Shougenmon - The Gate of Soaring Dreams

A Chapter by Nusquam Esse

To some, the forests along the path to Edo were a tranquil verdant display of thick undergrowth, majestic cypress, and lush moss-covered stones under foot. But to Mugen, the path was one of a subtle breeze which flowed through the balmy air, the buzz of cicadas, and the warmth on his skin from not just the sun, but also the plants along the road which seemed to cling to every bit of life’s ardor they could. And while to many, the moss covered stones were merely an inconvenience, precariously slick during this time of year; to Mugen they represented the tenacity of life to claim everything it could, even the path which was trodden under so many feet, such as his.

He had to move slowly; or rather, Mugen enjoyed taking his time--to feel every change in the air, to sense the way each stone was unique under his bare toes, to smell the loamy heat which permeated his whole being--people missed out on so much in their rush to get to Edo. It was starting to rain, he could feel the light drops, an impossibly fine mist that often left him amazed that these very drops could become the downpour that would surely follow. If it wasn’t for the sensation of a storm in the distance, then he would have assumed that it was no more than the mist which flowed through the mountains during the rainy season.

He needed to seek shelter, his health had gradually deteriorated over the years, he was already pushing his luck by simply traveling along the long road to Edo--a storm was too much for him. ‘How long had it been since the last marker?’ With a sigh, Mugen leaned his head back and tried to remember, delighting in the sensation of the light rain forming, coalescing on his skin, trickling down his neck. He had traveled about four-thousand steps or so since he last encountered a marker, he must have missed a few of them… still, he should be nearing one soon. Stepping to the right of the path, he continued down the path, meticulously scanning the side of the road with his walking stick, trying to find the marker in the thick foliage.

Finally, he felt his staff hit something firm, the sound of stone. Stepping closer, Mugen reached out and ran his fingers across the large moss-cracked stone; this should be it. Breathing deeply, he marveled at how each spider-webbed fissure, each rough patch of conglomerate, every slick weather-worn facet of stone, and even the way the stone had been carved, told a story--a story much older, and seemingly important than himself. How many travelers would know that he had walked this path? Tracing the miles he had travelled since Kyoto, he pondered the hand which had crafted the stone; strong, with purpose, but also a sense of indifference? Indifference for the stone, to the traveler, towards himself? He wasn’t sure, perhaps it was all just something he had imagined--time and the elements had a way of wearing away true intentions.

Squinting with concentration, Mugen focused on what the stone said. It seemed that he was nearing the ‘Shougenmon Gate’, a rather odd name for a place. It was vague, but if an ideal or concept could fly, dreams seemed fitting. What had they meant with such a name? Did dreams actually fly--soar to new horizons? Or maybe they were scattered on the wind? Mugen smiled, it was best that way--dreams were always so intangible… He felt his heart quicken, his mind racing to know how the gate ahead had earned such a name. Pulling away his hand, not bothering to wipe away the grime, he continued up the path to the gate ahead

The air abruptly grew colder, the difference was subtle, but Mugen was not one to neglect noticing even the slightest change in the breeze. Pausing yet again, to try and gauge his surroundings, he breathed in the air--the air of the shadow of Shougenmon gate, Reaching up with his right hand, he imagined the rain flowing down the gate, much like his fingers had flowed down the marker stone earlier. He could hear the trickle of water splashing across the gravel and mud about the gate, in stark contrast to the silence which loomed under its wooden walls. Stepping in closer, he ran his hands along the sides of the gate, seeking out the grain of the wood, exploring each knot in the worn cypress, losing himself in the sweet scent which hid deep within the wood--a scent exhumed only by the cascade of warm water. The gate was old, ancient even, far too worn for him to begin to fathom why it had been named Shougenmon--a shame really.

Turning towards the brewing storm, Mugen sensed the lightning drawing near, not only harbingered by the clash of thunder, but also by the faint stench of sulphur which lingered in the myriad of resurgent odors sealed within the soil--a pungent acrid tickle of his nose, his skin. He had best spend the night here, this storm was not going to just ‘pass by’. He could already feel the wind intensifying, seeming to pull him towards the looming tempest. Fumbling in the dark entrance of the gate, he finally found the ladder leading to the interior of the gate; it should be a good spot to seek shelter from the storm. Gripping the rungs tightly, testing each step to ensure it could hold his weight, Mugen made his way steadily to the trapdoor above. As he came out into the dark room above, he felt something; something was watching him. There was a hesitant, held-back, breath which left a strange void in the room--a held breath is very different from the absence of breathing. There was also a slight warmth, the sensation that a single person imbues with their presence, like the sensation of the eyes, directed his way. And the scent, a sweet blend of sweat and plums, the slight odor of mildew--the type which clings not to wood, but rather to cloth which has been damp for too long.

Calmly Mugen greeted the woman, “Mind if I join you?” He tried to come across as non-threatening as possible, not a difficult feat considering his condition.

An exhale of breath; then the soft, timid voice which pushed out the words, “Of course…”

He wasn’t welcome here, he could tell from the way she spoke; as much as she tried to seem indifferent, he could sense the awkward breath which followed her words, which seemed to beg, ‘let me be alone’. With a sigh, Mugen pulled himself up into the room; welcome or not, he had little choice in where else he could seek shelter. Trying to make as little a nuisance of himself as he could, he curled up in the far corner of the room, away from the window; of course, by simply being there, he was still a nuisance… He felt the dry heat of a flame, so she had a candle? No doubt she was looking at him, he imagined her gaze, the way her breath was directed towards him. Turning his face to her, he smiled as warmly as he could manage, “It looks like quite the storm.” Silence… or at least, sort of; she said nothing, but her breath caught awkwardly in her throat… she was uncertain of how to respond. He should have worded that better, “Should rain a lot…” He was bad at conversations.

She was smiling weakly, or at least that is what it seemed like; the sound of how the lips turn up at the edges, the slight moist pucker of lips as they attempt to change an expression they have held for too long. He tried to imagine her, across the dark room, smiling faintly out the window, a lone candle beside her; something about it, the rain pattering beyond the walls, across the ceiling… it made his heart ache. What was her story? He wished he could run his fingers across her skin, to feel out each wrinkle, dimple, scar… and to imagine, wonder, what her life had been like. But he knew that while doing this to rocks made him a little eccentric to most, running his hands across another’s skin was far more intrusive. No matter how he wanted to understand, to imagine her face, it wasn’t something he could do. So instead he tried to forget the idea, with little success.

A moment of hesitation, then she whispered wistfully, more to herself than him, “It’s as if heaven itself is crying…” She had not intended for him to hear the emotion in her voice, Mugen already understood that she couldn’t let others into her world. Was that why she was travelling alone?

Awkwardly, the tentativeness in his voice reminding him of how little he could connect with others, Mugen replied, “Heaven’s tears cleanse the grime which festers in our soul…”

He sensed she was startled by his response, that strange pause that reminded him of how often he had to stop, trying to decide what something meant. Was she startled he had heard her, or by his strangely poetic response? Mugen spent most of his time thinking alone, so he sometimes forgot that other people didn’t see the world the way he did… that people weren’t supposed to be so introspective; but it’s difficult not to be, when you are the only one in your world. What person would actually say something like that to a stranger? And after such a bland introduction as ‘should rain a lot…’ He was an idiot.

In a cold voice which seemed out of place with the plum perfume, or the soft tremor when she spoke to herself, the woman sneered, “Tears never helped anyone…” And that was that, another fumbled conversation brought to an end.

Mugen sat there for several minutes, pondering why she had responded the way she did. Sure, his response was odd, but so was hers. He had a feeling, from how she had reacted when he had first entered the room, that she was the type who would put up a facade for the sake of ‘keeping the peace’. Yet to reply so coldly, there was something more than he had realized… a sorrow which was as bitter as it was wasting? So genuinely cold and yet painfully emotive? It was a contradiction, a clash of spirit, which even she unlikely understood. What had tears been for her? What had they become? He imagined those held-back tears held in contempt, rolling down her soft cheeks, masked in the darkness of candlelit shadows… in the now roaring downpour… in the solitude that she couldn’t share with him, which those tears could never heal. Perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps it was just a leak in the ceiling… But what he felt…

Without realizing he had spoken aloud, Mugen murmured out in awe, “You’re beautiful.” Helplessly honest to a fault, with bumbling charm to boot; it was small wonder that Mugen had never amounted to anything.

With a quavering voice, which betrayed the truth, the woman gasped, “What would a blind man know of beauty?”

On the morrow, the rain had passed, as had the woman. Mugen woke up alone, as he always had, staring out the window with vacant eyes… feeling the breeze on his face, strangely clean and fresh. He wondered, ‘Was the earth purified with the going rain? What had he missed all these years in darkness? The thing which would never let him be with another…’ Running his hand along the coarse wood of the window frame, Mugen thought he finally understood the meaning of Shougenmon gate. Dreams would always fly away, from the him which couldn’t see, only imagine… even in his dreams.

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© 2018 Nusquam Esse

Author's Note

This story takes place in Japan, I was imagining the old paths of Kumano... ancient stone paths between The Old Capital (Kyoto) and Edo (Modern-day Tokyo). The gates in question here are large structures which often have access to the upper section. For those curious about the name, 翔幻門 is the way the gate would be written in Japanese, meaning the "Gate of Soaring Dreams". Oh, and Mugen means, "Without Bounds", to be infinite and without any limits.

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Einstein Noodle

of course i had to look up more of the history of the paths and gates .. pretty cool! inspires me to dream of visiting one day .. (big sigh!) reading stories and chapters here on WC are difficult for me .. short to a few longer poems are my usual limits .. so being in a hurry my reading of "Shougenmon - The Gate of Soaring Dreams" caused me to feel it as slow moving .. but i took a big breath or two and it allowed me into Mugen's journey and spirit .. leaving me very satisfied at the end .. willing to read more (so many directions left open) especially about the mystery woman ...
E.