Mishima Knew Better

I stood there waiting for the door to open, my heart thumping, my eyes burning. I knew it was the only way. I had to retrieve the jade anchor.

The Temple of the Golden Pavilion had existed in Mishima’s mind as an effigy while he lived. It burned in his book the same way it was burning now, only this time it was at the top of a very steep hill rising out of a pitch-black sea. When Mishima tore his guts out with that sword, the temple fell into the pits of Hell, and here it stayed, burning and rotting and burning some more.

I couldn’t have known I would find myself here. I couldn’t have known that it’s really the fourth time that’s the charm. Four strikes and the head comes off. Four temples to reach that of the Golden Pavilion. I’m just an errand boy, after all.

It only took traipsing through four temples, and now it lay before me: The Temple of the Golden Pavilion. It stretched toward the mercury-clouded sky like some sort of insolent whelp, refusing to acknowledge its place in the underbelly of the cosmos. Down here there was no sun dancing honeyed light across the sacred walls, into the hallowed space. The temple was aglow with an infernal flame that lit her from below like a roasting pig.

What had once been a place of beauty and reverence now stood in a state of sorrowful neglect. Somehow there were greens here. Somehow the weeds sprung up everywhere. The temple was suffused with them. They pushed through cracks in the floorboards, crept up along the columns surrounding the entry, and hung from the roof like languid angels. Maybe these were actually verdant demons; the fire danced through their vines and fronds like an old friend. There were so many dainty little nothing flowers the air around the temple was cloudy with pollen. I couldn’t tell if it was that or the sulfur making my eyes burn. Either way, it was both a literal and figurative hell.

Like some sort of Boy Scout, I knocked when I got to the door. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t the awkward waiting I ended up doing. I guess I thought Mishima would open the door after one rat-a-tat-tat then pop out with his head in his hands and his guts trailing behind him, drunk on sake and eager for company. I stepped forward, putting my ear against the embellished door. The green insurgents bent underfoot throwing their soft sighs into the crackling hiss of the flames engulfing the temple. The planks of the floor groaned their disapproval at my presence. In spite of my ear pressed to the door, I heard nothing but the shushing hell around me.

“Hey! I know you’re in there. I know you probably look like shit. It’s ok. I’m just here to fetch the anchor.” I shouted through the door.

Something moved inside.

“I’ll be quick. I promise. In and out and you won’t even know I was there.”

Something thudded on the other side of the door, shaking it. I jumped more than my pride will let me admit. Then slowly, slowly the door slid open. Standing inside the temple was a pregnant woman in a fur coat, bruised head to foot. She glowered at me.

“Yeah, sorry to be a bother, I just need to fetch the anchor. The Captain needs it.” I said, knowing full well she already knew what I was after. I side-stepped through the door, careful to not brush against her as I did so. Her eyes trailed after me as I walked across the floor—sagging and soaked with fire and weeds—and laid my hand on the large jade anchor, performing a cursory check for damage. After a moment, I hitched up my pants and heaved the anchor onto my shoulder.

Slowly turning, I saw the woman still at the door, still with her eyes burning into me. If it weren’t for the pure hatred oozing out of her I would have thought her a statue.

“Well, that’s all! I’ll be out of your hair in a moment.” I did my best to be saccharine as I made my way toward the door, realizing as I approached I couldn’t fit the anchor out without opening the door wider.

“Okay, um, if you could please just…” I was trying desperately not to touch her. There are certain rules in Hell and somewhere toward the top of the list is to definitely never touch any angry-looking pregnant women wearing fur coats, and definitely definitely never touch them if they’re covered in bruises. If I weren't sweating bullets, I’d have laughed at the whole situation.

“Um, could you please, just step a bit to the side for me?” I wheezed, inches away from her. The anchor was growing slick with my sweat. I wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer. Yet still, that woman stayed her ground and stared.

“Oh! Right! I have an invoice.” I said. I was stupid to have forgotten. I finagled the anchor gently to the ground and fished the document from my pocket.

As soon as it was free of my pants the woman snatched it, reading aloud in stuttering English: “Mishima LLC, all goods fungible with souls, thank you for your order.” Her eyes darted between the receipt and the anchor. I could tell something had happened that was probably not supposed to.

“So, you see, all things are settled. The Captain sent over 63.19 souls for this anchor, so we’re square.” I said, hoping that would be the end of the matter.

It was immediately clear this was not going to be the end of the matter. The woman crumpled the invoice in her hand before throwing it at me. The ball of paper hit me square between the eyes, bounced off, and was charred to a crisp before I even reacted. Not my proudest moment. The woman advanced, looming closer and closer, seeming to grow with every step. Soon she towered over me, one large vein throbbing in the center of her forehead, her fists clenched tight. I was about to be smashed, and not in a good way. The woman raised her fist and I stood still waiting for my reckoning to befall me. I felt this was a just fate after working in that call center cold selling used insoles to the elderly, so I was ready to let this happen.

“Halllooo! Oh! I’m so glad you’re here to collect that old thing. I forgot to tell you, Yuko, that anchor was cluttering up the pavilion. I sold it online. We’ll get something new to symbolize our marriage.” A fit man in his mid-forties bound into the room from some hidden back passage. He veritably floated over the floorboards, swooping in to rescue me from Yuko’s wrath. He carried his head in his left arm, tucked under his elbow, and his guts trailed behind him, never clearing the door from which he had emerged. I knew then that Mishima had arrived and he looked exactly as I imagined he would, only happier.

Yuko started yelling at him in Japanese. She appeared to be growing even larger in her vehemence. Mishima, undaunted, threw his right arm around Yuko’s massive shoulders and led her still-seething form toward the back of the pavilion, curling his left arm up, rolling his head up with it, and tossing me an upside-down wink over his shoulder.

I took the hint and grabbed the anchor, sliding out the door and making my way down the blazing hill to the pitch-black sea.