There one day came the news that one of the devotees had killed himself. How he did so was not disclosed to the congregation, but the reasons behind his act seemed to have gotten out from who knows where. The logic was simple but profound: if our crime was to ever have been born into God's good dominion, then it would not do for us to worsen our original sin by remaining alive anymore. Maybe things would really have gone differently had Adam eaten some other fruit instead, but things being as they are, we have no excuse to shirk our responsibilities as the sons of Man. Saint Aquinas might have conjectured that suicide was a mortal sin because it went against human nature, but if human nature was as twisted as this, if we were destined to carry forever the sins of our fathers, what could be more blessed than to die in the way of the Lord? And if life was truly a divine gift from God, what could be more pious than to keep it as pure as possible? – untainted by the decay of life itself? This was by and large the logic he followed to his death. In the weeks afterwards, he towered over all the parish as a hallowed martyr. Granted, there were many who found his sacrifice disagreeable, but there was no denying that one and all envied the extent of his devotion. One by one wanted to become like him, to live for the Lord and die for the Lord. One by one succeeded.

The old man was no different in this regard. Horrified by what he had caused, he began working at a manic pace in search of salvation, preaching day and night the blessing of Love and Joy. But no matter how many empty words of hope the old man uttered, nothing could mask over the deep notes of anguish etched onto his tongue. In fact, the harder he tried to dispel encroaching death, the more it seemed to spread in the hearts of believers. He struggled haplessly as the members of his church began to follow each other to the end. Sometimes, they went out alone either going to wander forever in the quiet of Mt. Fuji's forests or to drown while having a nice hot bath. Sometimes, they shuffled off this mortal coil in entire families or groups, often through chemical gas poisoning from the inexpensive and reliable mixing of detergents. In one instance, Kazamino authorities found a group of five, six middle-school students huddled up in a closet, with the cloyingly sweet smell of hydrogen sulfide abound. They were convinced they would make themselves beautiful with death and come to find peace in a much better place than they could ever know. Were they wrong? – well, wouldn't you like to know? There is no telling from the silence of the grave.

In this way, watching all their friends and family align themselves towards the afterlife, as if queueing up in one orderly line to meet the end, each one of the parishioners' hearts gradually dried up, leaving only a pure reveration and awe for their sweet Lord. Like moths to a flame, the church turnout only continued to rise in this time of tragedy. People in search of comfort flocked to the old man. I can only hope they found this comfort in their last moments. The death toll naturally climbed as a result, turning into what was later known as a suicide epidemic that year. To outsiders who didn't know what to make of it, it seemed as though each of them had simply lost their minds or had suffered some unbearable scar to the heart. Perhaps this really wasn't too far from the truth.

Nights became common when the old man could be seen hunched over his desk in his study, always on the verge of tears as he prepared his sermons and deliberated on the state of his religion. He was well aware that with every word he spoke, another one more person would be moved closer to the point of death. Still, he continued writing in complete trust of his Lord, hoping that if he went far enough down the road, the day would come when all their suffering would pay off, just like it had done before. But the doubt that he had indeed become an agent of the devil soon poisoned the well of his mind. Sometimes, stubbornly convinced that his hands were stained with blood, he would carry on washing them until his skin had all wrinkled from the water. The old man would turn back hesitantly every few steps, always watching something in the corner of his eyes, thinking that the spirits of his parish were following him, waiting for him. Dark clouds would cross the old man's face as he grieved for the dead, only to sometimes be replaced by a wry grin or frenzied mumbling. Even during Mass, in the middle of his frenetic speeches, a hushed silence would suddenly descend, and the old man would either stand still wooden all at once, or his speech would devolve into furious incomprehensible ranting. People said that this was the work of divine revelation at play. Or perhaps he saw his daughter from the abyss of Hell standing right before his eyes. You could see the thin of his lips tremble. In fear or in awe? – was there ever any difference to him? I don't know.

Then there came one day. Midnight was approaching. The old man was on his way from the gardens to his study, accompanied by a churchhand, when he heard an awful screeching sound. He could not tell where it was coming from – the forest or the city or the church, or maybe – ? He halted and turned to the churchhand. He gazed at the churchhand. His eyes were vacant. He said nothing. "Is there anything, sir?" He said nothing.

The churchhand took a step back. The moon was bright that night. The clouds hung low like fog.

"Sir?"

He said nothing.

"What's wrong, sir?"
"It's you, isn't it?"
"Excuse me?"
"It's you, isn't it? It's you. Putting all those thoughts into my head."
"...sir?"
"Even now I can still hear the screams. Do you know what it's like? It's you, isn't it? Burning. In Hell. My daughter is burning. You. All of You."
"Sir, I don't under –"
"No, you do understand."
"I –"
"You do. It's you, isn't it?"
"...I, I –"

Just then, interrupting them came another one again, an awful shrieking from somewhere and strained silence. The old man and the churchhand quickly took grip of themselves and headed for the source of the commotion, deep within the church grounds. Their search was quite easy, for there was no end to the noise and the echoes were few. The closer they got, the more beastlike the sounds seemed to emerge, as if in chorus with the brakking of the creatures of the night. And finally, pulling out of the shadows, they arrived. There were shouts and weeping coming out.

And suddenly, no more.

There there were two rooms, side by side. They gave each other a look, before the old man put his hand on the doorknob. He knocked loudly and, without waiting for an answer, opened the door. They entered the room.

The inside was brightly lit, with all the lights turned on. Not a single thing it seemed was hidden from sight.

By the front of the room, near the lecturing platform, the body of a young woman sprawled motionless on the ground in a puddle of dry red, with a deep cut to her neck, her skin a whiter shade of pale where there weren't discolourations of dark blue already. Above her by the centre of the stage hung down from the overhead projector a long noose. And there, by a corner, an old woman lay trembling on the ground, muttering incoherently under her breath, curled up into a ball, legs bent into unnatural angles. Beside her stood a tall man still in suit and tie. He seemed to be trying to help her up.

From where the churchhand stood, peeking his head slightly over the door, not much was clear. The two seemed to be in some kind of conversation, with the man smiling in mild frustration as he spoke softly, while all the old woman did was cry and mumble and shake her head and say, "I want to go home I want to go home home not here I waきたい帰りたい 帰れ 戻る戻る戻もかええaaaaaaaaaaa" And the man kissed her by the forehead and held her hand tight and tried to pull her up to her feet, but she wouldn't move. The man raised his voice just the slightest, enough for the churchhand to hear, "Don't you want to go home? It's ok, I'll take you back." Yet the old woman just shook her head and huddled even more into her knees, too terrified to move, such that even if the man pulled, she would drag her body against the waxed wooden floor and claw away at thin air with her one free arm like some cursed spirit being dragged off by the wardens of hell.

The tall man, seeing this, finally relented. He gave a sigh and stepped back. A few moments were silence. Then, he let out a crazed roar and he swung his foot and dug one sharp kick into the ribs. And one sharp kick followed another followed another and he screamed, "WHY WON'T YOU GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!"

日本魂・The Soul of Japan: to be continued.