Three Hideaki reached the plateau that led to the three peaks. After stopping to pay the park manager for a bungalow he decided to continue on. Fatigue had given way to the excitement of being here once again. Passing the remains of long extinguished campfires ringed by dilapidated picnic tables, he came to the trailhead. A trio of statues, the guardians of the three peaks, stood waiting. He bowed and asked protection for his hike. Passing under a pair of large ginkgo trees he was transported to a world that even on the brightest day was marked by shadow and mystery. He didn't remember the trail exactly, but it rose to meet his pace, his feet finding their pace instinctively, matching their stride and angle to the contour. So perfectly did he meld into the trail and the striation of the mountain's physique, that he found himself thinking of that first meeting once again. * * * Hideaki drank from the rough black cup, enjoying the irregular and natural feel of the stoneware. The old man held the cup lightly, as if he were gesturing some point in conversation. The mild smile still cast his expression. The old man gestured for the two of them to sit on the flat rock bench at the front of the cave. "How do you like the water?" Hideaki took another sip from the cup that felt so right in his hand. Water doesn't taste like much of anything, unless it's bad. But this water was different. He tasted a whole spectrum of flavor - sweet, fresh – alive? It tasted like the only thing he should ever drink. Still, underneath the range of flavors, it was just water, – cold, clear liquid. The experience was both at the same time. He looked down at the black cup in astonishment, to make certain it was really just water. "It's very good," was all he could manage. The old man continued smiling as he looked past him at the reddening sky. "The bowl of heaven reflects the fire of the kiln." Hideaki could find nothing to say. Sitting so close to the old man, he was tempted to touch him to see if he was real. The cloth of his robe was coarse but finely put together. It was a medium grey, the color of ash. Hideaki couldn't tell if it was the man, his robe, or both, but they smelled like wood and smoke, a natural cologne. "If you would like, perhaps tomorrow you can visit. As the sky goes to sleep, it will be more difficult for you to find your way home." The old man paused to sip from his cup. "I don't think those boys will bother you again today." The old man unfolded himself from the rock bench; Hideaki followed his lead. "I am glad you came to visit. Tomorrow." The old man bowed, took Hideaki's cup and retreated back into the cave. Hideaki looked out at the burgeoning nightfall. He started to object, but the old man was gone. The two stone cups were in their place, the bamboo ladle between them. There was no statue on the shelf. The waterfall continued its business of filling the bowl and flowing down the mountain. The old man was nowhere in sight. * * * Hideaki leaned on the trail marker that announced he was halfway to the central peak. As he caught his breath, he listened to the variety of birdsongs that animated the forest. In the dense cover most of the artists remained anonymous, but a rustle of high branches revealed a sheeny bluish-black magpie settling onto a perch, sending rain water onto the forest floor in a fat clump. “Craaw-ck,” the bird cried, silencing the others. The sweat on Hideaki's neck chilled. Even though he knew this creature was harmless, it prodded a memory of a dangerous predator. The ice on the surface of his memory was disintegrating into a series of chunky floes. He was glad for the support of the trail marker. Read Chapter 4 of The Potter's Notebook.
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