. It was raining hard. I stood by the window,
gazing at the metal chain that was hanging from the roof of the temple. Water drops cascaded down its links in a soothing rhythm. I zoned out, N pulling me back with a whisper after a while. It was already time to pack our bags.
Excess rainwater usually makes its way from roof gutters to the ground through downspouts on the facades of buildings. But in Japan you can also spot rain chains, or kusari doi, running off the roofs of certain structures. A pipe, whether made of PVC or metal, carries water downwards while keeping that journey concealed. A chain, however, reveals everything.
Looking into all things gutters, downspouts, and pipes, I stumbled upon some images of gargoyles on historic European buildings. Amongst the creatures depicted were a couple of remarkable water-spitting dragons:
The contemporary Western idea of a dragon – in large part shaped by fantasy blockbusters like Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings – is that of a terrifying, flying, fire-breathing creature. Yet in Eastern parts of the world like China and Japan, dragons are in fact much more connected to water: their presence atop wooden buildings is most often associated with the protection they might provide against fires.