Metamorphosis

I looked out onto the frozen lake, the cold wind somehow slicing through my many layers of clothing, making me shiver. The lake was vast and flat and stood out in the foreground against its mountainous background. Everything was white; the mountains, the lake's frozen surface, the ground, the surrounding fence. Even the air was white. The only sense of shade that could be seen were the distant trees, whose canopies shielded their trunks from the snow that had blanketed everything else.

It was only lightly snowing, enough to collect on my winter coat, but not enough to pile on the lake’s surface. Still, it was cold. I would have wagered money that you could drive a small car out onto the lake without fear of the ice cracking.

With some effort, I dug my phone out of my coat pocket with my gloved hands. I checked the time. The bus was late, according to the ancient bus schedule that was posted up at the stand, which was little more than a single pole with a sign affixed to it. Though this road was one of the main roads branching from the train station, and it had clearly been ploughed recently, I had not seen any cars drive by in the 20 minutes I had been waiting.

I was beginning to wonder whether the route had been cancelled due to the inclement weather, when I saw headlights approaching. I flagged the driver and the bus crunched to a halt, its wheels thick with heavy chains. As the doors opened, I brushed the accumulated snow off my head and shoulders and stepped into the warmth of the bus.

The driver nodded at me and told me that the ticket machine was not working, so I could take a seat freely. There were only two other passengers; an elderly couple perhaps 10 years my senior. The old man was dozing peacefully, bent over his wooden cane. The woman had a plastic bag full of groceries on her lap. She looked up briefly as I walked through the bus, clutching her groceries closer to her chest. I bowed apologetically as I squeezed past in my bulky winter coat.

The bus took us up the winding mountain road, travelling at a crawl that still felt terrifyingly fast on account of the sharp curves and erratic topography. I, who had never been good with car travel, clutched the handles mounted to the seat in front of me, staring out the window at the white scenery passing me by in an effort to stave off the motion sickness.

The bus climbed higher up the mountain, leaving civilization behind in place of thick woods, blanketed in snow. Occasionally we would pass a rest area with a bus stop, but our bus cruised past them without so much as slowing down, for they were clearly uninhabited, abandoned for the winter.

It was not until we reached the final stop of the route that our bus came to a halt. I allowed the elders to shuffle off the bus ahead of me and thanked the bus driver as I exited the vehicle. The cold was palpable, especially after leaving the warmth of the bus, but I was relieved to find that there was no wind.

I had arrived in a small town surrounded by thick forestry. A single road stretched onwards up the mountain, lined with small restaurants, shops, and residences. Presently, the bus I had arrived on headed down this road, presumably to make a loop somewhere further before heading back down the mountain.

To my right, there was a stone staircase that ascended towards a large red prayer gate at the top of a snowy hill. To my left, across the road, there was a small visitors’ center. Outside the door of the visitors’ center there hung a paper lantern with the character for ‘noodles’ stenciled on it. The lantern was illuminated and warm light emanated from inside the small wooden building. It was the only speck of light visible in the town, and there was an exceedingly welcoming quality to it. I took a long look up the stone staircase that led to my ultimate destination, then turned and headed to the visitors’ center.

***

While I was waiting for my bowl of noodles to arrive, I conversed with the restaurant owner, who also served as the town’s guide. There was no one else in the restaurant. Indeed, the owner was surprised by my custom. He inquired as to the purpose of my visit.

I explained that I was there to investigate the absence of the local Guardian, Otso. At this, the owner clicked his tongue and shook his head sadly. He told me that he had grown up in this town and had always looked forward to the visit of Otso, the King of the Forest, since he was old enough to remember. It had always come like clockwork, on the fifth day of every fifth winter, without fail. He described for me the first time he remembered seeing it as a boy.

The whole town and more than a few out-of-towners had gathered along the forest path in anticipation of the great spirit beast’s arrival. He vividly remembered the atmosphere of excitement as Otso appeared, the sound it made as it approached, similar to a whale song. It looked like a giant bear, but it moved on eight legs and its body was an otherworldly green. It appeared to be formless, weightless, and left no tracks as it moved through the snow. The old restaurant owner recalled that upon seeing it, he had tugged on his father’s yukata and asked if he could pet it. His father had tussled his hair and told him that it was not theirs to pet.

Every five years after this, the old man had made the trek to the cedar forest to watch Otso’s arrival. Every time he heard Otso’s song, he felt a great sense of his place in the world. However, two winters ago, Otso had simply not appeared, disappointing the many people who had made the trip to witness its trek. Even more disappointed were the local townsfolk, many of whom relied on the tourism brought about by Otso’s visits to drive their businesses. They collectively held their breath and waited for the next winter, and when the Guardian still did not visit, many simply packed up and left the town.

The owner’s eyes grew moist with regret as he told his story. I reached out and patted his arm. He seemed to remember himself and looked down at me. I smiled and nodded, showing that I understood his heartache. He nodded gratefully before going into the kitchen to finish the preparation of my meal.

***

With a belly full of warm noodles, the trek to the cedar forest did not seem as long nor as arduous as it had appeared on the map. Still, it was no walk in the park. It was still snowing lightly and the path was not well-travelled, so my feet crunched in the thick snow every step of the way. By the time I reached the forest itself, I had grown warm from exertion and my breath was very visible as I panted along the hiking path.

The cedar trees stood all around me, tall and ancient, their trunks thick and strong with age, their leaves frosted with snow. They were massive, at least four stories tall, and appeared as sentries, silently watching me as I traversed the lonely path among them.

This was the path that Otso was supposed to have travelled along two winters ago. At that time, this path would have been congested with people; travelers and townsfolk alike, all braving the cold and making the trek to the forest to witness Otso’s journey. However, now the path was abandoned and stood as silent as the trees around it.

My tired old muscles began to ache as I trudged up the lonely path. The forest shielded the path from wind, making it eerily silent – quiet enough for me to hear the occasional thump of snow falling from a distant treetop. I looked up warily as I walked, very aware of the damage a large volume of snow falling from height could do.

As I neared the end of the path, it began to get narrower and more uphill. Indeed, one would be forgiven for thinking the path had ended, if not for the small wooden shrine that was visible at the top of the hill. I climbed the hill and reached the shrine, my hamstrings screaming with every step. Then, I stood for a while, observing the shrine and trying to catch my breath.

This shrine was the end point of Otso’s quinquennial journey – which was to say that it was erected after the first sighting of the Guardian, so that people could offer prayer during the time between its visits. I was happy to see that the shrine appeared to still be maintained, not completely abandoned by the townsfolk despite Otso’s recent disappearance.

I fished out the loose change that I was going to use as bus fare and tossed it into the offering box at the front of the shrine. I bowed deeply twice, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath before straightening again. I clapped my gloved hands together twice and prayed silently. Then I bowed once more.

Having finished my prayer, I stood still for a while, letting the cold air cool my aching muscles. With my eyes closed, I utilized a technique that I had spent my whole career honing – a technique that allowed me to clear my mind and gain a deeper connection to the spirit world. It was as if I were slowly opening a third eye, one that could see things that were just beyond normal perception.

I opened my eyes – all of three of them – and looked around at my newly transformed surroundings.

The area around the shrine was saturated with spiritual energy. The surface of the snow was pulsing with a warm orange glow. It was everywhere, enveloping the shrine in its light and extending past where I was standing. The light offered no warmth; it was formless, existing separately from the realm that we inhabited.

I looked up towards the canopy of the surrounding trees and saw the source of the energy. Despite myself, my mouth fell agape. It was like nothing I had seen before in all my years of studying the mysterious creatures we called Guardians.

A giant chrysalis hung from the branches of one of the giant cedar trees. The chrysalis was glowing with the same orange light that covered the snow around it. Yet, through the transparent surface of the chrysalis, there emanated a dim green glow. I recognized this glow to be the eight-legged bear, Otso, slumbering inside the cocoon of light and spiritual energy.

My mind reeled at the implications of what I was seeing. Records of Otso’s pilgrimage through this forest dated back to over 400 years. For all those years, it had always walked the same route, on the fifth day of every fifth winter, without fail. Why now has it taken this form? When would it emerge from its cocoon? What would it emerge as?

And why had its connection to our world faded to the point where it had become almost imperceptible?

Inexplicably, I was reminded of the town I had passed on the way here. How the light had seemingly faded from it, leaving behind only the smallest embers of activity. Yet in those embers, if one looked hard enough, one could find something amazing. A great bowl of noodles and an old man with his stories.

I sat in the snow and began to sketch as best I could, my fingers burning from the cold.