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  ‘We shall go on at once! Can you ride?’

  The monk bowed low again. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Then you will take the horse of the foreign barbarian

  Yakamochi turned and signalled to his guard captain, who immediately brought one of the riderless horses forward. After conferring with his fellow guides, the leading monk swung himself easily into the saddle.

  ‘You will wait here for our other search troop Yakamochi ordered the guard captain. ‘Find enough fresh horses for the remaining monks. When our other troop arrives, ride hard with them and the monks, and follow us as swiftly as possible to the summit of Fuji-san. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  The guard captain bowed low to acknowledge his instructions but, before he straightened up, Yakamochi and the monk had turned their horses’ heads to the north-east and were spurring them into a fast gallop across the slopes of black cinders, followed closely by all the other samurai.

  32

  IN THE LUMINOUS white fog of a higher cloudbank Robert Eden felt his heart begin to thud heavily against his ribs. A feeling of tightness in his lungs indicated that the chilled air was becoming more rarefied, and he stopped to lean against a rock, gasping for breath. His head was starting to ache and a dizzying sensation gave him the impression that the steep slope beneath his feet was shifting and rolling. The fog swam before his eyes and when he turned to look back over his shoulder he saw that Sentaro had dropped a long way behind and was barely visible, stumbling with difficulty over a cluster of basalt rocks thirty feet below. Eden stopped climbing and waited for the castaway as he had done many times before, again searching the blanket of whiteness for shadowy shapes that might betray the presence of their pursuers. But he saw nothing to arouse his suspicion and he turned his attention back to the slow-moving figure of Sentaro.

  They had struck upward again in the direction of the summit after trudging along the narrow ledge for more than an hour. Remembering the determined speed at which he had seen the group of samurai climbing, Eden had tried to press onward at a much faster pace than before, but as they moved higher he had to wait more frequently for the Japanese to catch up. As the mountainside became steeper and the cold increased, Sentaro’s rate of climb had slowed noticeably, and soon be was stopping to rest every few minutes. Although he had not seen or heard anything to suggest that their change of direction had been discovered, Eden found himself glancing back constantly over his shoulder as they moved higher to check that they were not being overhauled.

  Above and below them, the slopes of volcanic ash and sand had now given way to ugly escarpments of black stones, gritty pumice and sharp rocks which rattled back down the mountain in streams from every step they took. The wind had recently died away and their laboured breathing and the clatter of these miniature landslides were the only sounds to be heard in the eerie silence. They were climbing beside a high ridge of soot-coloured lava, which had spouted violently from the still-invisible crater during one of Fuji’s many past eruptions, and -the ferocious energy locked up inside its frowning bulk seemed to add a new dimension of threat to the endless wilderness of stark black rubble all round them.

  ‘Are you all right, Sentaro?’ asked Eden, scrutinizing the Japanese closely as he scrambled up the slope to join him.

  ‘Yes, master. Don’t worry My chest hurts a little, that’s all.’

  ‘The air is much thinner at this height try to breathe slowly and evenly until you get used to it.’ Eden could see from the castaway’s weary face that the long, arduous climb was beginning to take its toll, and he patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. ‘You’re doing fine - keep going. We’ll take a rest soon.’

  As they continued to scramble upward, sometimes on all fours, rain began to fall and was soon lancing down in freezing torrents; the wind also rose again to lash the rain against their faces. Eden moved closer to the wall of black lava, seeking its limited shelter, but within a few seconds the rain had turned to hail and bullet-like fragments of ice bounced and cracked ferociously against the lava rock all around them. Behind him, Eden heard the castaway cry out suddenly and he turned to find that he had fallen and was lying motionless face-down among the black stones.

  Slithering quickly down the slope, Eden knelt to gather him up in his arms. On turning him over, he saw there was a gash three inches long above his right temple; his eyes were closed and his face was very pale. A faint blueness was visible around his mouth, but after a moment his eyes flickered open and he struggled into a sitting position, a bewildered look in his eyes.

  ‘Forgive me, master! What happened?’

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ shouted Eden, leaning closer to protect him from the driving hailstones. ‘You slipped and gashed your head.’ He looked round desperately. ‘We’ve got to find shelter:

  The rising wind was tearing ragged holes in the cloud and Sentaro raised himself suddenly to point ahead to the foot of the next drift of volcanic rubble above them.

  ‘Look, master, there’s a pilgrim hut!’

  Following his pointing finger, Eden spotted what appeared at first to be a small tunnel leading into the mountainside. Lifting Sentaro in his arms he bowed his head against the storm and scrambled up the rocky slope at a stumbling run. As he drew nearer, he realized that what he had thought was a tunnel was in fact a square door of discoloured wood. It covered the entrance to a small hut so deeply submerged under tons of rock and cinders that it seemed to be part of the mountain slope. Eden tugged open the door, and ducked into the small dry interior, where bundles of firewood and other pilgrim supplies hung from low wooden rafters blackened by the smoke of countless fires. Rolls of bamboo matting covered the rocky floor around a central stone hearth and, after lowering Sentaro gently onto one of the mats, Eden closed the door and barred it against the wind.

  ‘The gods of Fuji-san have been kind to us, master gasped Sentaro, smiling weakly up at him in the near darkness. ‘They’ve led us to a shelter when we most needed it. I’ll make a fire now and prepare some food for us.’

  Still breathing raggedly, the Japanese tried to struggle to his feet but found he was too weak. Sinking back onto the mat, he began to shiver violently from the cold.

  Outside, the wind was moaning and blowing more furiously, and hailstones flung themselves angrily against the door. With each gust, the drifts of rock and stones on the roof moved with a roaring reminiscent of shingle on a beach, sending fine showers of grit and sand drifting down into the hut.

  ‘You need to rest until you recover your strength,’ said Eden, hauling a dusty bale of padded quilts down from the rafters. ‘Wrap one of these around yourself I’ll make a fire.’

  Eden used matches from his waist-pouch to kindle a fire with twigs and wood in the stone hearth. The hut filled quickly with blue wood-smoke which stung their eyes, but the cheering flames soon brought a reviving warmth to their shuddering bodies.

  Kneeling beside Sentaro, Eden inspected the gash on his forehead by the firelight; although the wound had not bled profusely, his temple was bruised and badly swollen, and a faint blurring of his gaze hinted that he might be suffering a mild concussion.

  ‘After some food, you must sleep,’ said Eden firmly. ‘I’ll bathe the wound later with hot water.’

  Among the rudimentary utensils stowed above the rafters, Eden found iron cooking pots, wooden plates, beakers, and a vegetable-oil lamp. He lit the wick of braided cotton and heated water over the fire to make black tea which Sentaro gulped down gratefully while the eggs, rice and vegetables he had bought were cooking in another pot. Afterwards, Eden washed and dressed Sentaro’s head wound with a makeshift bandage, and as soon as they had eaten the food the castaway lay down close to the fire and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Outside, the noise of the hailstorm, which had abated temporarily, grew suddenly loud again as though it were deliberately launching a renewed assault. Shrieking gusts of wind tore at the tiny hut, seeming to snatch away its entire cover
ing of rock and stone one moment, then dashing an unbearable new deluge down upon its roof the next. Furious showers of hailstones were being hurled simultaneously against the door, and the whole hut began to sway under the awful barrage. Puffing a quilt round his shoulders, Eden added more wood to the fire and shifted nearer to the comforting flames himself Fresh falls of grit and sand were pouring through cracks in the roof and it seemed suddenly to Eden as though the whole mountain might be starting to rumble and sway beneath him.

  In his troubled sleep, Sentaro whimpered and groaned as though unconsciously aware of the storm’s heightened ferocity and Eden watched the castaway’s eyes flicker repeatedly as though he was trying in vain to wake himself from some unbearable nightmare. A long-drawn-out, growling roar seemed to accompany each new swirl of wind and hail and as Eden looked around at the quivering walls and rafters of their precarious shelter, a cold worm of fear began to wriggle somewhere deep in his brain.

  He remembered suddenly, with great clarity; his first moonlit glimpse of Mount Fuji seen from the darkened ocean. The image of peerless beauty had so overwhelmed his senses that it made him wonder whether he was seeing some ethereal vision of God

  - a God he had long since rejected. But he also remembered, with even greater clarity; the alarming sensation that had swiftly followed: the suspicion that the unearthly vision shimmering in the night might equally be a beacon warning him or the American warships or both - against some terrible tragedy.

  Those moments of matchless beauty had drawn him towards the volcano like a moth to a flame

  - but even though the great mountain was now shuddering terrifyingly all around him, he found he still did not regret his response to that irrational impulse. Instead, he was seized by a strange feeling of near-ecstasy at experiencing for himself the gigantic power of the natural forces swirling around the volcanic cone. He had felt similar stirrings of awe during violent sea tempests, but never before so intensely, and something deep within him seemed to throb suddenly in response to the wildness of the storm.

  With part of his mind he found himself wondering how far they might be from the summit crater. And what thickness of rock might exist between his back and the mighty funnel through which the white-hot lava of any new eruption must gush. Listening to the primal rumble of the wind and earth after climbing Fuji’s desolate, black flanks for several long hours, it seemed perfectly possible that at any second the sacred volcano might erupt for the first time in two hundred years, and send molten lava gushing skyward.

  The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed, and his acceptance of the possibility eventually helped to calm his fears. If that same eruption swept away the hut and both its occupants in a sudden blaze of light, as in his dream, that too, he told himself, he was prepared for, because something unimaginably greater than himself had seemed to demand it.

  Perhaps, he thought suddenly, that was the whole reason for his coming there - to give sacrificial point to the cataclysmic warning, to become part of it, to become its very essence! But whether that was true or not, in abandoning himself to this invisible force, he felt again the same profound sense of peace and serenity which had flooded into his mind as he looked on the image of Fuji for the first time; and in that same moment he knew with total certainty that, however great the risks had seemed, it had been right to come.

  While these extraordinary thoughts and feelings were coursing through him, the wind rose to a howling crescendo, and Sentaro began to moan incoherently in a loud voice as he slept. A new avalanche of rock and sand was hurled onto the roof of the hut with a shuddering crash, and great clouds of grit fell on the fire, smothering some of its flames. The volcanic dust peppered Sentaro’s sweating face, too, but still the castaway did not waken. Looking down at him, Eden was seized by an intense feeling of compassion, and in the next instant a cold calm rationality surged back into his mind.

  Sentaro was injured and now feverishly ill; and the troop of samurai pursuing them was as great a threat to him as it was to Eden himself. Therefore it was suddenly clear that the wisest course would be to abandon their attempt to reach the summit and head back down the mountain as soon as the storm abated. They had already climbed high, and experienced at first hand something of Fuji’s extraordinary power. But turning back now would give them at least a practical chance of escaping unscathed from the region. Exposing Sentaro to further risks, he reasoned, would be a betrayal of the castaway’s unflagging loyalty as well as an act of the greatest foolishness.

  Another louder rumble came from the mountain, rocking the hut on its foundations, and the next moment there was a deafening crash as a further shower of rocks and volcanic debris smashed down onto its roof. Dust poured through the rafters in torrents, extinguishing the lamp and the remaining flames of the fire. The interior of the hut was plunged into darkness and Sentaro awoke with a wild shout of alarm. To comfort him Eden lunged across the hearth and cradled the castaway’s head in his arms.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he shouted above the frenzy of the storm. ‘Don’t be afraid!’

  ‘What’s happening, master?’ croaked the castaway. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘The storm’s put out our fire,’ shouted Eden. ‘We’re still in the hut.’

  Several more waves of debris broke over the shelter in quick succession, and Eden felt the castaway’s body shaking with fear. The wooden walls creaked loudly, as though on the point of collapsing under the assault; then, as abruptly as it had begun, the storm began to subside and the wind slackened. Within minutes the frightening noise had died away and only the faint drumming of gentle rain on the roof could be heard. Soon even this sound ceased, and almost immediately the darkness inside the hut was penetrated by a bright ray of yellow light. It fell directly onto the face of Sentaro, and the Japanese looked up fearfully at Eden.

  ‘Who is that, master?’

  For a moment Eden stared uncertainly at the light; entering horizontally through a crack in the door, it fixed itself unwaveringly on the face of the Japanese, growing brighter with each passing second.

  There’s no need to worry’ said Eden at last, speaking in a relieved voice. ‘It’s the setting sun.’

  33

  THE EAGLE WHEELED in a great, slow circle, drifting easily on the wind, its wings straight and unmoving. For several moments it hovered motionless, then it turned and swooped majestically down towards a vast, fleecy sea of cloud that stretched from Mount Fuji to the horizon. Like the clouds themselves its plumage was turned to gold in the dying blaze of the sun and, watching the gilded bird swinging through its graceful gyrations thousands of feet below the open door of the tiny pilgrim hut, Eden marvelled at its grace and power.

  ‘Do you see the eagle, Sentaro?’ he asked quietly over his shoulder.

  ‘Where, master?’ The shivering castaway pulled his quilts more securely about himself and craned his neck towards the doorway.

  ‘There - look!’ Eden pointed into the vast abyss spread before them, to where the eagle, now little more than a glowing speck, was sliding closer to the mountainside.

  Peering downward, the Japanese let out a muffled exclamation of awe when he spotted the great bird.

  ‘I’ve never looked down on an eagle in flight before,’ he breathed. ‘This must be how the gods see our world.’

  The sun was dipping below the western rim of the dense continent of fleece, dispersing and unravelling vast regions of it at the same time with the aid of the wind. Crimson and orange light was flooding over the ragged vapour contours, setting them ablaze, and in the far distance purple peaks of real mountain ranges were coming into view, thrusting up like fingers of smoke through the clouds. Golden veins of light shimmered in the dark landmass emerging below, hinting at the presence of rivers and lakes. Valleys and gorges, forests and foothills were also being revealed as the vast tectonic plates of cloud slowly parted. Some regions remained deep in shadow, others glowed suddenly under the blaze of the dying sun, and as Eden looked at each boundl
ess vista in turn he felt a sense of exultation at the lifting of the oppressive, day-long cloak of cloud, After the harrowing storm and the blind scramble up Fuji’s grim black sides, the beauty of the sunset seemed to heal and revitalize all his wearied senses within moments.

  Above their heads the immense dome of the sky was fading from blue to a softer, more subdued luminescence, and for the first time Eden was able to see at a glance the whole of the mountain’s massive girth below them. The perfect, unwavering line of the western slope nearest to the pilgrims’ hut seemed to have been slashed down the sky with an unearthly geometric exactitude, never deviating a degree from its course: a diagonal horizon tipped at forty-five degrees to the earth below, it sped dizzyingly downward, as unerring as an arrow in flight, to disappear into a cluster of cloud still clinging around the mountain’s base. The uniformly black surface of sand looked as though it was raked daily with the greatest precision to preserve a total perfection of line, and Eden stared at the slope in silent, awestruck wonder.

  ‘I can understand now, Sentaro, why the people of Nippon have always considered Fuji-san to be a sacred dwelling place of the gods,’ Eden whispered over his shoulder. ‘It’s not like anything else I’ve ever seen. It looks as if it was shaped quite deliberately with giant hands...’

  ‘They say that slope is the best way down, master,’ murmured Sentaro, looking in the same direction. ‘It is very soft sand, and you can run fast all the way to the bottom.’

  Eden craned his neck, following the line of the western slope above their shelter. Because fresh heaps of rocks and black drift had piled up around the hut, he was unable to see very far, but the all-pervasive blackness of the volcano was relieved suddenly, within his range of vision, by the tail of a long gully of white snow. Sparkling brilliantly in the light of the sinking sun, it reached down almost to the level of the pilgrim hut, and the sight of it caused Eden to cry out in surprise.