The call from Takayabu dampened our resolve. Shikama and I began to pace listlessly in the vicinity of the giant Christmas tree until we finally left the station altogether. We were loath, however, to end our day on such an anticlimactic note. We needed a victory, however small, to turn our mood.
So with a bag of cheap charcoal, a tray of cheap meat, and our two noble souls bundled up in our arms, we made our way to Ginkaku Temple, where we followed the trail around back and up Mount Daimonji.
From the trailhead, it’s a leisurely thirty-minute hike to the burn site. Once there, we stood in the wide clearing, taking in the nighttime beauty of Kyoto below. Far out to the west, we could see two large black gaps in the glittering cityscape. These were the dark forested masses of the Kyoto Imperial Palace and Mount Yoshida. To the south, Kyoto Tower erupted from the ground. Shikama liked to refer to it as the city’s manhood, and I have to admit that it’s a rather fitting description, given the way it juts suggestively above the rest of the Kyoto skyline.
The wind at the burn site was unrelenting, and it was accompanied by occasional flurries of snow. We’d heroically ascended the mountain in the dead of winter, but now we stood with arms wrapped tight against our chests, robbed of our speech by the extreme cold. The sooner the barbecue was over, the sooner we could flee back to lower ground.
It occurred to us that the inclement weather could be a sign. Perhaps the god of the mountain was enraged by our presence, and the howling wind was his divine voice bellowing, “Fools! Intrude ye not upon this hallowed ground!” We immediately poured body and mind into heartfelt prayer, begging the god of the mountain to forgive us our trespass.
Instead, the wind grew stronger. The sweat from our climb froze into tiny icicles, and our joints refused to bend.
Around us, patches of withered grass fluttered in the wind among the long, sweeping lines marked out by large, cross-shaped fire pits. In August, the pits would host giant bonfires, forming a massive kanji character visible throughout the city—the “dai” from which Daimonji gets its name.
We picked one nearby fire pit, stuffed the concrete troughs with newspaper and charcoal, and threw a grate on top. Most of the world assumes that the term Daimonji-yaki primarily refers to the Gozan no Okuribi, the ancient celebration held during the summer obon holiday in which five giant characters are written out in fire across five of the city’s peaks. In fact, the term more properly refers to the commandeering of one of the fire pits on Mount Daimonji’s burn site for an impromptu barbecue party.
We lit the newspaper, and it burned readily, but the incessant wind soon swept up the embers, sending them cascading down the mountain slope. If we’d believed nothing could chill our insides further, this development proved us wrong.
Every student in Kyoto dreams of toying with the summertime festivities—the ultimate practical joke on the city. Hide out on the peak before the fires are lit, build an extra bonfire of your own, and suddenly the giant, smoldering character gains an extra stroke that changes its meaning entirely. But imagining something is a far cry from actually doing it. Shikama and I were hardly so rash and indiscrete as to create the spectacle—and certainly not now, so far out of season. I imagined the headlines: WILDFIRE ON MOUNT DAIMONJI. GINKAKU TEMPLE BURNS TO THE GROUND. EYEWITNESS REPORTS INDICATE TWO MALE SUSPECTS IN KYOTO ARSON CASE. It was a brand of celebrity I could definitely do without.
Thus, Shikama and I tumbled down the hillside like SWAT operatives in pursuit of the stray embers. We wielded plastic drink bottles, splashing oolong tea in all directions in a valiant display of firefighting prowess. My compatriots and I well know the importance of brushing away the flames that fall upon us and extinguishing the ones that tumble from our own hands. A gentleman must ever be on guard for fire.
After a few more failed attempts back at the pit, we finally managed a steady campfire. The charcoal began to pulse, and we greedily laid strips of meat across the grate, also tossing on hand-shredded clumps of eryngii mushrooms and green peppers. I’d packed some warm sake in a thermos, which I proceeded to pour into two cups, handing one to Shikama. We are certainly no connoisseurs of alcoholic beverages, but I would venture that the sake we drank that night was among the finest pairings for a mountaintop view of Kyoto’s glittering lights. It warmed us through and through as the meat began to sizzle.
Shikama, intent on doing everything possible this year to avoid developing a fever and collapsing on Christmas, had taken to quaffing concentrated turmeric energy drinks day and night. Thanks to the drinks, his already potent musk had reached new levels, and it occurred to me that the habit might in fact be counterproductive to his overarching goals. Nonetheless, I held my tongue.
And whether it was due to the turmeric, I could not say, but lately his imagination was even wilder than usual. Now, with Christmas just around the corner, he had developed an intense fear that some unknown entity was conspiring to thwart our plans. He confided to me that he believed the incident with Takayabu was incontrovertible proof of someone or something hot on our heels.
Our potential foes were many and included the likes of the National Public Safety Commission, the Intelligence Division of the Ground Staff Office, the Shimogamo Police Station, the mounted forces of the Kyoto Prefectural Police’s Heian Cavalry, certified members of the Greenland International Santa Claus Association, the National Mistletoe Lovers’ Association, and the Aya Matsuura Official Fan Club.
“Remain vigilant,” he cautioned.