Ghost of the Bamboo Road

by Susan Spann

  “Now Hanako owns the teahouse outright,” Hiro said.

  “I do not begrudge Hanako-san an honest inheritance,” Noboru clarified. “I resent my father trading part of mine away to obtain a place for my worthless sister, who did not want to work in a teahouse, or inherit one, in the first place.”

  Although he did not believe in yūrei, Hiro began to understand why the villagers thought the ghost of Noboru’s sister might hold a grudge.

  “None of this explains why you believe your sister became a ghost,” Father Mateo said. “How did she die?”

  Noboru’s gaze flickered to the hilts of Hiro’s swords. “She had an accident. She fell, and hit her head, and died. An accident, and nothing more.”

  Liar. Aloud, Hiro asked, “Did she die in this room?”

  “Yes.” Noboru’s cheeks flushed red. “That is, not in this room, but in the teahouse. She was in the kitchen, preparing tea. She slipped and fell.”

  “Was she preparing tea for herself, or for a guest?” Hiro asked.

  “I do not know.” Noboru glanced at the door as if wishing Hanako would reappear. “I wasn’t here.”

  The flush in his cheeks would have betrayed the lie even if he had managed to meet Hiro’s eyes or to control the quaver in his voice.

  “Perhaps Hanako-san knows more about it,” Hiro said.

  “I don’t think so,” Noboru said, too quickly. “And you will upset her if you ask about the dead.” After a pause he added, with false brightness, “Though of course you are free to ask her if you wish.”

  “You intend us to believe your sister became a yūrei after suffering an accidental death?” Hiro asked.

  “If so,” the Jesuit put in, “what hooked her soul to the fabric of this world?”

  Noboru opened his mouth, paused, and exhaled heavily. “Do you truly believe you can set her spirit free?”

  “We truly believe there are no yūrei,” Hiro said. “In this village or otherwise.”

  “And we believe we can prove your mother was killed by a person,” Father Mateo added, “not an angry ghost.”

  Hiro would not have made the Jesuit’s assertion quite so strongly in the presence of a man who just confessed—albeit unwittingly—to having a motive for his mother’s murder.

  “My sister held a grudge against our parents, and Yuko-san as well. She never wanted to become an entertainer.”

  “You mentioned four other victims,” Father Mateo said. “In addition to Ishiko-san.”

  “The spirit also killed Yuko-san, my father, and—”

  The shoji slid open.

  “Please excuse the interruption.” Hanako bowed, entered the room, and lifted the empty bowls from the table to the tray she carried. “May I offer you more tea?”

  “No.” Noboru stood up, clearly relieved by the interruption. “We do not wish to impose upon your kindness any longer.”

  Hiro and Father Mateo took the cue and rose to their feet as well.

  “I will show you out.” Hanako preceded them to the doorway and handed the tray of dishes to Masako, who waited just outside the shoji. The pale girl accepted the tray with a bow and departed toward the kitchen without a word.

  “Will you return for dinner?” Hanako asked as she guided them to the exit. “I have fresh eels.”

  “I do not know,” Noboru said.

  “Surely you don’t expect Kane to cook. . .” She gave Hiro and Father Mateo a meaningful look. “Noboru’s wife means well, but. . .”

  “We will eat our evening meal at the ryokan.” Noboru spoke with unexpected firmness.

  “As you wish.” Hanako’s smile did not reach her eyes.

  Chapter 12

  Hiro paused beside the steps leading up to the ryokan. “I believe I’d like to take a walk.”

  Noboru paused, his hand already on the door. “Outside?”

  “That is where walks customarily occur.”

  “But the yūrei. . .”

  “As I mentioned, in the tales I’ve heard, yūrei do not attack in daylight,” Hiro said.

  “And if, as you claim, the killer is not a ghost?” Noboru asked.

  Hiro laid a hand on the hilt ofhis katana. “I will take my chances.” Father Mateo stepped back off the porch. “A walk sounds pleasant.”

  “In this cold?” Noboru peered around the sheltering eaves at the cloudy sky. When the two men showed no signs of changing their minds, he shook his head and went inside.

  Hiro started up the road that ran through the village.

  Father Mateo matched his steps. “We’re going to the burial ground, aren’t we?”

  Hiro did not reply.

  Icicles hung from the eaves of the houses. Patches of pale, half-melted snow lay on the thatch like slices of whitefish on fermented rice. The final house before the samurai mansion appeared to be occupied only by the giant spiders whose webs connected the roof to a rotting woodpile near the door.

  Behind the houses, rows of cedars loomed. Bare of branches to a height of a dozen meters, their massive trunks shed strips of bark like lepers forced to keep their distance, lest the houses catch their dread disease.

  “Even if the men are working,” Father Mateo murmured, “where are the women and children?” He gestured to a plume of pale gray smoke rising up from the chimney hole of Otomuro’s mansion. “He would know. We should stop and ask.”

  “You want to knock on a samurai’s door and ask what happened to commoners?”

  “You don’t have to make it sound so strange.”

  “It is so strange.” Hiro gestured to the mansion. “Until we know which questions to ask, we are better off asking none.”

  “Why do you want to revisit the burial yard?” the Jesuit asked.

  “I want to take a second look at something.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Before I discuss it, I want to make sure I remember it correctly.”

  By the time they reached the burial ground, Hiro’s fingers were numb and his toes had begun to burn from cold. He regretted agreeing to investigate Ishiko’s death, and not only because of the temperatures. The dead did not care who killed them, and the survivors, at least in this village, cared only not to join the dead. Investigating the woman’s death seemed pointless, and likely thankless.

  He should have argued harder against the Jesuit’s desire to stay.

  But since he had not, he would do his best to find the killer quickly.

  Hiro paused beside the grave where they had discovered Ishiko’s body. The mended bowl and remains of the candle sat atop the monument, precisely as he remembered.

  “Now can you tell me what you saw?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro gestured to the monument, but as he did he noticed something else.

  “An empty bowl?” the Jesuit asked.

  Hiro pointed to his new discovery. “And a set of footprints heading up the mountain.”

  “I don’t understand how the two things fit together.”

  “They may not,” Hiro said. “But the offering bowl would not have been empty when Ishiko carried it here last night, and if an animal had eaten the food, the bowl would be lying on the ground.”

  “Suggesting a person emptied it.” Father Mateo looked at the tracks in the snow. “Do you think the yamabushi killed Ishiko-san and took the offering?”

  “That seems unlikely,” Hiro said, “but a person made those tracks, for certain.”

  “Should we follow them?”

  “If we don’t, they’ll vanish, but I want to take a closer look around before we go.” He looked at the sharp-edged monument. “Did you notice anything strange about Ishiko’s corpse?”

  “Aside from the evidence of strangulation?”

  “Her hair obscured her face, and her arms hung at her sides.” Hiro paused, realizing the Jesuit lacked the cultural reference to understand. “In stories, yūrei often have unbound hair and dangling limbs.”

  “The killer positioned her to resemble a ghost, perhaps to reinforce the su
ggestion that a yūrei killed her.” Father Mateo furrowed his brow. “That reminds me. How did the corpse stay standing? Muscles go limp when people die.”

  “Only for the first few hours,” Hiro corrected, “after that, they stiffen and hold their position for quite some time. Also, the temperature dropped below freezing after dark, which would have hastened the stiffening of her joints.”

  “You think the killer waited around until the body froze?”

  “That, or returned in the night to stand it up.” Seeing nothing more of use, Hiro started toward the trail of footprints.

  Father Mateo joined him, and they climbed uphill through the trees.

  Hiro remained alert for any unusual sound or movement, but noticed nothing. In fact, the forest seemed deserted. He heard only the silent squish of his feet, and Father Mateo’s, as they broke through the thin crust of snow and crushed the decomposing leaves beneath.

  The hair on the back of Hiro’s neck stood up. Once again, he felt the gaze of someone watching through the trees. He looked over his shoulder, but saw only the empty forest.

  “Stay alert,” he whispered in Portuguese. “If the yamabushi killed Ishiko, he might try to kill us too.”

  The tracks led up the hill in a switchback path that wove around clusters of bamboo grass. Several large gaps in the trail puzzled Hiro until he recognized that the person must have jumped from stone to stone across the boulders that dotted the slope like islands in a steep white sea.

  After several minutes, Hiro stopped and looked around.

  He had lost the trail.

  He saw no stones within the range of a human leap. The field of snow around the trees, though melted thin enough to show the dirt beneath and pockmarked with the tracks of foxes, deer, and squirrels, held not a single human print.

  “Is something wrong?” Father Mateo whispered.

  “The tracks appear to end.”

  “They can’t just end.” The Jesuit looked down the mountain. “Do you think whoever made them reversed his course, stepping into his own footprints to hide the trail?”

  “Only a shinobi. . .” Hiro paused. Or a kunoichi.

  “Or a ghost.”

  “Ghosts don’t leave foot—” Hiro noticed the Jesuit’s smile. “That isn’t funny.”

  “Since we’ve lost the trail,” Father Mateo said, “I suggest we return to the village and try to learn more about Noboru’s sister. I think he lied to us about her death.”

  “I agree.” Hiro pushed his frustration away. “I believe his sister was murdered.”

  Father Mateo stopped. “By the person who killed Ishiko-san?”

  “We cannot rule it out.”

  Chapter 13

  As Hiro and Father Mateo approached the ryokan, the door swung open.

  Kane stood in the entry, her face unusually pale. “Did either of you leave your room last night after Noboru-san brought you back from the teahouse?”

  Hiro stepped in front of Father Mateo and climbed the veranda steps. “I suggest you change your tone.”

  Behind him, Father Mateo said, “I assure you we had nothing to do with Ishiko-san’s death.”

  The Jesuit’s reassuring tone blew fresh air into the coals of frustration smoldering in Hiro’s chest.

  “With respect—” Kane began, though her voice held none.

  Hiro cut her off. “There is no respectful way for a commoner to accuse a samurai. Change your tone, or I will change it for you.”

  “She’s a woman,” Father Mateo whispered in Portuguese.

  Hiro rounded on the priest. “Need I remind you, women also kill.” He turned to Kane and shifted back to Japanese. “Have you something more to say?”

  She released the door and retreated a step. “I apologize for my impulsive question. I did not intend to imply. . .”

  Hiro regained control. “Precisely what did you intend?”

  “I have lost. . .” She seemed to reconsider the statement. “Never mind. I should have known better. Please forgive me.” She bowed and stepped away to clear the entry.

  Hiro and Father Mateo left their shoes inside the door and returned to the guest room.

  As Hiro slid the shoji closed behind them, Father Mateo whispered, “That was strange.”

  Everything about this place is strange.

  “What do you think she lost?” The Jesuit asked.

  “Something valuable,” Hiro said.

  “Do you think she believes we stole it?”

  “I think she fears the consequences if she does not find it.” Hiro paused. “Beyond that, we cannot make assumptions.”

  “Do you think she might have killed Ishiko-san?”

  Hiro had considered the possibility, though he had not expected Father Mateo—who trusted most people far more than they deserved—to suspect it also. “Perhaps, though I consider it unlikely.”

  “Why?” The Jesuit seemed relieved as well as curious.

  “Only a fool would risk a murder on a night when guests were present, if the ryokan is normally empty at this time of year. And though accusing us was foolish, Kane does not strike me as a fool.”

  “But last night was the anniversary,” Father Mateo pointed out, “a date that makes it easier to blame a murder on the ghost.”

  Hiro laid a hand on the door. “I think it’s time to meet the other residents of this village.”

  “Do you think they will talk to us? If they fear the ghost?”

  “You told Otomuro-san that you know a ritual to exorcise a yūrei.”

  “A demon,” the priest corrected, “but there is no demon here.” Hiro heard the warning in the Jesuit’s tone, and worded his reply with care. “I am not asking you to lie. But if, for the sake of argument, your rite was useful. . .would you not perform it?”

  “You know I would.”

  “Then I see no harm in telling the villagers that we seek information in order to find out if your rite can help them.” Before the priest could argue, Hiro added, “How would you feel if there was a demon, and you missed it because you assumed you knew the truth?”

  He felt a minor pang of conscience, knowing that Father Mateo felt a need to expunge himself of guilt over the recent events on Koya. As he opened his mouth to withdraw the comment and apologize, someone knocked on the shoji.

  Hiro opened the sliding door to see the Jesuit’s housekeeper standing on the other side. She clutched a squirming Gato in her arms.

  “Ana?” Father Mateo sneezed and drew a scrap of cloth from his sleeve to wipe his nose.

  “Hm.” The housekeeper entered the room. “I cannot cook in that sad excuse for a kitchen. Even the rats want to escape, if the hole in the wall is any indication.”

  “How do you know rats made the hole?” The Jesuit tucked the cloth in his sleeve again. “And if the kitchen does have rats, why bring the cat in here?”

  “Rats chew holes when they can’t find anything else to eat.” Ana set Gato on the floor and closed the door to prevent the cat’s escape. “I don’t want this good cat getting hurt by a giant village rat. She’s safer here with you.”

  Gato wound around her legs and purred.

  “Did you see rats in the holes?” Hiro asked.

  “The hole,” Ana corrected. “Just one, in the wall behind the miso barrel.”

  “What kind of rat eats plaster when there’s miso?” Hiro asked.

  Ana sniffed. “You haven’t smelled the miso.”

  Father Mateo looked confused. “What were you doing behind the miso barrel?”

  “Cleaning.” Ana crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t trust that lazy girl to clean her buttocks, let alone a kitchen.”

  Hiro stifled a laugh that emerged as a snort.

  “When I showed her the hole, she walked away without a word,” Ana continued. “Didn’t even care.”

  “Does the hole go all the way through the wall?” Hiro asked.

  Ana shook her head. “About halfway, but it’s large enough to hold a saké flask.”

  “
Rats don’t chew holes that big,” Hiro said.

  “You never listen. It’s a giant rat.” The housekeeper bent and patted Gato, who flopped on her side and purred. “You stay here, Gato. Father Mateo will keep you safe.”

  As she straightened, she glared at Hiro as if to suggest he was no use at all.

  She opened the door and left the room, closing the shoji silently behind her.

  Hiro looked at the cat. “She can stay here while we talk with the villagers.” As he laid a hand on the door, he added, “But I want to see that hole before we go.”

  Chapter 14

  Hiro and Father Mateo walked down the passage and paused at the top of the steps that led to the kitchen.

  A large brick oven stood at the center of the room. Two covered kettles sat atop the cooking surface, sending up curls of steam that smelled of overfermented miso and spoiling fish.

  On the left side of the kitchen, a sliding wooden door stood slightly ajar, allowing light and air into the room. A mostly-depleted pile of firewood sat to the left of the door, while a trio of barrels lined the wall to its right. Faint scuffmarks marred the earthen floor where Ana had pulled the barrels forward. The last one remained just far enough away from the wall for Hiro to see the edge of a hole behind it.

  Ana appeared in the outer doorway, holding an armful of kindling.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “We could ask the same of you,” Hiro said. “You claimed you could not cook in these conditions.”

  The housekeeper stepped inside and set the kindling on the stack beside the door. “If I don’t, we’ll all go hungry.” Ana wiped her hands on a towel that hung from her obi.

  “We came to see the rat hole,” Father Mateo said.

  She gestured to the barrels.

  Hiro descended the steps, slipped on a pair of the kitchen sandals that sat beside them, and crossed the room. The sour smell grew worse as he approached, so he breathed shallowly as he pulled the barrel farther away from the wall to expose the hole.