The Girl from the Well

But Osorezan itself does not look like a place associated with holiness. A landscape of black coal rocks and charred soil is what first meets their eyes. The air smells strongly of sulfur and pitch, and the mountain itself is not a mountain at all, but a series of strange peaks that jut out from the barren wasteland. Where other places may have piping hot onsen—hot springs—these only contain bubbling pits of more sulfur. The wind howls through much of the region, like spiteful demons calling out to one another, attracted by the fresh smells of humans that enter their lair.

“It is not so bad!” the miko says, amused at seeing the looks on the others’ faces. “Osorezan literally means the ‘mountain of dread,’ for it is a place where ghosts are said to stop on their way to the underworld. The Japanese people have a very high regard for their ancestors and for kami—they believe that everything has a spirit, and that these must also be properly honored by the living. How we view hell is much different from how you Americans view it.”

“Is there any way we can visit Japanese hell without a sense of smell?” Tarquin asks, holding his nose.

Only one man-made building of note is found here—what humans call the Bodai Temple, surrounded by several sulfuric hot springs that smell even more strongly of rotten eggs. “The river beyond it is called the Sanzu”—the miko points—“our version of your Styx river. All visitors must cross the red bridge over it to gain access to the temple. It’s runoff from a lake called the Usoriyama. Do not bathe in it, though. The waters may look inviting but are actually quite poisonous, and no living thing thrives there.”

Small Jizo statues adorn most of the paths. People leave tiny bibs, pinwheels, and other simple toys along these stone figures.

“This place is called the Sai no Kawara,” the miko says next, “the Buddhist purgatory. These statues are to honor those children who die before their parents, and you will find many offerings like these here.”

Piles of small pebbles are also found along the paths beside the statues. The miko explains these are made by spirits of dead children who, unable to repay their parents in life, are now doomed to constantly build these small mounds of stones until prayers are made to comfort their spirits.

Despite the pervading smell, Bodai Temple itself is an unassuming shrine, its importance rendered irrelevant by the strange world outside its doors. A few of the locals are lighting four candles inside a small shrine that contains the teeth of the dead (Callie draws back in alarm upon being told this, while Tarquin leans forward eagerly), and the incense that wafts through the air is a tangy contrast to the other smells of dank and death.

Beside the temple is a small red pool that the miko says is called the Pond of Blood, guarded by more imposing statues and dead flowers. A small woman, wizened and hunched, totters about the grounds, murmuring, “I understand it now, I understand it now,” to herself like a small mantra. She smiles vaguely at the visitors, at the Halloways, and at Callie. She smiles at the miko, and then at me, and then at the large eyeless stone figures draped in scarlet and yellow aprons, guarding the bloody pool. “Yes, yes. That must be it. I understand it now,” she says. “I understand it now.”

We spend a few more minutes wandering about the temple. Besides the Halloways, there are three more tourists who quickly leave, perhaps repulsed by the sulfur and the disquiet of the place. Intrigued by the small statues and unaware of their significance, Tarquin’s father stops to start up a conversation with one of the priests, and the miko joins him.

But Callie sees me standing around the side of the temple, watching her and waiting.