MIKAN
- notajournaljapan
- Mar 13
- 3 min read
Updated: Mar 14
MIKAN
A Short Story
Mount Daisen
Tottori, Japan
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What is the black that lies beyond black? With that thought drifting through my mind, I follow the passing trees with my eyes. The headlights are swallowed by the darkness, and the car’s shadow seems to be left behind where it was.
“We’re here.”
Those words make me realize that I am not alone in the car. The house we arrive at is the one I had heard rumors about before—the house where a witch lives. Tall trees grow thick on all sides, and beyond them stretch open fields. Behind the house rises a massive mountain, as if to cover the entire place in its shadow. And there the house stands, quietly.
Passing through the carefully tended entrance, I step into a wide living room whose inner walls are covered with paintings, along with several small rooms. A wall that must once have stood there has been removed, replaced by a large table made from a single slab of wood and shelves filled with books. There is the faint presence of someone, and a warm scent lingering in the air.
I step out into the garden to smoke. A bag stuffed with mandarins lies there carelessly. Several have rolled out onto the ground and now stare upward at my feet. Absentmindedly I peer inside the bag, and am slightly startled to see that the entire right side of the pile is covered in a thin, soft yellow-green fuzz.
As I smoke absentmindedly, I begin to lose track again of where I am. The wind is strong tonight. Leaves swirl with a roaring sound, striking my head and cheeks. That sharp, high noise coming from the edge of the second floor—could it really be just the wind?
“You know, I actually used to work there. There was no such thing as morning or night.”
Slowly, while grilling round rice cakes, I open my notebook. Come to think of it, an old friend from my hometown is supposed to visit this house soon. He’s been in touch for the past few days, but he’s settled himself in the neighboring town and still hasn’t set foot here. Apparently that town is home to one of the world’s most renowned healing retreats.
They say that if you greet the morning of the third day there, any illness will be cured. Perhaps I should call my friend tomorrow and summon him here—he seems to be taking that story a little too seriously and lingering there.
“You write everything down, one by one. That’s that, this is this. Then things should fall into order. But then you wonder—what exactly is this confusion after all?”
The mountain has always been there. Slowly, slowly, it draws closer to me.The mountain, myself, and this house feel like a single massive lump. I have to start the car soon, cross the mountain, and go pick him up.
“You know, the witch can’t be seen. But she’s certainly there. Can’t you see her?”
“Things that can be seen are only stories told from the height of human eyes. To leap beyond that and drift in the space between the earthly world and the spirit realm—what a wonderful feeling.”
I shake my head violently from side to side. That’s not me, I think, covering my ears with my palms. A gentle gaze. A soft blanket.
The wind is still fierce, roaring as leaves pound heavily against the roof. The round rice cakes my friend brought as a gift from home are slowly burning, smoke rising from them.
Did you know?
There is a mandarin tree in the garden.
One. Two.
Bodies lie sideways on the ground.
And the pale yellow-green that covers the piled fruit—tonight as well, it seems to continue its quiet invasion.
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Written by Tama (NOTA)
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