by Susan Spann
An enormous samurai waddled into the common room. He stood almost a full head taller than Hiro, taller even than Father Mateo. His stomach protruded above his obi as if he carried a melon in his robes, and swayed from side to side as he walked. His meaty jowls wobbled in perfect time with the lopsided, greasy topknot on his head.
He scowled at the sight of Hiro and Father Mateo. “Who are you?”
Hiro bent in a graceful bow, and held it longer than he would have liked. As he straightened, he infused his voice with the humility of a ronin. “Greetings, noble sir. I am Matsui Hiro, now in the service of Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest of the foreign god, from Portugal.”
He deliberately omitted any mention of his family or province of origin, enhancing the impression that he had no master, and no power, and thus represented no threat.
The portly samurai’s piggish gaze slid back to Noboru. “Is it true? Has the yūrei returned?”
Noboru bowed again. “Regrettably, it appears—”
Otomuro pointed a puffy finger at the innkeeper. “This is your fault! Your family brought a curse upon this village!”
Chapter 9
Otomuro’s outstretched finger shook. “I should have sent you away and closed this ryokan when the yūrei killed your father, but I foolishly allowed you to persuade me it was over. Now, we all must suffer the consequence of your lie!”
Noboru bowed his head. “I humbly apologize, Otomuro-sama. I assure you, it was not a lie. We all believed—”
“You lied! And now you will pay to pacify the ghost.” The samurai lowered his shaking arm. “We must send for the priest at once.”
“I will do so immediately, Otomuro-sama.” Noboru said. Otomuro’s gaze returned to Father Mateo. “What is your business in my village?”
“My scribe and I are merely passing through on the way to Edo.” Father Mateo bowed.
The samurai considered this. “Your presence may have angered the yūrei.”
“With respect,” the Jesuit said, “I do not believe—”
“Be silent!” Otomuro thundered. “You are the reason she returned, or part of it anyway. You will remain in the village until the priest performs the cleansing ceremony, and you will pay a fine, to me, for angering the ghost. One golden koban should suffice.”
“One gold koban? To you?” Hiro asked.
Kane slipped back into the room, as if drawn by the samurai’s shouting.
Otomuro pointed at Noboru once more. “Do not allow this man to charge you anything for staying at this cursed ryokan. As of today, the inn is officially closed.”
“Closed?” Noboru asked. “For how long? Without the ryokan—”
“You will leave this village, and the yūrei will go with you!” Otomuro raised his chin triumphantly.
“Yūrei are bound to places, not to families,” Kane said. Noboru shot his wife a pleading look, but she ignored him. “Even if we leave, the killing will not stop until everyone responsible for her suffering is dead.”
Otomuro’s mouth fell open. His cheeks flushed scarlet.
Noboru fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor. “I apologize for my ignorant, ill-trained wife.”
Father Mateo stepped between them. “With respect, have you considered that a person might have killed Ishiko-san, and not a ghost?”
Otomuro’s stomach swayed as he took a step backward. “What did you say?”
“I said, what if a person—not a ghost—murdered Ishiko-san?” The Jesuit gestured to Hiro. “My scribe and I have investigated quite a few unusual deaths, including several in Kyoto. Every time, we discovered the real killer. With your permission, we would like to investigate this one, and discover the true cause of Ishiko-san’s unfortunate demise.”
“Please, no.” Kane fell on her knees before the samurai. “Otomuro-sama, do not allow it. If they anger the yūrei with disrespectful questions, she will kill us all.”
“A moment ago you wanted them to stay,” Noboru protested.
“To stay, but not to interfere or provoke her further.” Kane gave her husband a pleading look.
“You need not fear the spirit’s wrath,” Father Mateo said. “I am a priest of the Creator God. My faith has a ritual of exorcism that no demon can withstand. If your village truly has an evil spirit, I can help expel it.”
Otomuro turned his head so quickly that his jowls wobbled like a rooster’s wattle. “Does this ritual truly work?” He looked suspicious. “I will not pay you to perform it, even if it does.”
“I have no intention of requesting payment,” Father Mateo said. “But I will help you only if you allow an investigation.”
Otomuro laid a finger on his lips as he considered the request.
A weighty silence fell.
Just as Hiro felt certain the samurai planned to refuse, Kane gave a tiny, frightened whimper.
Otomuro’s scowl returned. “I will allow the investigation, but only until the priest arrives from Hakone Shrine to perform a Shinto exorcism. After that, you must pay your fine and leave this place immediately.” He scowled at Noboru. “As for you, if you want to reopen this ryokan after the exorcism, it will cost you twice as much as it did the last time. In addition to paying the priest to perform the ritual.”
Noboru gasped. “Otomuro-sama, please, show mercy. The ceremony alone will cost every penny we have saved.”
“I have decided!” The samurai raised his wobbly chins. “If you do not pay, I will burn this building down.” He strutted back to the entry, stepped into his shoes, and left without closing the door behind him.
Noboru struggled to his feet as Kane lowered her face to her hands and sobbed.
Hiro gestured toward the open door. “Who was that?”
“Otomuro-sama?” Noboru looked at the entry as if expecting the portly samurai to return. “The second son of the eldest cousin of the Lion of Sagami.”
“Who?” Father Mateo asked.
“Hōjō Ujiyasu, the local daimyō, is often called the Lion of Sagami,” Hiro explained.
“Otomuro-sama keeps an eye on the travel road, on his behalf,” Noboru said.
“Not that it’s much of a travel road, since the typhoon.” Kane stood up, walked to the entry, and closed the door.
“The traffic will return.” Noboru’s tone suggested the argument was not new.
Kane gave him a look of doubt mixed with unhappiness and left the room without another word.
“It will return,” Noboru repeated, this time to Hiro. “When the typhoon and landslides closed the road last year, the travelers started using a detour, a temporary route, to the south. But now that the road is clear they will return. Just as you chose to come this way.”
We had a reason to visit this village, Hiro thought. Most travelers do not.
“Why does Otomuro-san blame your family for the ghost?” Father Mateo asked.
“Are there truly no yūrei in your country?” Noboru replied.
“I believe the foreigner asked his question first,” Hiro said pointedly.
Noboru looked through the open door at Ishiko’s corpse. “I will tell you, but I would prefer to have the conversation elsewhere. I do not know how much the dead can hear. Would you accompany me to the teahouse?”
He gestured toward the entry.
“Where are you going?” Kane’s demanding question made Noboru turn. She had returned to the end of the passage, with Ana on her heels.
“And what do you plan to do about their meals?” Kane continued, “Since I have to take care of everything alone, now that your mother. . .” She gestured to the room where Ishiko lay.
“My housekeeper would be happy to assist you for the next few days,” Father Mateo offered. “To ease your burden.”
Ana’s face looked anything but happy.
Kane looked down her nose at Ana. “Can you cook?”
The housekeeper stared at the younger woman.
Noboru spoke first, and decisively. “Kane will care for Ishiko-san,
and clean the room where my mother’s body lies. However, if you do not mind your housekeeper helping with the meals, and cleaning your guest room, we would be grateful for her assistance.”
“Of course,” the Jesuit replied.
Ana bowed in assent, but with unusual stiffness.
“You do not need to prepare a meal this morning, except for yourselves,” Noboru told his wife. “Our guests and I will eat at Hanako’s teahouse.”
“But I’ve already started rice and tea,” Kane objected, “and we can’t afford—”
“I am now master of this ryokan,” Noboru said. “I will decide what I can, or cannot, afford.”
Chapter 10
Outside, the ground-level mist had thinned, but the thick, pale clouds that filled the sky seemed almost close enough to touch. The air smelled dry and cold, redolent with the spice of smoke and pine.
But for that scent of smoke, Hiro might have believed the village long-deserted. No one moved in the street or around the houses. Even the scattered stubble in the rice field next to Otomuro’s mansion looked abandoned and forlorn.
The teahouse door swung open as they approached.
As Hanako bowed from the entry, Hiro wondered if the woman spent all her time staring into the street or if her eerie punctuality was merely coincidental.
She straightened and clasped her hands to her chest. “Noboru-san, I am so sorry. . .
Noboru returned the bow. “I know you do not customarily open the teahouse until afternoon, but I hoped. . .”
Hanako looked past him, at Hiro and Father Mateo. “Your guests require a morning meal before they leave?”
“Indeed.” Noboru sounded relieved. “That is, they need a meal. . .”
“Surely they do not intend to stay?” Hanako looked at Father Mateo. “Did you not hear what happened?”
“We have offered to investigate the crime,” the Jesuit replied. “To prove an angry spirit did not kill Ishiko-san.”
Hanako covered her mouth with her hand. “Do you not understand the danger? Even to speak of her—of it—is dangerous.” She turned back to Noboru. “You cannot let them stay.”
“They wish to help.” Noboru gestured to Father Mateo. “Also, his faith has rituals to exorcise—”
“The rituals of a foreign god might make it even angrier.”
“I will also send for the priest from Hakone Shrine.” Noboru’s voice grew soft. He raised his hands in supplication. “Besides, Kane believes their presence may have angered the spirit. If so, it is important for them to remain until after the ceremony.”
“I suppose they are your lives to risk.” Hanako bowed and gestured for the men to come inside.
After they removed their shoes, she led them through the entry to the room where they had eaten the night before. As they seated themselves around the table, Hanako said, “Forgive me, but your meal will take some time to prepare. I have no help today. I sent Masako-san to bed—she was hysterical from shock.”
“Please take your time,” Noboru said, “we understand.”
“And we apologize for the inconvenience,” Father Mateo added. Hanako bowed and slid the shoji closed.
Noboru folded his hands in his lap.
Hiro rested his own hands on his thighs and waited silently, hoping Father Mateo would do the same. Eventually, the silence would grow too heavy for the innkeeper to bear.
Unfortunately, the Jesuit spoke first. “Please tell us more about the village ghost.”
“You truly have no yūrei in your country?” Noboru asked.
Hiro began to remind the man that they had covered this ground already, but before he could do so Father Mateo said, “We do not, but I would like to learn more about them.”
“No man should wish to learn this thing,” Noboru said, “and I am not qualified to teach.”
“A man of samurai rank has asked you a question,” Hiro interrupted. “You will tell him what he wants to know.”
Noboru dipped his head in silent apology and began.
“My grandmother used to say that the human soul is barbed, like a thorny plant.” He raised his hand, his fingers bent like claws. “During life, these barbs secure the soul to the body. But when a person dies, they can also catch on the fabric of this world. If that happens, the soul is trapped like a fish in a net. It cannot pass to paradise, or judgment, or rebirth, until the barbs are smoothed by resolution of whatever issue trapped it here. In the case of a yūrei, the issue is. . .revenge.”
“So the village ghost once lived here?” Father Mateo asked. “Who do you believe the spirit was, in life?”
“She was my sister,” Noboru whispered.
Hiro spoke to avoid the apology he saw forming on Father Mateo’s lips. “How did your sister die?”
“It is dangerous to speak of,” Noboru said.
“Surely not in daylight,” Hiro countered. “In every legend I have heard, the yūrei only manifests at night.”
“We cannot risk it.” Noboru clasped his hands more tightly. “If we see her, we will die, as Mother did.”
“A yūrei did not kill your mother,” Hiro said. “Her injuries were made by human hands.”
“A yūrei’s ghostly hands can strangle just as surely as a living man’s,” Noboru countered.
Hiro found the comparison interesting, but before he could ask another question Hanako returned to the room.
The teahouse owner carried a lacquered tray that held a teapot, cups, and several covered bowls.
“I have prepared you soup, rice, and tsukemono, along with tea.” She set two covered bowls and a dish of pickled vegetables in front of each man. “I apologize for the simple fare, but I had nothing else prepared.”
“This will more than suffice,” Noboru said.
“I am pleased to help in your time of need.” Hanako bowed her head. As she raised it and began to pour the tea she asked, “Shall I bring a shamisen and play?”
“Thank you for the offer,” Noboru said, “but today we prefer to eat alone.”
The smile froze on Hanako’s face.
“If we require anything more, we will call you.” When the woman did not leave, Noboru added, “We need nothing more, Hanako-san.”
Her lips turned down, but she quickly forced a smile. “As you wish.”
She bowed more formally and left the room.
Chapter 11
After the door slid shut behind Hanako, Father Mateo bent his head in silent prayer. Hiro raised his teacup, closed his eyes, and inhaled the fragrant steam. The roasted leaves imbued the scent with unusual depth. He took a sip. The natural sweetness and rich, mellow flavor of roasted tea lingered pleasantly on his tongue.
When the Jesuit raised his head Noboru gestured to the food. “Please eat.”
The larger bowls held mounds of polished rice. The smaller ones held salty miso broth with tofu cubes and slivers of fresh-cut onion floating on the steaming surface. Mingled scents of rice and onions blended with the smell of tea.
Hiro found the soup a bit too salty, but approved of the choice to add the delicate slivered onions raw, allowing the heat of the soup to cook them gently while preserving both their pungency and crunch. He alternated sips of soup with bites of rice to cut the salinity.
“Masako-san claimed the spirit had returned,” Father Mateo said. “Has it killed before?”
“Four times. Five, if you count my mother.” Noboru watched his soup as if expecting a ghost to appear in the steam. “I fear she may not be the last.”
“Why would your sister return as a yūrei?” Hiro asked. “And why do you believe she will kill again?”
“It is dangerous—”
“So is refusing a samurai,” Hiro warned.
Noboru did not answer.
Just as Hiro felt certain the innkeeper would call his bluff, Noboru set his soup bowl on the table. “To understand, you must know the history of our ryokan.”
In Hiro’s experience, most people grossly overestimated the importance of per
sonal histories and anecdotes. However, he also understood that listening to unnecessary stories was far easier than changing someone’s mind, and that even largely irrelevant stories often held a grain of useful truth.
“My mother’s grandfather, Nobu, worked as a porter on the travel road. Each morning he walked to Hakone in the hope of finding a burden to carry. Most nights, he did not return until many hours after dark.
“Even as a young man, Nobu-san knew he did not want his sons to labor like animals through the summer heat and winter storms.” Noboru reached for the teapot and refilled Father Mateo’s teacup, then Hiro’s, and finally his own. “He saved every coin he possibly could, and by the time his eldest son became a man, Nobu had saved enough money to build a ryokan. He continued to work as a porter until he died, but his son—my grandfather—never had to work the travel road.
“On his death bed, Nobu confessed to my grandfather that he and his wife—who had died before him—also had another child, a girl. In order to give her a better life, they apprenticed her to a teahouse in Kyoto on the day she learned to walk.”
“Yuko-san?” Father Mateo guessed.
“Yes. After Nobu-san died, my grandfather found a letter his sister Yuko-san had sent from Kyoto many years before. He sent her a letter, inviting her to return and visit the village, so they could meet. She not only returned, but stayed.”
“And built the teahouse,” the Jesuit concluded.
Hiro wished the priest would let Noboru tell the story.
“My grandfather helped her pay for it, using proceeds from the ryokan.” Noboru’s expression shifted slightly. “Originally, it was a loan, although my father forgave the debt in exchange for my sister becoming Yuko’s heir.”
“But Hanako-san inherited the teahouse. . .” Hiro trailed off, obligating Noboru to explain.
“My sister died one day before Yuko-san died,” Noboru said bitterly, “so Hanako—the most senior apprentice, after my sister—became the heir.”
“And you consider forgiving the debt unjust?” Hiro prompted.
“Even had she lived, my sister was not worth enough to cancel the debt Yuko-san owed to my grandfather, and then my parents. When both she and my great-aunt died, and then my father, the payments should have been made to me, as the surviving son. But, as I said, the debt had been forgiven—in writing—leaving me no legal claim.”