I'll see you around

I met the mute monk boy atop Mount Hiei some years ago in Shiga prefecture during my retreat. It was right next to a temple, under an ancient Sakura tree—branches extending their fingertips as if they were trying to grasp the temple and all beneath it.

I wasn’t the traveling type. I spent an entire year locked indoors after my graduation, floating in an anxiety inducing limbo, exhausted from merely existing. Visiting Japan was something on my bucket list for too long of a time—to experience the countryside, enjoy the local food, feel the atmosphere that wouldn’t be possible through pictures alone. So I packed my bags and off I went, following an itinerary I made with someone what seemed like an age ago.

One Sunday during my travels, I ended up in a tiny village with not much to do (it was supposed to be a quick stop before I continued north). After breakfast, I settled down in my simple inn room, devoid of any decoration or character, and scrolled down my phone in desperate search for the local attractions. I came across a tea farm not too far off. There was a total of one picture of a dilapidated Japanese style house and no Google reviews. What was even more odd was that it had a website—something from a whole two decades ago with its yellow background, tiny ugly font, dysfunctional formatting, but in English and offering tours even on Sundays. It was either an elaborate scheme for illegal business or an extremely inconvenient place to reach, but I was willing to take a risk to escape the constant reminder I didn’t belong there.

The buses barely ran in the area, and it took me three connections, an hour of walking, another bus and more walking (disregarding the two times I got on the wrong bus). Upon arriving, I was met with the same rustic building from the pictures, blind to any renovations and a few other modern-looking facilities on the side. The quietness and absence of any pets or employees settled down as an uneasy knot in my chest. I considered taking my leave before any of my organs got stolen when a tanned Japanese man with a bright smile and a straw hat came out from one of the facilities—the owner of the farm.

He spoke in eloquent English, taking me by surprise. I later found out that in the youth he wanted to travel abroad and study English literature, but his older brother refused to take over the family business, leaving him as the only viable option.

“It’s a small farm. I manage just fine on my own. During the harvest season, I employ a couple of hands to help around, but this year might be difficult,” he explained while feeling a tea leaf between his fingers. “They closed off some of the bus routes and no one wants to make the commute.”

Perhaps it was the fact he spoke English or that purpose I sought after, but I offered him my help. I didn’t have a return ticket home and there was nowhere I had to be. A couple of meals a day and a bed were more than enough to suffice as a payment. Although reluctant, he agreed. That’s how I came about working there.

***

Ever since then, a curious thing happened. Any worry I had about my future left the room, but upon them leaving, a tumor revealed itself.

“I suppose I’ll see you around.” Those were the last words I told my best friend on the day of our graduation.

She was the one I was supposed to travel with. We bonded over our love for Japan in our early days of studies and made a promise to make the trip when we graduated; even created a whole itinerary. Then life happened and our travel plans became no more than a daydream. She got an offer to do her PhD in a prestigious laboratory and I, although considered continuing my academic career by researching sleep biology, decided to quit academia. As far as PhDs go, they are stressful, suck the life out of you, and the lifestyle wasn’t appealing to me. I hadn’t dared to bother my friend. Neither did she.

Although during my year of lock-down I managed to numb the pain of a dying friendship with modern society’s worries, it became difficult to ignore the tumor once I began my work at the farm. I’d close my eyes, ready to sleep, and an innocent thought would creep in: “I should message her I’m in Japan”. Then I’d feel it—a living tangled mess waking up from its slumber. “She’s probably busy with her important research anyway” and the mass would grow eyes, all in the wrong places. “She’s having fun on her fancy retreats”—odd tubing leaked rancid dark liquid. “She probably forgot all about me”—a deformed leg grew, aimlessly trying to move about. A true form of ugliness.

Sometimes it lasted for a few minutes, sometimes hours. And finally, one night, those words bounced around my mind like it was a well-designed echo chamber, until my eyes burned and it was time to get up.

Our breakfast was always downstairs in the dining area, with a sliding door opening onto a mountain view—a tranquil giant overlooking the tiny ants scuttling about their lives. I occasionally flashed him a smile while stuffing my mouth with rice, but my attempts at hiding my fatigue were quite pointless.

“You know, you should take a day off,” he said. “I can manage today just fine. One shouldn’t stay in this remote place for too long. Even I need to go to the city to blow off some steam from time to time.” He pushed an extra portion of rice towards me.

I didn’t want to argue or cause any grief to the man. “Would you recommend any places I could visit?”

With chopsticks in hand, he pointed at the mountain. “Have you been to Mt. Hiei yet? It’s quite beautiful there. You can take my bike. Don’t even bother with the buses.”

I was tired, but not particularly sleepy. The morning cortisol had already hit me and done its job of giving me a boost for the day. I filled a bottle of water and by the time I got downstairs, the owner handed me a box of lunch.

“I’m not much of a chef or a housewife, I’m afraid. Just a few onigiri filled with tuna paste. Please take care of yourself,” he said.

He was a lovely man, still in his thirties, unmarried, not bad looking. I didn’t pry yet wondered how come no one managed to tie him down to that day. Even so, there wasn’t anything in his behavior that gave away any of the loneliness. But I knew better than anyone how used one can become to being on their own, eventually treating it as their comfort zone.

I waved him goodbye and set off to Mt. Hiei.

***

When I reached Sakamoto and its cold stone walls, I parked the owner’s bike and got on the trail to the peak of Mt. Hiei. The recommendation was to take the cable car up to the top and then hike down. But I wanted to avoid a tide of tourists and decided to make my way up on foot through less hiked areas and then take the cable car down and rest up before biking back to the farm.

It all started rather easy. Tall trees marked by sacred rope lined a path made of stone, sunlight scattered through the leaves above. An ethereal sanctity, reigning for over a thousand years, filled my lungs. But the ease waned as fast as the light above me. The further I went, the less maintained the path became, eventually turning into dirt, riddled with encroaching tree roots. The foliage got thicker and the only signs that reassured me I was on the right track were tiny monk statues cupping their plump cheeks, guiding the way upwards. They were placed with little order—near a tree, on a rock, peeking out from the greenery slightly off the path. Some wore a red cap and a bib, others moss covered, faces eroded.

One of them lacked the wear and tear of time, fashioning a new set of red. I crouched down, hoping to take a picture. That’s when I heard a giggle. It was too familiar, prompting my body to react faster than my mind could connect the dots. But soon a realization dawned—just a few meters away off the trail, I saw my friend. Or at least what looked like her. Her hair was in a neat side ponytail, and she wore light blue jeans, a loose shirt, and, strangely enough, indoor slippers. My eyes traced after her translucent silhouette, quickly disappearing behind the trees. I waited, watching my hands tremble, but nothing happened anymore. I tried to shrug it off—it had to be my tiredness.

With the path becoming less clear and tree branches brushing against my face, I continued my way up. The sweat trickled down my neck and chest, making me shed my layers down. It became difficult to tell if I was on the right path, yet I kept moving up—eventually I was bound to reach the peak.

But the trip's oddities were far from over. As I was downing at least half of my water, I heard a rustle a few meters ahead of me. I shook my head, dispelling any illusion, and listened once more—the rustling was still audible. A tourist? Or perhaps a wild animal? It had to be one of those. Either way, I didn’t want to startle whatever was ahead of me, so I proceeded quietly, pushing every branch out of my way with silent care. A few steps later, I saw her again. I’m not going to lie, although I was trying to tether myself to a realistic scenario, I hoped to see her again. In a clearing, she searched for something, oblivious to my presence. But something was not right, and I did not dare to make myself known. Shortly after, she dived back into the green and, after a moment of deliberation, I decided to follow her.

Despite my efforts to quicken my pace, the rustle gradually faded, getting away from me. I gathered the remaining energy and sped up, cutting through foliage, tripping over the roots, and eventually diving out from the forest into an open area.

A massive, bright red temple stood ahead of me, its ancient scent tickled my perched throat. I must’ve gotten to the peak of the mountain. I looked around, passing several other temples, struggling to walk straight, in a vain search of my friend. There was not a single person around. It was a known tourist location, which made me wonder whether I wandered off the path and ended up in a restricted area.

That was when I noticed a monk boy—shaved head, clothed in a robe, holding a staff with six rings attached to it. He was sitting at a tea table, perched right next to the temple under a Sakura tree. I approached the little guy, but he just stared. I had a million questions but likely none he could answer, besides the language barrier. While I was scrambling for words, the boy extended his arm, inviting me to sit down. With little thought, I obliged. A small breeze picked up, scattering the Sakura petals down on us.

He settled his staff on the ground beside him and opened a container on the side. With a wooden ladle, he scooped hot water and poured it into two dark lacquered cups, embellished with a golden crack pattern, then pushed one towards me. With both hands, the boy lifted the other cup, rotated it, and sipped. I followed in his steps.

It wasn’t that I had never heard of a tea ceremony before, but my knowledge of it was minimal, to say the least. Inner peace and the transience of a moment were the core ideas behind it, but any kid watching anime could tell that. The etiquette, the mannerisms, how to conduct myself were beyond me. I could merely follow every action he made, either replicating or waiting for him to motion for me to go ahead.

He then, with gentleness unlike a child, he scooped green powder into another cup. As soon as he began, the giggling returned, right behind me. He lifted his head up, locking my gaze and putting a finger to his lips. Then he ladled more water, pouring over the powder. I wished to turn around, see the culprit leading me on, but something told me not to. That if I did, something would irrevocably change, something would be broken.

The boy pushed the cup towards me, still looking straight at me. I took a sip of the frothy creamy tea, allowing pleasant smoky umami to cover every single taste bud. I blurted “Oishi”, which made a corner of his lips come up just a bit. It was enough for my shoulders to relax. And my mind too.

***

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the sliding door. It was the owner getting ready for a new day. I couldn’t recall how I got home or even going to bed. The last thing on my mind was that lip corner and the pleasant flavor of the matcha.

When I asked the owner if he remembered anything about the previous evening, he replied, “You came back quite happy. We ate dinner and then I checked on the tea leaves drying. By the time I returned, you seemed to have already gone to sleep. Was something the matter?”

I didn’t want to appear completely mad, so I kept the part about not remembering anything to myself.

I stayed working there for another few months, helping with the remaining harvest, and later making matcha powder. Each evening, we enjoyed a cold beer, talked about the locals in the nearby town, our taste in literature and tea. But I never again felt the tumor that kept me up at night.

I, of course, wondered for a while what I had experienced up on Mt. Hiei. The fact that the owner attested to me going there and an empty lunch box, with a lingering smell of tuna, reassured me I had gone there. But even to this day I can’t explain seeing my friend. I have heard about yokai, and spirits climbing mountains, but all of that is only an alluring myth. Then there was the mute monk boy and a total absence of other people. I could’ve, of course, just hallucinated parts of my trip or perhaps even the whole mountain experience. A combination of sleep deprivation and strong emotions might’ve been just enough of a mix to make me see what I wanted to see. Stranger things have happened.

***

It was already mid-September when I returned home from my trip. The leftover disarray of my room appeared so foreign and distant, almost like a time capsule I had long forgotten. The shortage of money made me reconsider my future plans. I thought about going the industry route, but figured the lack of interest in making money and staying in lane wasn’t exactly my strong suit, facing me with the PhD option once more. I spent weeks jumping from one idea to the next without much progress.

Shortly after, my friend reached out to me, inviting me for a coffee and a quick catch up. We met on a cloudy October afternoon in one of the medical campus cafés. The place was jam-packed with groups of medical students and researchers on their laptops. It was already ten minutes after our scheduled meeting time, and I was starting to get worried I might’ve missed her in the whirlpool of strangers. Then, as I was about to text her, she emerged—looking well, even with bags under her eyes and a declined fashion sense. But within her there was a sparkle, a happiness. As we chatted, I couldn’t help but feel a certain distance, a glass wall between us.

“Oh, so you traveled and followed our itinerary.” She smiled, but her tone told a different story. “How was it working on the farm?”

“Quite refreshing. It was hard work. It started early in the morning, and you know I’m not very much of a morning person. But I got some free time to hike around the mountains in the area.”

Her gaze focused on something invisible, as if she was trying to make out its shape. “You know, now that you mention it, I think I might’ve had a dream of following you around in the Japanese mountains. It was quite odd, to be frank, and I can’t remember much, only fragments—your shadow between the trees, then later you having tea with a monk. Or perhaps it was me having the tea? Anyway, what are your plans now? Are you applying for any jobs?”

My surprise was too much for even a gasp, but I held back my totally unscientific thoughts to myself.

Did I see her dream self on Mt. Hiei? Was I possessed by her and that’s why I couldn’t recall anything from that evening? Even today, as I study dreams for my PhD, I don’t have any rational explanation for the events that took place that one spring day.