Beware of Tengu

souvenirs from Miyajima

I don’t remember crossing Japan’s Inland Sea to Miyajima. I don’t remember boarding the ferry or stepping off it less than an hour later. All I can conjure is that first glimpse at the island’s waterfront, dreamlike and captivating. A lone torii gate rises from the shallows offshore, orange as a clownfish. At low tide, the sea ebbs so far I can walk beneath it, and I run my palms over the barnacles that cling to its rotted wooden base. Gentle deer lounge in the shade of maple trees and sniff the wares in the shop windows. There is a pull at my dress—a fawn nibbling the hem. 

But when I close my eyes and think of Miyajima, I am not on the waterfront. I am in a mountain forest, climbing hundreds of steps to the top of Mount Misen. The trail runs through a temple, where a dragonfly with fishnet wings rests on a flower made of gold. Stone shrines flank the path, squat, smiling, smelling of damp earth. Mist covers my skin, a mix of sweat and dewdrops formed by the humid air.

It is silent when I reach the summit. Except for the rattling.

The rattling is like no forest din I have ever heard. Not the call of insects, nor the crinkling of leaves that flicker in the wind. It’s a rapid clip clap clip clap clip clap, like the hooves of a supernaturally fast horse. This, I’m told, is the noise a tengu makes. 

According to local lore, a tengu is a humanoid with a long nose who shadows you through the forest, jangling a wood clapper. It is ever-present, yet unseen. Is a tengu a sprite? A demon? And are its intentions good or evil? No one really knows, and here, alone on Mount Misen, that scares the living daylights out of me. I consider myself a cynic—I don’t believe in cryptids or goblins or whatever the hell—but the sound keeps rising, and my heart rate with it.

I tell myself there must be a rational explanation. Maybe it’s a wind chime, or a rare bird call? But there is not another living soul to ask, only shrines (which other than their smiles, reveal nothing) and a few food stands, shuttered for a midday break. The rattling is everywhere, chilling my blood. It is incessant, like a message tapped out in Morse code from the world beyond, and it says: the mountain belongs to the tengu. You have no power here. 

So I go. I bound down the stone steps two at a time, letting momentum carry me back to the water, where the rattling dissipates into the lapping of the tides.

In case you missed it:

Last week, I spoke with

Gillian Longworth McGuire

about her dreamy life in Italy and how wanderlust seems to dwindle with age—read the interview here. The week before that, I released a batch of three Caravaner’s Companion travel guides. My guides to Norway and Cyprus are for paid subscribers, but my post on Greece is free.

Up next:

I’m taking next week off for the 4th of July. Happy Independence Day to my fellow Americans, and I’ll see you all back here on the 11th!