by Susan Spann
GhoSt of THe BaMboo RoAD
Also by Susan Spann
Claws of the Cat
Blade of the Samurai
Flask of the Drunken Master
The Ninja’s Daughter
Betrayal at Iga
Trial on Mount Koya
GhoSt of THe BaMboo RoAD
A HIRO HATTORI NOVEL
SUSAN SPANN
Published 2019 by Seventh Street Books®
Ghost of the Bamboo Road. Copyright © 2019 by Susan Spann. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht
Cover design © Start Science Fiction
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978-1-63388-550-9 (paperback) | 978-1-63388-551-6 (Ebook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file.
Printed in the United States of America
For Kerry
Who inspired—and challenged—
Hiro to investigate a ghost.
Chapter 1
“This doesn’t look like a travel road.” Father Mateo squinted at the narrow, uneven trail running up the rocky slope ahead. Patches of icy snow still clung to the base of the towering cedars along the left side of the path. On the right, a stand of broad-leafed bamboo grass grew high enough to block the view. Piles of old debris along the road, and leaning trees, suggested a landslide many months before.
The priest’s irascible housekeeper, Ana, made a disapproving noise. “Hiro-san has missed a turn.”
“We are not lost.” Master ninja Hattori Hiro anticipated the housekeeper’s next comment. “They told us that the village sits at the top of the second hill, on the old travel road.” He gestured to the rocky path. “This road. Which has neither branched nor split since we left Hakone.”
He shut his mouth abruptly as he realized the extent of his frustration. Trading the enticing hot spring baths of Hakone for a night in a freezing mountain inn had clearly annoyed him more than he expected.
Father Mateo looked back down the hill. “Perhaps we should have spent the night in Hakone. . .” He sneezed and wiped his nose with a scrap of cloth.
“An overnight stay in the village gives us a reasonable excuse to stop and find the woman stationed there.” Hiro kept his words deliberately vague, but knew the priest would understand the reference to their clandestine mission.
“The woman?” Father Mateo dropped his voice to a whisper. “We’re looking for a female ninja?”
“A kunoichi,” Hiro corrected. “Surely you did not think all the names on the list were male.” Especially after what you saw in Iga.
A frigid wind blew down the hill, rustling through the swath of sasa on the right side of the road. The bamboo grasses bowed and waved like a crowd of peasants greeting a samurai lord.
Hiro crested the slope and caught sight of a two-story building a hundred yards ahead, on the east side of the path. “You see?” He gestured toward it. “The ryokan.”
The traditional inn had a steep thatched roof, to prevent the buildup of winter snow, and long, broad eaves that extended past the edge of its raised veranda. A signpost and a small stone lantern stood beside the two low wooden steps that led to the porch and entry.
“And that”—Hiro gestured to a single-story building across the road from the ryokan—“will be the teahouse, where we’ll likely find the woman we came to see.”
“Will you recognize her when you see her?” Father Mateo spoke softly, despite the deserted road.
“I should. My mother trained her, and Emiri was also a friend of. . .Neko’s.” Mention of his dead lover’s name brought a pang of loss that clenched Hiro’s chest like an iron fist. But this time, the initial sharpness faded quickly, giving him hope that eventually he could learn to remember her without pain.
For the moment, diversion would have to do.
The rest of the village had now come into view. Just past the teahouse and the inn, six peasant houses lined the road, three on either side of the earthen path. Beyond the houses, a narrow, stubbly rice field separated the humble dwellings from a large, two-story house that stood alone on the east side of the road, as if unwilling to admit that it belonged to the rural village. The quality of the carpentry and architectural style suggested a samurai mansion, though significantly more provincial than the ones in Kyoto.
Just past the mansion, the travel road reentered the forest and resumed its upward slope toward the mountain’s summit. Massive cedars rose around the village, looming over the houses as if plotting to reclaim the narrow strip of land carved out of the forest by short-lived creatures foolish enough to believe it was their own.
Hiro’s gaze drew back along the peasant homes. Icicles hung from the edges of the thatch and along the eaves. Smoke rose from two of the houses, but the rest looked strangely vacant.
“The village seems too small to support an inn and teahouse,” Father Mateo said.
“They exist to serve the travelers. The villagers most likely work as porters on—” The final words died on Hiro’s lips as he noticed a hooded figure standing at the north end of the village, where the road reentered the forest. The stranger wore pale trousers and a tunic, belted at the waist, and carried a six-foot bamboo staff. An enormous conch shell hung from a dark red cord around his neck. He stood as still as the pines that lined the path.
At the moment Hiro saw him, the stranger stepped backward and vanished into the trees.
“What is it?” Father Mateo asked.
“A yamabushi.” Hiro did not nod or gesture. “In the forest at the far end of the road.”
The Jesuit craned his neck in that direction. “I don’t see him.”
“He returned to the forest.”
Father Mateo looked up the road as if hoping the yamabushi would reappear. “I would like to meet a mountain ascetic. Do they truly eat only foraged bark and tree roots?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Hiro climbed the steps that led to the ryokan’s front door. “They keep to themselves—a prerequisite for hermits.”
“Hm,” Ana muttered. “Abandoned village. . .hermits don’t seem out of place.”
Her words made Hiro pause for a second look. He noted again that most of the village homes looked dark and cold. No children called or played in the street. No women talked between the houses.
“It does seem strangely quiet.” Father Mateo tugged his traveling cloak more tightly around his shoulders. “Maybe we should return to Hakone after all.”
“Nonsense. The ryokan is open.” Hiro gestured to the glowing lantern beside the steps and rapped on the inn’s front door. It gave a hollow echo, like the entrance to a long-deserted tomb.
A shiver ran up Hiro’s spine. For a moment, he reconsidered returning to Hakone.
The heavy wooden door swung open, revealing an older woman dressed in pale mourning robes. Her silver hair hung down he
r back in a single braid. The stern, unyielding lines of her face suggested a person who rarely smiled.
A younger woman stood behind her, wearing a plain but once expensive kimono of pale gray silk and a striped blue obi.
The gray-haired woman bowed. “Good evening, gentlemen.” She turned away. “My daughter-in-law, Kane, will see to your needs, now that she deigns to answer the door.”
The younger woman stepped forward, but said nothing until her mother-in-law’s retreating footsteps faded into silence. As she waited, she regarded Hiro and Father Mateo with a wary suspicion that pinched her mouth into unpleasant lines. At last she asked, “May I help you?”
Noting the swords at Hiro’s waist, she added a perfunctory, “sir.”
“Have you rooms available?” Hiro asked.
“You want to stay. . .tonight?” Her startled tone implied that they should not.
Chapter 2
The woman dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. Do not stay with us tonight.”
“Kane, did I hear the door?” A man appeared behind her. He looked about her age, with a narrow face and close-cropped hair. He also wore a pale robe, though his had the wrinkled look of clothing pulled from storage unexpectedly.
His eyes widened at the sight of Hiro and Father Mateo. “Good evening, noble sirs.” He bowed, and Kane moved aside, allowing him to replace her at the door.
“Welcome to our ryokan,” he said. “I am Noboru, and I see you have met my wife, Kane. May we offer you rooms for the night?”
The Jesuit returned the bow. “Thank you, Noboru-san. I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, and this is my scribe, Matsui Hiro.”
Hiro noted with approval that the priest remembered the change to their cover story. Father Mateo’s Japanese was far too proficient to claim the need for a translator any longer. Fortunately, most Japanese people believed the complexities of Japanese script beyond the learning capacity of foreigners.
“My scribe and I can share a room,” the Jesuit continued, “but if you have a second room available, I would prefer that my housekeeper have a separate accommodation.”
“Noboru. . .” the woman whispered.
“Kane-san, prepare the largest guest room at the front of the house for our honored guests, and the small one near the kitchen for their housekeeper”—he shifted his gaze to Father Mateo—“assuming that arrangement is acceptable?”
Ana’s basket mewed.
Father Mateo’s cheeks flushed pink. “We have a cat. May it stay in the room?”
“We could use the luck a cat would bring,” Kane said. “Especially tonight.”
“This ryokan is not unlucky,” Noboru snapped.
In the silence that followed, the innkeeper forced a smile. “Of course, your cat can stay.” He turned to his wife. “Show the noble gentleman’s servant to her room, and then prepare the guest room for our visitors. Do not, under any circumstances, interrupt Ishiko-san. She needs to finish her preparations soon.”
Hiro recalled the older woman in mourning robes, and suspected Kane had already violated her husband’s order.
“In the meantime, I will take our honored guests to eat at the teahouse.” Noboru gestured across the road.
Kane gave her husband an unreadable look, gestured to Ana, and walked away.
The Jesuit’s housekeeper muttered under her breath as she crossed the threshold carrying Gato’s basket.
“We do not wish to cause you trouble,” Father Mateo said.
“No trouble at all!” Noboru stepped into a pair of shoes that sat beside the door. “Please leave your burdens here. My wife will take them to your room.”
As he followed the innkeeper across the road, Hiro wondered what Ana would do about an evening meal for herself and Gato. He dismissed the concern almost at once. The Jesuit’s housekeeper had proven herself exceedingly resourceful. Neither she nor the cat would want for food.
Yet again, Hiro noticed the unusual lack of smoke and light in the village houses, even though the sun had fallen below the trees and twilight had begun to leach the colors from the day. Bamboo shutters covered the windows of every dwelling, as if the houses closed their eyes to the road. Even the house at the far end of the street sat tightly shuttered, the large stone lanterns at its steps unlit.
Hiro felt a chill that had nothing to do with winter, accompanied by a sudden, instinctive desire to flee. He saw no obvious threats, yet his instincts screamed that he and the priest should leave at once.
Go, urged the familiar voice in his thoughts. Go now, while you still can.
A sprinkling of stars had appeared in the darkening sky. Faint wisps of cloud streaked the heavens like ghosts escaping the mortal realm.
Hiro never dismissed his instincts—not entirely, anyway—but saw no cause for immediate alarm. He would stay alert, warn Emiri that Oda Nobunaga’s spies might have discovered her identity, ensure that she agreed to return to Iga as Hattori Hanzo wished, and continue the journey to Edo in the morning.
The teahouse itself looked solidly built, although its weathered planks showed signs of wear. Its heavy, black tile roof set it apart from the humbler village buildings. An elaborate stone lantern burned beside the wooden steps that led to the entrance, and the sign beside the door read “Bamboo Road Teahouse.”
A pair of wooden plaques below the sign read “Hanako” and “Masako.” Beneath them hung a set of empty hooks. Neither name matched the one on Hiro’s memorized list of Iga agents, but kunoichi, like their male shinobi counterparts, customarily used invented names.
Father Mateo gestured to the empty set of hooks. “Is the third entertainer out tonight?”
“This house has two entertainers,” Noboru said, and then repeated, “Only two.”
Hiro noted the tension in the innkeeper’s voice and wondered why the number of girls in the house would cause anxiety.
The door swung open so quickly that Hiro suspected the woman behind it had been watching as they crossed the street. She looked about twenty, with delicate features and long-fingered hands. . .and she was not Emiri.
The woman made a deep and graceful bow. “Good evening, gentlemen, and welcome.” As she straightened, her eyes lingered on Noboru. “With respect, I did not expect you tonight.”
“Good evening Hanako-san.” The innkeeper gestured to Hiro and Father Mateo. “I have unexpected, but welcome, guests. Ishiko-san cannot prepare the evening meal, so I hoped. . .”
Hanako stepped back from the door with a welcoming gesture. “Please come in.”
A narrow wooden bench sat to the left of the door, beside a small raised shelf that held two pairs of women’s winter shoes. On the opposite wall, a monochromatic hanging scroll portrayed a scene of bamboo in the snow.
As Hiro set his shoes on the shelf, he found himself still strangely unsettled, for no identifiable reason. He looked around more closely. The scroll showed notably less finesse than most high-class teahouse art, but inferior paintings were hardly a cause for panic. He inhaled slowly. His sensitive nose detected only wood smoke, pine, and tea.
He saw no reason to refuse Hanako’s hospitality, but decided not to remove his swords before following the others through the entry and into the teahouse proper.
If trouble did materialize, he intended to meet it fully armed.
Chapter 3
On the far side of the entry, a single step led up to a tatami-floored reception room with a sunken hearth at the center. A brazier in the corner filled the room with cheerful light. Sliding shoji in the walls on either side of the reception area led to adjacent private rooms where guests could dine at leisure. Vibrant paintings on the doors showed bamboo groves in every season of the year.
Too vibrant. Hiro inspected the art with a critical eye. The work of an overenthusiastic amateur.
An unadorned shoji on the far side of the room most likely led to the kitchen and other private portions of the house.
A fire burned brightly in the hearth. Above the flames, a steaming kettle
hung suspended on a chain attached to a rafter hook. A teapot and a pair of cups sat on a tray beside the hearth.
“Were you expecting company?” Noboru looked embarrassed. “I did not intend—”
“This?” Hanako gestured to the brazier and the fire. “I merely wished to brighten a gloomy day, and invite good fortune, by filling the house with light. And you have come, so my efforts were successful.”
She crossed to the left side of the room and paused before a shoji showing a bamboo grove in winter. Gaudy green, snow-laden stalks bent toward the bank of a frozen lake. In the background, painted far too brightly to create perspective depth, a flat-topped, snow-capped mountain rose dramatically into the sky.
Father Mateo gestured to the painted peak. “Mount Fuji?”
“You know Fuji-san?” Hanako clapped her hands in delight. “The painting is the work of my teacher, Yuko-sama, who founded the teahouse. She trained in Kyoto.”
“Will we have the honor of meeting Yuko-san this evening?” the Jesuit asked.
“No. . .” Hanako lapsed into awkward silence, but her smile returned a moment later. “We should speak of happy things.”
She knelt before the shoji, laid her hands on the screen, and drew it open. “My finest room: the Winter Grove.”
A low wooden table sat at the center of the room, with a pair of square green cushions on either side. A brazier burned in one of the corners opposite the door. Yet another monochromatic scroll hung in a recessed alcove near the brazier, this one containing a poem written in flowing calligraphy that, intriguingly, showed true skill.
Most teahouses left the walls of their guest rooms unadorned to avoid distracting visitors from the subtle flavors of the food and tea, as well as the artistic merit of objects showcased in the tokonoma. Parting with tradition, someone—presumably Yuko—had transformed the walls into a grove of painted bamboo stalks. They reached from floor to ceiling, grouped in clusters of varying sizes, each adorned with a cap of painted snow. While rendered more skillfully than the bamboo on the outer doors, the paintings overwhelmed the room, destroying its balance and ruining the intended sense of peace.