Runaway Horses by Yukio Mishima Read Free Book Online

was becoming more and more difficult. There were many sakaki on the mountainside. Even the young trees had far broader leaves than the sakaki Honda had seen elsewhere, and in the midst of their dark green they showed a wealth of white blossoms. The current of the stream grew more rapid as they climbed until they at last reached Sanko Falls. The view of the falls, however, was half hidden by a shelter at the foot for those who came to undergo the water purification. Honda had heard how dark the woods were at this spot, but since sunlight was glinting all around, the impression was of being in a basketwork cage of light.
    From here, the path led directly to the peak, and this was by far the hardest part of the climb. Wherever the path gave out, the two of them had to make use of jutting rocks and pine roots to scale the sections of bare cliff that blocked their way. And whenever Honda allowed himself to hope that a relatively easy portion would last for a time, yet another rock wall loomed up ahead in the brilliant glare of the afternoon sun. Honda was soaked with sweat and panting for breath. It was the intoxicating force of such harsh mortification, he supposed, that prepared a man for the mystery that he was approaching. That indeed was a divine law.
    Honda looked down on a silent valley with red pines and black pines over ten feet in diameter. He saw withered pines choked with ivy and twisted vegetation, all their needles the color of dull brick, and a lone cedar halfway up a cliff, around whose trunk some pilgrim, sensing the tree’s divinity, had wound a length of sacred rope. Offerings were placed before it, and a growth of lichen had turned one side of its trunk a greenish bronze. The closer they drew to the peak of the sacred mountain, the more every shrub and tree seemed to have its own divinity, as if it had naturally become a god.
    When, for example, the wind caught the tips of some tall oaks and scattered their blossoms in a cloud of pale yellow floating down through the lonely mountain forest, Honda felt that the scene was charged with divinity, like a sudden charge of electricity.
    “Just a little more effort, sir,” said the guide, his voice unaffected by the strenuous climb. “There’s the top ahead. You can see the Iwakura and Konomiya Shrine.”
    The Iwakura—the seat of the gods—had suddenly appeared at the end of the steep slope in front of them. Its circumference marked by sacred rope, it was a huge, irregular rock formation, now sharp-pointed, now jagged and blunted, like a great ship whose back had been broken. Since ancient times this mass of rock had defied comprehension, had never submitted to the general order, its bulk an awesome image of pure chaos.
    Rock had fused to rock to form the mass that now lay broken and shattered. Below it more rock stretched out in a broad, flat surface slanting downward. Rather than a tranquil seat of the gods, the whole impression was that of the aftermath of battle or of something incredibly terrible. But then, perhaps any place visited by the gods would undergo a similar transformation.
    The sun beat pitilessly down upon the moss that crept over the rock surface like an infection. But, as one might expect at this height, a refreshing breeze stirred the forest.
    Konomiya Shrine, at the very top of the Iwakura, was 1,534 feet above sea level. The simplicity of this little shrine alleviated the wild, awesome mood of the Iwakura itself. The small cross-beams that formed a sharply acute angle over the peaked roof stood out from the green pines around it like a headband gallantly knotted across a warrior’s forehead.
    After Honda had paid his reverence, he wiped away his sweat, and, begging the guide’s indulgence, lit a forbidden cigarette and drew hungrily upon it. Many years had gone by since he had last put his legs to such a test. Now that he had come through the ordeal, he took satisfaction from it and found himself very much at peace. In the midst of