Now we are going to visit the Dragon cavern, not so called, Akira says,
because the Dragon of Benten ever dwelt therein, but because the shape
of the cavern is the shape of a dragon. The path descends toward the
opposite side of the island, and suddenly breaks into a flight of
steps cut out of the pale hard rock--exceedingly steep, and worn, and
slippery, and perilous--overlooking the sea. A vision of low pale rocks,
and surf bursting among them, and a toro or votive stone lamp in the
centre of them--all seen as in a bird's-eye view, over the verge of an
awful precipice. I see also deep, round holes in one of the rocks. There
used to be a tea-house below; and the wooden pillars supporting it were
fitted into those holes. I descend with caution; the Japanese seldom
slip in their straw sandals, but I can only proceed with the aid of the
guide. At almost every step I slip. Surely these steps could never have
been thus worn away by the straw sandals of pilgrims who came to see
only stones and serpents!
At last we reach a plank gallery carried along the face of the cliff
above the rocks and pools, and following it round a projection of the
cliff enter the sacred cave. The light dims as we advance; and the
sea-waves, running after us into the gloom, make a stupefying roar,
multiplied by the extraordinary echo. Looking back, I see the mouth of
the cavern like a prodigious sharply angled rent in blackness, showing a
fragment of azure sky.
We reach a shrine with no deity in it, pay a fee; and lamps being
lighted and given to each of us, we proceed to explore a series of
underground passages. So black they are that even with the light of
three lamps, I can at first see nothing. In a while, however, I can
distinguish stone figures in relief--chiselled on slabs like those I saw
in the Buddhist graveyard. These are placed at regular intervals along
the rock walls. The guide approaches his light to the face of each
one, and utters a name, 'Daikoku-Sama,' 'Fudo-Sama,' 'Kwannon-Sama.'
Sometimes in lieu of a statue there is an empty shrine only, with a
money-box before it; and these void shrines have names of Shinto gods,
'Daijingu,' 'Hachiman,' 'Inari-Sama.' All the statues are black, or seem
black in the yellow lamplight, and sparkle as if frosted. I feel as if I
were in some mortuary pit, some subterranean burial-place of dead gods.
Interminable the corridor appears; yet there is at last an end--an end
with a shrine in it--where the rocky ceiling descends so low that to
reach the shrine one must go down on hands and knees. And there is
nothing in the shrine. This is the Tail of the Dragon.
We do not return to the light at once, but enter into other lateral
black corridors--the Wings of the Dragon. More sable effigies of
dispossessed gods; more empty shrines; more stone faces covered with
saltpetre; and more money-boxes, possible only to reach by stooping,
where more offerings should be made. And there is no Benten, either of
wood or stone.
I am glad to return to the light. Here our guide strips naked, and
suddenly leaps head foremost into a black deep swirling current between
rocks. Five minutes later he reappears, and clambering out lays at
my feet a living, squirming sea-snail and an enormous shrimp. Then he
resumes his robe, and we re-ascend the mountain.