Sea of Trees Read online

  “Yes,” she says folding her hands together, playing with them to distract herself.

  I grab the papers, half a dozen or so, and clean the dirt off. I flip through them at first, but can’t make anything out, and hand them over. I watch Junko’s face as she begins reading, looking for a sign, anything, scanning the lines of text. After a minute of silence, I see her mouth curl up slightly: a smile.

  “This is not her,” she says excitedly. “This is someone called Mai.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I say. “What else do they say?”

  She reads again, flipping through them. “She had committed adultery, and her husband had found out. He had kicked her out, and she came here, unsure of what to do.”

  I look back at the pile of items, then out to the woods, a puzzling kaleidoscope of browns and grays. I turn back to Junko and she’s folding the pages up neatly. “So she kills herself because she made a mistake? A bit drastic, isn’t it?”

  “You do not understand,” she says handing the pages to me, stern, angry. “We are a very proud people. Very traditional in many ways. It is very hard for some to live with themselves after they have done something so horrible.”

  “Well, that’s crazy.”

  “Maybe, but that is how it is,” she says and takes a few steps back, looking at the trees again, running her hand up and down the bark of one nearby.

  I look down at the papers and place them back with the other things. By the time I turn back, Junko is scurrying off toward a small hill that almost looks like a wave rising from the forest floor. “Where are you going?” I shout after her.

  “Exploring!”

  “Can you not just run off, please?” I say chasing after her. By the time I reach the hill she’s just about at the top, climbing over pieces of rock and through interlocking trunks of trees, standing tall at the crest like a proud warrior. I follow, surprisingly out of breath, and drop my pack to the ground when I meet her, tired, wondering how, in all the excitement, in the heat, she’s still wearing hers. Then I see she’s not looking at me, not noticing me at all, but looking down in the small valley at a neon-yellow tent perched in a clearing. “What is that?”

  “Someone camped here,” she says soberly, staring straight ahead.

  “Maybe they’re still around here somewhere,” I say, standing. “Maybe they’re looking for someone too.”

  “Could be,” she says.

  We wait for a minute, the quiet of the woods creeping back on us, and unable to take it any longer, I shout: “Hello? Anyone there?” Junko hits me, tells me to be quiet, to not disturb. I don’t listen and add: “We’re coming down!”

  “What are you doing?” she says as I put my pack back on.

  “It would be nice to see another person, if someone is there.”

  “And if there is not?”

  “Then nothing to worry about, right?” I say, smiling, descending the hill. She quickly follows and we navigate the slope until we get to the bottom, Junko glued to me, her hands around my arm. “Hello?” I call out again.

  “Empty,” she says quietly.

  “I guess so.”

  We stop about ten feet from the tent and study the surroundings, noticing yellow tape tied to nearby trees like police tape at a crime scene. I walk over to a loose strand and pick it up, showing it to Junko. “What is this place?”

  “I do not know,” she says. “Maybe . . . we should go.”

  “Let’s at least check out what’s inside the tent. Maybe it belonged to the woman from the letters?” I drop the yellow tape and move to the entrance of the tent, which is zipped completely up. I look back at Junko, who looks truly frightened for the first time since we’ve been here, and I smile. “I promise it’ll be fine.”

  The zipper’s stubborn but I manage to slide it open, finding only a sleeping bag that smells like mildew, a few fashion-style magazines, and empty water bottles.

  “What is it?” she says from behind me, safely away.

  “Nothing, just some water bottles and a sleeping bag.”

  “No body?”

  “Nope. It’s clean,” I say turning around to face her. “I wonder if—” I stop, frozen, seeing the shape of a wilted man behind Junko, near the tree line, watching us, leering at us, his hair grayed in sections, wearing a red tracksuit, a walking stick in hand, and once it registers, really sinks in, I lurch almost a foot backward into the tent itself. “Oh, shit!” I manage to get out.

  Junko looks behind her and likewise sees the man, jumping a bit, moving back toward me in the tent. I get up as quickly as I can and stand in front of her, protecting her, the old man standing perfectly still, staring right at us as if we don’t belong. Then, finally, after this stand-off of no talking, we see him lick his lips and take a step forward, toward us.

  “You should not touch those things,” he says in English, his Japanese accent surprisingly light. “If a body had been in there, it can produce germs and disease. Anything it touches. You would not want such things on your skin.”

  “Is this . . . are you camping here?” I manage to get out.

  “No,” he says stepping forward again. “I am here to pay my respects.”

  “Oh,” I say brushing myself off. “Sorry to hear.”

  “And you two as well?”

  I look to Junko who looks at the old man, nervous, not like the Junko I know, the hard-party bar girl taking shots and dancing, not afraid to talk to anyone, someone else entirely here, in her skin. I touch her shoulder and she steps back, surprised, and relaxes when she realizes it’s just me. “The same,” I say back.

  “Well, we should not be here. The Suicide Patrols, they mark off these areas, where people have left their things behind.” He points with his walking stick, a long, crooked piece of wood that’s no more than a branch, really. “Let’s go back to the trail, where it is safe.”

  “Fine by me,” I say, smiling at Junko, nudging her. We watch as the old man turns away from us, toward the woods, back toward the path, and follow as he leads us away from the tent. I try to hold Junko’s hand and she lets me for a moment, then stops, dropping mine. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “I know this is all pretty heavy, being here and all, but are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine,” she says looking back at the tent before it disappears, the woods enveloping us again. “Perfectly fine.”

  On an October night Ken Suzuki was approached about work by a man named Ryohei Mitsuru—a Yakuza enforcer better known as Toro. Ken had run into Toro a few times before within the small circle of friends he had, a man he had never spoken a word to, but feared, as they all did, due to his association with the “chivalrous” organization. So when Ken received a call from Toro requesting a meet, he did what anyone in the know would do: obliged.

  “It is in the forest,” he said pulling him into a small hostess club. “Aokigahara.”

  Ken smiled, took a drink of the whiskey the beautiful hostess brought for them. “Oh, that forest.”

  “You do not want the job? I was told that you have been out of work for quite some time. I am sure your family would be proud of you to earn a wage.”

  “Yes, but . . . Aokigahara is—”

  “Only a forest. Besides, for a single day you will make more than you have had all year.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “It is a job offer, not a command. But—” He finished his whiskey. “—it is never bad to have me owe you a favor.”

  Ken took a drink. “Yes, I suppose not.”

  “Do you still see Jun?”

  “Jun?”

  “Do not be so afraid,” Toro said. “We have mutual friends. And I know Jun . . . a little, anyway. I had heard you and she were together.”

  “Oh, well, not any longer, no.”

  “What happened?” Toro said watching him intensely, waiting for an answer.

  “We drifted apart is all,” Ken said looking at the floor, then at the beautiful hostess
es, never at Toro’s eyes. “It happens.”

  “Yes it does. Well, perhaps it is for the best. Besides, there are many other Juns in Japan. Maybe she was not the right Jun.”

  Ken laughed nervously, finished his drink, and for the first time noticed tattoos peeking out from under Toro’s jacket cuffs. “So, when do you need me?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “And what is it I would be doing?”

  Toro stood, removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ken as he made his way for the door. “Your partner will fill you in tomorrow.”

  “Partner?”

  The next morning Ken found himself dressed in a green ski jacket borrowed from his father—although he did not tell his purpose, just that he had found work—and met a man named Toyama at Shinjuku Station who likewise had been drafted by Toro. The two men exchanged pleasantries and boarded a train for Otsuki, an hour’s ride, and it wasn’t until the final leg—via bus—that Toyama informed Ken about what it was they would be doing in Aokigahara.

  “Jukai has its share of visitors, as I am sure you are aware, many who never return. The Suicide Patrols and the police, they only find a handful of the bodies every year. The woods are . . . twisted and confusing. Very easy to lose your way in there. So Toro and others like him, they draft people like us, maybe out of work, or homeless, to go in and loot the bodies, take anything of value.”

  “Rob them?”

  “Well, they cannot very well use their belongings now, can they?”

  “I suppose not, no.”

  “So we will go in and relieve them of their things, bring them back to Toro.”

  “And we will be paid for this?”

  “Yes, and—” Toyama looked around, made sure no one was listening. “—no one will know if we keep some for ourselves.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The wage Toro will pay is good, but not great. There is no map of these bodies, so he will not have to know what we did and did not pass by. That is . . . if I can trust you.”

  Ken thought hard. “I do not see why not.”

  “Yes. Exactly. Some of these people have some nice things on them.”

  “Maybe I will find a watch . . . for my father?” Ken said aloud, watching out the window.

  Toyama studied him. “Yes. Anything is possible in Aokigahara.”

  The two made their way into the forest in the early afternoon along a pre-determined route that had been assigned to them by Toro. There were no cars in the visiting parking lot they passed through, no discernible hikers they could see, and it was some time before either man spoke.

  “It is so quiet here,” Ken said finally.

  “That is the first thing you all say,” Toyama said.

  “There are others?”

  “I have been here a dozen times now, I believe. Give or take. Every time I find it more beautiful than the last.”

  “I find it very unsettling,” Ken said as they passed an especially warped and knotted tree trunk that looked like a face peeling away from the wood.

  “The first visit will do that. But now when I come, I find it very peaceful. Very . . . romantic.”

  They continued on, finally discovering a body—a young man, a teenager. Ken watched as Toyama put on plastic surgeon gloves—“For the germs,” he said—and checked the boy’s pockets, flipping him over onto his back and revealing his sunken face, the flesh tight and in the thralls of decay. Ken was surprised at how easy it was to look at him, that the fear he assumed would wash over him—since he had never seen a dead body before—never came. Even when his turn came when they happened on a middle-aged woman, mostly skeleton now with mats of hair and skin stuck to a piece of the coat she still wore, Ken was at ease checking her for jewelry, money, anything of value they could pocket or bring back to Toro.

  As they continued deeper into the woods, Toyoma taught Ken the most ideal places to look for bodies, where and when the Suicide Patrols came (as well as parts of the forest they refused to venture), and how to interpret the many signs along the trails so as not to get lost, “Easy to do,” he said. Ken had looted half a dozen bodies by dinner time, and as they ate the meals they had packed, hunkered down not far from the trail, they shared with one another the most interesting items they had picked up.

  “Not as good today,” Toyoma said. “Someone else has been through recently, I think.”

  “I found some nice things,” Ken replied as he ate.

  “Let me see.”

  Ken emptied his pockets on the ground: a few pieces of jewelry, personal items belonging to a girl (make-up, a comb, etcetera), a few coins. “What do you think?”

  “Worthless,” Toyoma said picking through the things. “Except the jewelry. I will hold on to that.”

  He picked up the ring and a necklace, admired them, and stuffed them in his coat. “I think there is a camp up the hill behind us. Would you mind taking a look while I finish eating?”

  “Shouldn’t we be leaving soon?” Ken looked up at the sky—what sky he could see, anyway—noticing traces of night already on the horizon. “It is starting to get dark.”

  “Yes, soon. But we should check this last spot.”

  “Sure.”

  Ken made his way up the small hill as Toyoma watched him. By the time he had gone up and over, he found a body—another woman, but no camp—and proceeded to check it as he had been taught. He was busy in his work, finding a scrap of paper with directions written on it, more coins, and so did not hear Toyoma approach from behind, or take out from inside his large jacket a long, thin knife. In fact, it wasn’t until he heard the final footstep of Toyoma approaching that he knew he was there at all, turning as the knife entered his side, between the ribs. Ken fell back to the ground, but not before Toyoma stabbed him twice more, near the first wound, both times puncturing so deep the pain was delayed and not noticeable until he took a step back to survey the damage. He watched Ken writhe near the body of the woman, unable to speak, hands clutching the wounds as if it might help.

  Toyoma looked at the knife, then back to Ken, and tossed it on the ground. “Toro says this is for Jun,” he said.

  “J-Jun? I do not understand.” Ken said, forcing the words out.

  “Jun Inoue is Toro’s cousin. He knows you got her pregnant, made her get an abortion. Then you left her to be alone. Called her a slut.”

  “No, you do not understand—”

  “It does not matter,” Toyoma said. “This is the message I was to deliver. That you disgraced her, and now she is not the same, because of you. Toro wished for you to feel half of what she does.”

  “But—”

  Toyoma kneeled. “To be honest, I think you are a good guy, from what I know, so I am sorry it has to be this way. But this was my job. I hope you understand.”

  Ken reached out, tried to grab a hold of Toyoma, but he stood, distanced himself. “You cannot . . . leave me . . .”

  “I really thought you knew who Toro was,” Toyoma replied, walking back toward the path. “How could you not? Or, maybe you did not want to see . . .”

  Toyoma disappeared over the hill and it took another few minutes before Ken processed that he was truly alone, dying slowly—painfully—next to a woman who had reached a similar fate of her own doing. As he lay there along the ground, near her, he looked up at the trees and thought of Jun and of what he had done—perhaps it was the death that had a hold on him now, but he felt remorse for his actions for the first time. Ken truly had loved her, but acted like a child, so perhaps this was for the best.

  He then thought of the hours to come, the life slowly slipping away, and even though no one would be around to see, he decided he would do the right thing—as well as the quick thing, to save himself from a long and agonizing end—to account for his sins against Jun. He managed to pull himself up and find the knife Toyoma had discarded, the blade soaked in his blood. He looked back to the woman behind him, imagining for a moment that she was Jun, that they were still together,
and without thinking about it jammed the blade into his neck, going against every natural reaction to remove it, slicing deep and long in order to do the job right.

  The last thing Ken saw was a torrent of red wash down his neck and hands, covering his lap, then his eyes glazed over as he faced the trees—the great trees of the forest—calling to him, welcoming him home, and, more than anything, forgiving him for what he had done.

  Memory

  “I am Seicho,” the old man says once we’re back on the main path. “You are American?”

  “I am,” I say. “My name is Bill.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  “Your English is very good.”

  “Ah, thank you. I taught in America for . . . twenty years. University of North Carolina.”

  “Oh, I’m from the Midwest. From Michigan.”

  “Mmm,” he says nodding his head. “Great Lakes.”

  “Right,” I say standing there, thinking, then: “What did you teach?”

  “Philosophy,” he says starting up the path again. “Retired many years ago. Moved back to take care of my parents.”

  I smile, look back to Junko who’s looking anywhere but at me or Seicho, and we start following him. “This is my girlfriend, Junko,” I say. “She’s, uh, Japanese as well.”

  “I see that,” Seicho says turning toward me, smiling. Then, nodding to Junko adds: “Ha ji me ma hi te.”

  Junko nods back, says, “Hai.”

  I smile at her and she meets my gaze for a moment then looks to the ground, seeming more concerned with where her feet are going as we start moving again. I look back to Seicho and he’s stopped up ahead now, waiting for us, still smiling, his thin frame almost disappearing against the backdrop of the trees. As we approach his position I study him: hair thick and gray, scruff hanging on his chin and jaw, eyes tired, deep wrinkles at the corners and along his mouth.

  “So,” I start, look around then back to him, “You lost someone here?”

  “Yes. My son, Junji. Almost ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, looking at Junko, trying to get her to respond in any small way, noticing her hands gripping the straps of her backpack tight.