‘This is the Mountain of Skulls,’ said the old man. ‘And I must leave you here, to face what you and only you must face. But no matter what you face, no matter what you see, do not speak, do not make a single sound. For if you speak, if you make one sound, then you cannot live as I live, you cannot be as I am; your wish will be denied. So no matter what, you must not speak, you must not utter one single sound. But then I will return.’
Slowly, Y let go of the old man’s hand, and said, ‘I understand.’
The old man nodded, and then the old man began to walk away, away, and down, down the mountain, soon but a distant speck, now out, out of sight.
Alone on the mountain, balanced on its shifting tide, his stomach turning with the sudden swells and his constant dread, Y waited and Y waited, his heart pounding and his thoughts racing, sometimes whispering, sometimes deafening, his body and soul churning …
‘Who are you,’ whispered a voice, a voice from behind him, closer now, in his ear, closer still, its breath fragrant with delicious food, expensive wine, again it whispered, ‘Who are you?’
But Y did not answer, Y did not speak, his mouth tight and eyes, too, not opening, not speaking.
‘Of course,’ laughed the voice, ‘the old man told you not to speak. But it matters not, for we know who you are: you are Yasukichi Horikawa, celebrated and successful author, once lauded by critics and loved by readers, but now suffering something of a slump, a little case of writer’s block, just a temporary crisis of confidence. And so here you are, draped in self-doubt, swathed in self-pity; how comforting for you, how easy for you. How pathetic! How pointless! Just say your name, just admit who you are, and all will be returned to you, all will be restored to you; your acclaim and your sales, your admirers and lovers, they are all still here for you, they are all just waiting for you, in your villa in Kamakura, in your house in Hongō. Just open your eyes, then open your mouth, and admit, admit: I am Yasukichi Horikawa, the celebrated and successful author!’
Still Y did not answer, still Y did not speak, his mouth and eyes shut, not opening, not speaking.
‘How predictable you are,’ sighed the voice, ‘how very vain the writer. Relishing your so-called pain, welcoming your so-called suffering. Well, let’s see how you’ll relish real pain, see if you’ll welcome true suffering …’
Suddenly, Y felt a rope tightening around his neck, suddenly Y felt a razor cutting into his wrists, suddenly his veins coursing with poison, suddenly his lungs filling with water …
‘Speak!’ screamed the voice. ‘Speak! For this is your last and only chance; say your name, admit who you are: I am Yasukichi Horikawa, the celebrated and successful author! Then all will be returned to you, all will be restored for you. But if you do not speak, if you do not admit who you are, then you will die, and die the death of the suicide, damned eternally, damned forevermore, to die, to die, and die again, over and over, a thousand deaths eternally, a thousand deaths forevermore, over and over, without end. So speak! Speak now! Speak now!’
But Y would not speak, still Y did not speak, did not speak …
‘Last chance,’ whispered the voice, ‘last chance …’
The rope tightening tighter, the razor cutting deeper …
‘For Yasukichi Horikawa …’
His veins coursing and his lungs filling …
‘Celebrated and successful author …’
But Y did not speak …
‘Last chance …’
Y did not speak …
‘Then here is death, now here is hell …’
Not speaking, not speaking, his neck broken, his blood drained, poisoned and drowned, Y fell back, back and down, down and into –
Here, death and hell, endless death and endless hell, here his neck endlessly breaking, here his blood endlessly draining, endlessly poisoned and endlessly drowning, here without end, here in the river, the River of Sins, bloody and boiling, here at the foot of the Mountain of Skulls, here Y was dying over and over, one moment pulled under, one moment pushed up, then under and up again, in the River of Sins, bloody and boiling, dying over and over, pulled under and pushed up again, under and up again, each time glimpsing, glimpsing, glimpsing a figure sat on a throne on the Mountain of Skulls, in a crow-black robe with a snow-white face, beneath a pale crown of broken mirrors, savagely reflecting all he surveyed, now staring at Y, glaring at Y, yet smiling at Y, laughing at Y: Satan-Yama, Lord of Hell!
‘No doubt’, said Satan-Yama, ‘you are in pain and you are suffering. But no doubt you believe you deserve this fate, so no doubt you will endure your martyrdom eternally. But look! Look about you, and see who suffers with you, see who suffers because of you, because of you …’
Dying over and over, pulled under and pushed up, Y now saw he was not alone in the bloody and boiling River of Sins: dying over and over, a thousand other deaths, pulled under and pushed up, in the bloody and boiling River of Sins, dying over and over, a thousand other souls; various friends and former lovers, and no! His wife, his children! No! Even his father and mother, dying over and over, pulled under and pushed up, endlessly –
‘One word from you,’ said Satan-Yama, ‘just one single word from you, and their suffering will cease, and they will be released. Just say one word, just speak, just speak one word …’
Dying over and over, Y watched his mother and his father, his children and his wife, one moment pulled under, one moment pushed up, each time their mouths filling with blood, each time their eyes filling with tears, pleading with Y, beseeching Y –
‘Just say one
