SERIES
Ready To Die — But Wait! My Sword!
Untimely death never waits for redemption but promises regrets
Disclaimer: My thoughts and intentions are entirely philosophical in nature and my writings are mere reflections of myself and the world I perceive. I am not literally preparing for physical death anytime soon or having any notion of intentional self-harm.
I need to go out for a walk this morning.
Where, I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’ll not be too fussy today and find some path at the foot of Daimonjiyama — literally Big Kanji Character Mountain — a kind of sacred ground that is locally popular for the Gozan-no-okuribi (五山送り火 ) fire event held annually during the Bon, or Obon, Buddhist festival held in Kyoto in mid August.
The upwarped mountain stands relatively low at 466 metres with the southwestern face carved out into a giant Kanji representation of “big” (大) or a pentacle, as seen in the inset, but it boasts a commanding view of this historically rich yet cursed city.
Why cursed? Google will inarguably tell you more than I ever could between drinks, but this ancient capital was at the centre of numerous civil wars and has suffered natural disasters and several fires that consumed this basin-contained city.
There even are, allegedly, ghosts of unjustly persecuted women, betrayed samurai, demonized monks, and all revengeful spirits roaming around some of the districts that no longer exist, recklessly burnt or bulldozed down over the centuries. Welcome to the Land of the Rising Sadako.
Less fantastical but no less dramatic, two historically notable figures — Oda Nobunaga and Sakamoto Ryoma — who have fascinated me ever since I read about them in Encyclopedia Britannica before the Internet age, were both assassinated in Kyoto. I stood in front of the eroding stone markers that read “Nobunaga died here (maybe)” and “Ryoma was killed here (definitely)” at their respective hallowed or haunted locations.
The reasons for their assassinations, into which I won’t digress, are an entirely different story covered by countless Japanese and international authors who could enlighten us in much more convincing and engaging ways.
What I will try to entertain is their moment of death. I have seen the browning, fading blood stains splattered on the screen doors and walls after he and his friend, Nakaoka Shintaro, were sliced and stabbed by their katana-armed assassins. Popular folklore recounts that they didn’t die immediately but remained alive and conscious enough to chat as their blood oozed onto the tatami floor for almost an hour. Unless the innkeeper was there with a stopwatch recording how long they could last, that story may just be an ancient urban myth.
Nonetheless, I can’t resist fantasizing about such an unlikely scenario actually turning out to be true. And so I keep wondering about what Sakamoto and Nakaoka might have been discussing in their final hour.
“Ryoma, are you alive?”
“Yes, but I’m in bad shape. And you, Nakaoka? Hang in there.”
“Maybe I can wait till help arrives.”
“I’ve bled too much already. I don’t think I’ll be able to say goodbye to my dear wife.” (coughs blood)
“You need to stay alive for her and for our nation!”
“Hell with our nation. We’ll probably over-militarize in the name of imperialism, over-expand our sovereignty into neigbouring countries, colonize and commit war crimes, get nuked, and become a haven for anime, karaoke, and AI idols into the 21st century.”
“How can you say that? We need you to pull us out of the centuries-long feudal period. And what’s an AI idol?”
Apologies. I more than digressed. I think I did a Murakami-esque drift.
Still, I do like to believe that Sakamoto and his close confidante had enough time before they passed out and away to exchange some final thoughts. I also imagine they were not asking themselves why they were killed. Their lives were constantly under threat, so it was certainly no surprise to them that they were targeted for assassination.
The timing of it was probably the shocker. And they weren’t ready to die just then and there.
I would like to believe that the final scene went more like this:
“Sakamoto. Any regrets?”
“Just one.”
“What?”
“I didn’t get a chance to say thanks to my wife Oryo for packing my lunch today.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“And I also didn’t thank her for being my wife.”
“That makes it two regrets, Ryoma.”
“( …… )”
“Ryoma?”
Silence.
“Ryoma.”
So, what does this have to do with Daimonji-yama? Each time I reach the summit and take in the expansive view over the city and beyond to the adjacent mountain range, I melt into a state of mindfulness, acknowledging past mistakes, wrongs, lost opportunities, and regrets. I am ready to die — but wait. I haven’t thanked you yet.
===
