Where the Dead Pause, and the Japanese Say Goodbye: A Journey (60 page)

Some guests who stay at Yagen S
come for the water in the bath, or to go hiking in the primordial forest, or to look for spirits. But a great many people visit Yagen because they are struggling with an unshakeable grief, which they hope can be relieved by a pilgrimage to nearby Mount Doom. Because of this, the Mountain Woman has become an expert on the various forms of grief and in consoling those who are in mourning.

One time, I overheard the Mountain Woman talking in the hallway to a male guest. His wife had been dead for two years after a car accident, and he was having trouble moving on. His wife’s
ghost was around all the time. He had decided to go to Osorezan to speak to an
itako
—a blind medium—to learn what the ghost wanted, or what he should do for her.

The Mountain Woman said that there was nothing wrong with a ghost sticking around for a while. The man didn’t need an
itako
. He just needed a priest to read a sutra, and then he should move on with his life and enjoy all his grandchildren, whom he was lucky enough to have. The Mountain Woman’s own husband died five years ago, and his spirit stuck around for two years as well, mostly because he was worried about her. In time she realized that this kind of mutual worrying, while nice, wasn’t helpful, and in her practical way, she told him to get going. She, in turn, renewed her focus on local activities. Anyway, there were only two blind mediums left on Mount Doom.

I have heard her administer this advice time and again to her guests. They ought to enjoy the magic waters of her bath. They could go to Osorezan if they wanted to receive a special sutra from the priest. But they should not expect too much more. “An
itako
cannot really help you.” Still, people came to see the only two remaining blind mediums.

Once upon a time, part or all of the Japanese islands were ruled by female shamans, and Chinese scholars noted that a powerful queen named Himiko temporarily brought peace to the otherwise uncivilized land. T
hoku and Okinawa—Japan’s northern and southern extremes—preserved the tradition the longest, even after the arrival of Buddhism. Scholars believe that the blind mediums on Mount Doom are the last vestiges of this fading period in Japan’s history.

Historically, the mediums were blind women who were trained via a harsh regimen involving hunger, cold, and freezing baths to learn to “channel” the dead. Modern medicine and women’s rights have today made it possible for those born blind in Japan to seek
treatment and an education, and to have more choices regarding their future.

Twice a year, the few remaining
itako
gather at Osorezan to commune with the deceased for a fee, setting up tents just inside Osorezan’s main gate, while the male priests hold their own far-grander celebration within the temple structures. The lines to see these last remaining mediums are significant, and people wait patiently for up to six hours for a consultation. No new
itako
are reported to be in training.

I
N THE EVENING,
I left the primordial forest where Yagen S
is located and turned up a mountain road to begin a serpentine climb. The narrow road switched back and forth through a tangle of evergreen and deciduous trees, before descending down the other side of Mount Doom. Suddenly I was hit with the strong smell of sulfur; the underworld does not smell like the land of the living. The road descended on a steep angle and rounded a curve. The grounds of Osorezan stretched out in alternating shades of white and gray, while a yellowish and burbling stream ran parallel to the road.

To the left there was an arched red bridge. In the old days, before bullet trains and tour buses made Osorezan easier to reach, one had to cross this bridge, a representation of the bridge the dead cross on their way to the underworld. The river is commonly called Sanzu no Kawa, which translates to the “River of Three Crossings,” and you can think of it as being a bit like the River Styx. The virtuous have no problem traversing the bridge, provided they are wearing clothing and have six coins to pay Shozoku no Baba, the old hag. In addition to terrorizing little children, Shozoku no Baba waits on the other side of the bridge to strip the dead of their clothing and to take their money. If the dead arrive naked, because their relatives
were too poor to cremate them with clothing on, Baba takes their skin. Those with too much bad karma must cross the river at a shallow point; the worst people are cast straight into hell.

The red bridge at the entrance to Osorezan is now more ceremonial than functional; a nearby turnout accommodates cars so tourists can take photos of each other standing on the apex of the rounded bridge. I passed the bridge and headed to the large parking lot outside the temple proper. It was evening. By the time I got out of the car—the Mountain Woman dropped me off, while my mother and son, who had been traveling with me, stayed behind at the inn—and headed to the information booth, only a few tourists were left on the grounds inside. I explained to the ticket taker that I had come to spend the night, and then with instructions on how to find the guest quarters, I crossed the gate into the underworld that is Mount Doom.

Once upon a time pilgrims stayed together in shared quarters, all sleeping in the same room. Now Osorezan boasted an imposing guest facility, which the Mountain Woman likened to a hotel. In its comforts and its sleekness, it was very much like a hotel, though not of the ordinary nature. The entry foyer was all black marble, with an array of slippers and a white, backlit Jiz
waiting for guests. If the way station to the afterlife had a hotel, it would look like this.

I was told that I would be having dinner at six o’clock with the other guests—there were two other women. One was from Kanagawa Prefecture; she had just up and decided to take the overnight bus to Osorezan. She was twenty-four and dreamed of being a Celtic singer. The other, a fifty-six-year-old woman from Hokkaido, was divorced, though still living with her husband.

The Hokkaido woman was quite small but plump, and she had large round eyes and tanned skin. As we got to talking, I asked if she knew about her family background, and she confided in me that
a DNA test had revealed that she was part Ainu. She had a best friend, she said, from the island of Okinawa who had also had a DNA test and discovered she was Ainu.

If I had expected to experience the camaraderie of mourners who had come to Osorezan to face their grief directly, I was disappointed. The hotel staff assured me that in other seasons, Osorezan was full of mourners, or families who traveled in groups. Off-season—now—Osorezan was also a landmark for those on a spiritual quest.

Dinner was
sh
jin ry
ri
, and quite good. Though we were not supposed to talk, it was clear very quickly that we would break all the rules. The woman from Hokkaido spoke the most. She said she knew we might not believe her story, but that did not bother her. She wanted to show us the photos she had taken of Osorezan the day before. Here, she said, was a photo of Lake Usori. She handed her phone to the Celtic-singer-to-be. “It’s
michi no hikari
!” the young woman exclaimed. A street of lights.

I took a look. My skeptical eye saw a photo of the lake, taken directly into the sun, which had caused the picture to take on a glare. Then again, if I looked closely, the resulting glare did indeed look like the triangular shape of a road receding into the horizon. “Wow,” I said politely.

“It’s okay if you don’t believe me. I don’t need you to believe me,” she said.

The old priest returned to the dining hall. “Women,” he scoffed. “You aren’t supposed to talk.”

“Sorry,” said the woman from Hokkaido.

“Well,” he grumbled. “Anyway. Now is a good time for a bath. Just take a flashlight when you go outside.”

“Outside?” I asked.

“That is what I said. Yes.”

Osorezan’s position on the bed of an extinguished volcano accounted for the ubiquitous smell of sulfur and for the strange yellow river I had crossed to arrive here. All this plus the wind, the chill, and the fact that I had developed a cold were enough reasons for me not to take a bath outside. But I would not have the full Japanese experience if I did not take advantage of the subterranean hot springs.

There were two small wooden shacks on the approach to the
hond
: one for women and one for men. Pilgrims regularly stopped here, had a dip, and then continued on. The lady from Hokkaido insisted that the baths were much more enjoyable in the evening when there were no other tourists.