At first, Robert thought he’d read the characters incorrectly. After all, the pile of rocks and trees by the roadside certainly didn’t look like a mountain. A hill or some boulders, perhaps, but not a mountain with a capital ‘M’. And yet, the elderly man he’d stopped in the street assured him, it was.
“It’s not a hill?” said Robert, more from surprise than disbelief.
“Nope,” said the man, dabbing the sweat from his face with a towel. “It’s a mountain.”
“But it’s so small,” said Robert.
“A mountain’s a mountain,” said the man. “Doesn’t matter how tall it is.”
Then he turned on his cane, gave the mountain a brief bow, and left.
And Robert stopped and stared.
Barely a few metres tall, the ‘mountain’ occupied a polite corner of the road between a rice paddy and a residential street. Not even tall enough to stand above the nearby houses, he hadn’t even noticed it until he stepped free from their shadows. But there, sure enough, stood a sign leaving no room for doubt. A ritual gate guarded the entrance to a path through the densely packed trees on top, the sight from the tiny summit hidden from view.
“Huh,” said Robert.
And that was that.
* * *
Robert’s obsession with the mountain began the usual way. Thoughts of it occupied little space in his mind as he went about his day. Nor as he clambered aboard the return train that afternoon. In fact, it was only as the carriage jostled past the same streets that the memory of a red gate cut through his thoughts.
As the row of buildings passed by, he glanced out the window to see if he could catch a glimpse…
…and couldn’t.
Arriving home, he put a pot on the stove for dinner, opened his computer, and started a search. The mountain was called ‘benkei’ or ‘bentei’ or some such – he couldn’t remember which. But, sure enough, the search engine soon revealed a picture of the spot he’d stood earlier that day.
The pot started bubbling as he leaned in.
Records of the mountain stretched back more than a millennium, it seemed. A passing general first described it as a small island floating in the ocean, slowly rising above a field of wet grass that created the lush grounds of the rice paddies today.
Off to the side, the pot bubbled over, and Robert rushed to pull it off the stove.
The mountain had played many roles in the years that followed. Holy site, a local oddity, an attraction for serious climbers and enthusiasts, many of them documenting their thirty-second ascent. Others came on their wedding day, cocktail dresses and tuxedos a curious contrast to the dusty residential road.
And behind it, always the same, the mountain stood.
How could something so small endure so long?
* * *
Train rides, commutes, and office lunches… each free moment offered enough stillness for thoughts of green foliage and red gates to return in the weeks that followed.
And with them, always, the same question.
Small enough for a bulldozer to clear in a single afternoon, the scrap of stone and forest had somehow survived centuries of progress. Weather hadn’t worn its sides, nor had those who came to live there reclaimed its spot amongst the fields, building their town around it instead. An island in the middle of an ever-changing river, that spot alone remained unchanged by the ravages of progress.
Robert stared out the windows of the office building.
Beyond the tall panes, the lush summer sun glistened on the concrete visage of the ever-growing city and the mountain ranges in the distance, watching over all.
* * *
Robert half-walked, half-jogged the last few steps to the spot on the map. He’d followed the streets by chance the first time, but surety guided him now. The intersections and houses – so novel before – now conspired against him, hiding a view of the place he’d been dreaming of until he stepped free into open space… and stopped.
“What’s going on?” he said.
The nearby group of workers paused their hands at the question.
“Mountain’s closed,” said one of them as they put up a sign.
“Why?” said Robert.
“End of mountain-climbing season,” said the man. “Too dangerous to let people up.”
Robert turned from the mountain to the sign, the character for ‘danger’ painted in red.
“When does it open again?” said Robert after a pause.
“First day of June.”
Robert watched as one of the workers ducked under a barrier so small he could have stepped around it himself had he wanted.
And turned away.
* * *
Dinner at Robert’s apartment was a little burned and a little underdone that night.
Robert didn’t seem to mind.
His mind was, of course, elsewhere.
* * *
Seasons came and went.
Autumn.
Robert came to see the mountain as the seasons changed. One of the cherry trees had already turned a deep red, giving it the appearance of a burning flame against the clear blue skies.
A cool breeze swept through the streets, and Robert pulled the edges of his jacket closer to ward off the coming cold.
Winter.
The trees atop the mountain stood bare now, light from the ranges beyond peeking through their skeletal branches. And yet, in all its bareness, the naked summit held a mystery far stronger than when it was fully covered.
Spring…
The first touches of green appeared as the cool air warmed. The silence that seemed to grip the countryside in the colder months receded, now replaced by the sounds of newborn insects and birds.
And all the world came alive.
* * *
Of all those who gathered on the first day of mountain-climbing season, Robert was the first. He arrived at dawn, watching and waiting as the world awoke and the workers returned, bowing as they passed.
The sign and barrier disappeared, a fresh set of objects taking their place. The red and white ties that adorned shrines and spiritual areas in times of celebration. A sign noting the occasion, and a rope to guide those who arrived.
And arrive they did.
Reporters, couples, and more experienced climbers – a crowd bigger than any Robert had seen there before steadily filled up the streets. All of them somehow aware of the day, and all of them dressed as though set for a much more serious climb.
A camera shutter clicked amidst the bustle as a Shinto priest arrived in ceremonial garb.
“Going up?” said one of the organisers as they passed by.
Robert looked down at the attire he’d chosen, suddenly aware of how casual it appeared amidst the others.
He waved a hand, and stepped away.
Only the quiet houses and empty streets saw the sudden warmth that flushed his cheeks as he left the mountain in shame.
* * *
Summer turned into autumn, autumn into winter, until one year came and passed.
Then another.
Thoughts of the mountain lingered in Robert’s mind, somewhere at the edge of memory and emotion. But the closer they came, the further his feet drew him. On flat trails at first, then inclines and local hills until he felt the call of the ranges past the city lines.
Dress shoes and sneakers made way for ones with taller ankles and waterproof sides. Umbrellas and shopping bags for walking sticks, hats, and bottles.
But still, one spot remained.
Was the mountain waiting, too?
* * *
“G’day, mate.”
So sudden was the sound of English that Robert didn’t recognise the words until he turned to see their owner.
A few steps up the slope, a man of a similar age, dressed in similar mountain-climbing attire, crouched next to him.
“Didn’t expect to see any other tourists up here,” said the newcomer as they rested their pack on the ground.
“I’m a local, actually,” said Robert.
“Oh, yeah?” said the Aussie. “Maybe you can help me with this place, then.”
The newcomer rustled through their own bag a few moments before returning with a crumpled map, unfolding it for Robert to see.
“Any good?” said the Aussie.
Robert’s stomach dropped as the lines fell into an instantly recognisable shape.
He merely nodded in response, the words that came so easily before now impossible to find.
“Sweet,” said the Aussie, “might check it out this afternoon, then.”
Then he packed up his gear and left.
And his feet were as light as air.
* * *
Left and right.
Left and right…
Robert’s body jostled from side to side as the train clickety clacked its way down the tracks.
And along with it, his thoughts.
Might check it out this afternoon, then…
Robert frowned as he shuffled in his seat.
For such a brief interaction, something in the newcomer’s words stirred a feeling that wouldn’t quite go away.
Was it the ease with which the newcomer had said them?
Robert stared at the horizon.
…or something else?
Buildings, the occasional rice paddy, a ramen shop… he scanned them all as they slipped by.
And could he really claim a sense of belonging to a place he’d never really been?
All at once, the train passed the main town area along the same buildings he’d seen a hundred times or more. The same collection of angles and spaces, barely a split second of unimpeded view as the angles aligned and –
There, for a moment, a flash of green appeared through the buildings as the train slowed and the announcer’s voice called out the station.
“Now stopping at… Jizō-bashi,” rang an announcement.
Robert grabbed his gear and stood.
* * *
The sky was grey the day Robert saw the mountain for the first time in two years. The type of grey skies that preceded the slow, drizzling rain that often set in this time of year.
But it wouldn’t rain today.
Not yet.
Robert stood in front of the stairs, heart racing in the stillness.
There was no boundary now.
No rope, no crowds to hold him from climbing.
And yet…
He pictured the steps up to the top, looking down from the summit. A journey under a minute and far less intimidating than those that had already worn down the soles of his shoes.
He closed his eyes.
He’d seen the ascent countless times before, in videos and daydreams. So familiar was its terrain and seasons that the only thing left was the motion itself.
But… what would it mean to complete the promise he’d carried for years?
He drew in a deep breath, let it go.
What would change, and what would remain the same?
A gentle, humid breeze washed through him as he stood in the late summer air. A bead of sweat ran down his side from the earlier climb and humidity. The occasional sound of a car on the road punctuated by the rhythmic calls of a cicada.
“Going up?” came a voice.
Robert opened his eyes, found an old man with a cane staring at him from across the road, and smiled.
“Someday,” he said.
And the mountain stood, patient.
Author’s note:
Inspired by Bentenyama, Japan’s shortest natural mountain1.
My own first encounter with Bentenyama came in the mid 2000’s. I had just arrived in Tokushima Prefecture – my new home at the time – and was co-editing an English-language newsletter when an article about the mountain came across the desk.
Much like our protagonist, I did a bit of a double take at first.
And, much like our protagonist, I was very hesitant to climb as well.
Now, a confession – this story wasn’t actually about Bentenyama at first. Sometime after completing But first, marshmallows, I had the idea of someone reluctant to climb a much more generic, more fictional mountain of a similar size. Then, the more things went along, the more I realised it was Bentenyama I had in mind all along until I leaned into the imagery in full.
Most of the details are reasonably accurate. I have taken a little artistic license at times – for example, closing off the mountain in winter – but the city does hold an official ceremony each year at the start of mountain climbing season, and the red gates are indeed about half the height of the climb2.
Much like our protagonist, I never did make the climb myself. Thoughts of going to see it came and went from time to time until I moved home to Australia again and the chance eluded me.
As I’ve come to learn in the time since, however, not all goals demand achievement.
At least, not yet.
A.J.Dahms 