by Susan Spann
Something had dug away the plaster, leaving an indentation about the size of a saké flask. Although the hole had ragged edges, he saw no obvious marks from teeth or claws.
“Why would a rat make a hole that doesn’t go anywhere?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro pushed the barrel back against the wall. “Rats did not make this hole. It looks like a hiding place to me.”
“A hiding place?” The Jesuit asked. “For what?”
“Hm.” Ana picked up a broom and swept the earthen floor. “The only things hiding in that hole are rats.”
Hiro switched to Portuguese. “Perhaps whatever the innkeeper’s wife is missing.”
“We should ask her about it,” the priest agreed.
“Not unless you want to spend the afternoon searching for a woman’s misplaced baubles.” Hiro returned to the steps, slipped off the kitchen sandals, and switched back to Japanese. “Ana, keep an eye on that hole and tell us if a rat—or anything else—appears inside it.” The housekeeper raised the broom. “If a rat appears in there, it will be the last thing he ever does.”
Mist descended from the cloudy sky, swirling down to obscure all but the closest houses. Even the towering trees had turned to shadows, looming behind a foggy veil. Nothing moved on the road or between the houses.
The village seemed as dead as the woman lying in the ryokan.
Hiro squinted into the mist. For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow move at the far end of the road, near the place where the yamabushi had appeared the day before.
When he looked again, he saw only swirling fog.
With Father Mateo at his side, he crossed the strip of ground between the ryokan and the house next door. The humble, single-story building featured a steeply peaked thatch roof with a wooden beam that ran along the ridge. Overhanging eaves protected the walls from snow and rain. Unlike the ryokan, the house sat at ground level with no veranda or raised foundation. A six-inch wooden beam across the entry door created a simple threshold at the end of the muddy path that connected the house to the travel road.
As they approached, Hiro noted that all of the frozen footprints around the door were adult-sized. The door swung open before he knocked, and he wondered if every woman in the village spent her days watching the road from behind the door.
The woman who stood in the opening looked no more than twenty. Her eyes, which seemed too large for her tiny face, reminded Hiro of a deer. She wore a dark kimono hand-embroidered with flying cranes, an unusual choice for a country girl, especially in winter. But her most striking feature was the streak of pure white hair that began at the top of her head and trickled through her thick, dark braid like a waterfall over obsidian cliffs.
She bowed. “I am sorry. My husband is at work. But you can come back, if you want to see him.” She clasped her hands together as she spoke.
“Perhaps we could talk with you instead.” Hiro’s unusually gentle tone drew a look from Father Mateo.
The woman bit her lip. She gripped her hands until her knuckles whitened.
“We mean no harm,” Hiro continued. “Have you heard what happened in the burial yard last night?”
The woman dropped her voice to a whisper. “She came back. We must not say her name. It is not safe.”
“That is precisely why we came.” Hiro gestured to Father Mateo. “This man is a priest of the foreign god, from across the sea. His faith has special rites to cast out evil. He wants to help—”
“Do they work?” the woman asked eagerly. “The rites?”
“When evil is present.” Father Mateo gave Hiro a sidelong glance.
“Please come in.” The woman stepped away from the door, though she watched the road as if expecting an attack at any moment.
The front half of the one-room house had an earthen floor packed down by years of use until it looked and felt like stone. To the right of the door, a waist-high wooden fence enclosed a rectangular area four meters long and a little more than two meters deep. A pair of buckets sat beside a wooden gate at the near end of the fence, beside the door. One bucket held water, the other a combination of grain and straw. More rice straw covered the floor of the stall, and a coiled rope with one end tied in the shape of a halter hung from a peg attached to the wooden gate. The area emitted a distinct, and pungent, bovine smell that lingered in the air along with the more familiar scents of smoke and tatami grasses.
An earthen stove squatted near the center of the living space. It radiated pleasant warmth, if not much light. Beyond the stove, the rear half of the house contained a knee-high platform covered with tatami. A brazier on the floor beside the platform filled the house with smoky light.
The woman gestured to the tatami-covered area. “Please sit down. I will make tea.”
“You don’t—” Father Mateo began, but Hiro spoke over him.
“Thank you. We will wait.” He led the priest to the edge of the platform, removing his shoes before stepping onto its tatami-covered surface. Switching to Portuguese, he murmured, “Do not refuse the tea, and drink it slowly.”
“Why?”
“It gives us a way to control the conversation,” Hiro said. “As long as tea remains in the cups, it would be impolite for her to make us leave.”
Chapter 15
Hiro knelt near the edge of the platform, facing the stove. Father Mateo followed suit, though the Jesuit seemed uncomfortable.
As the woman bustled around preparing tea, Father Mateo gestured to the enclosure at the front of the house. “Is that a stall?” he whispered in Portuguese.
Hiro nodded.
“I thought only samurai could own horses.”
“Only samurai can ride them,” Hiro corrected. “But these people do not have a horse. They own an ox.”
“How do you know?”
Hiro raised an eyebrow. “Given the smell, how could you not?” Father Mateo sniffled. “With this cold, I can’t smell anything at all.” He pulled the cloth from his sleeve and wiped his nose again.
“Consider yourself fortunate.”
Father Mateo switched to Japanese as the woman approached with a tray that held a steaming kettle and a pair of cups. “May we ask your honorable name?”
The woman bowed. “I am Mume. Kane-san, who lives at the ryokan, is my sister.”
“And your husband?” Hiro asked.
“No, she is only my sister.” Mume looked confused. “My husband is called Taso-san. He is a porter on the travel road.”
The Jesuit laid a hand on his chest. “I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, and I come from a land called Portugal, across the sea. This man is Matsui Hiro, my scribe.”
She furrowed her brow. “He looks like a samurai to me.”
“I am samurai,” Hiro said. “A scribe writes messages on behalf of someone else.”
“Oh!” Mume gave Father Mateo an understanding smile. “Do not feel bad. I cannot write kanji either.”
She set the tray on the platform and poured a cup of tea. As she handed it to Father Mateo, she said, “I am sorry about the smell. My husband has an ox.”
“I do not mind.” The Jesuit spoke with unusual kindness, as if speaking to a child.
Mume rewarded him with another dazzling, large-eyed smile.
“We hoped you could tell us more about the spirit that haunts your village,” Hiro said.
Mume fumbled the pot and upset the second teacup, spilling tea across the tray. She gave a little cry and grabbed for the cup. “I am sorry. I am so sorry!”
Hiro helped her right the cup and held it while she poured the tea with trembling hands. Once the cup was safely filled and in his grasp, Mume wiped the tray with a towel before setting the teapot down.
Hiro inhaled the steam that rose from his teacup and waited to see if the girl would remember his question. To his surprise, she did.
“Kane-san says we must not talk about the ghost,” she told them earnestly. “Talking about it will make her angry. She will hurt us.”
Hiro noted
the nonspecific feminine pronouns, but decided not to ask—for the moment—whether the undefined “she” referred to Kane or the ghost.
“We understand,” Father Mateo said. “Do you and Taso-san have any children?”
Hiro wondered at the randomness of the question.
“The kami have not blessed me with a child. I wish they would. But Kane-san says—” She closed her mouth abruptly, leaving Hiro to wonder if Kane had told her sister not to discuss that topic either.
“Why are you asking me about the yūrei?” Mume asked. “Kane-san and Noboru-san know more about her. Because she was—” Mume clapped a hand over her mouth, as if remembering she should not talk about it. When she lowered the hand, she whispered, “Please, sir, do not say the spirit’s name.”
No chance of that. I do not even know it.
Hiro took a sip of tea. It contained more stem than leaf, and tasted as bitter as the scent suggested. Even so, he found the flavor strangely appealing. More importantly, he recognized that Mume had offered them the best she had. Plenty of people who owned far more showed far less hospitality.
“What if I told you yūrei are not real?” Father Mateo asked. Mume considered the Jesuit’s question. “Why do you know a rite to make them go away, if they are not real?”
Hiro hid a smile behind his teacup.
When Father Mateo did not answer, Mume bit her lip. “I am sorry. Was this a test? I am not good at tests. I always get the answers wrong. Kane-san used to help me, but Ishiko-san won’t let her any more.” Hiro decided not to remind the woman about Ishiko’s death. “Did you or your husband see, or hear, anything unusual last night?”
“I fell asleep right after dark, before Taso-san came home. Kane is not allowed to visit me. I get bored all by myself, so I go to sleep early.”
“Did you wake up when Taso-san came home?” Hiro asked.
She gestured to the entry. “Ushi makes a lot of noise.”
“Ushi. . .the ox?” Father Mateo clarified.
“Yes,” Mume said. “He smells very bad.”
“Do you know what time your husband returned?” Hiro asked.
Mume furrowed her forehead. Eventually she shook her head. “The fire had died. How long does that take?”
Long enough for a man to commit a murder, Hiro thought. “Did you and your husband know Ishiko-san well?”
Mume’s cheeks flushed pink. “Ishiko-san did not like me.”
Hiro sipped his tea, hoping the woman would elaborate. For all that she sounded childish, he found her answers trustworthy. He suspected she could not lie persuasively, even if she tried.
“Ishiko-san did not like Kane-san either.” Mume looked from Hiro to the Jesuit. “She said girls should work all day, not chatter like a bunch of lazy monkeys.” Mume blinked as her eyes filled up with tears. “I am not a lazy monkey.”
“Of course not.” Father Mateo raised a hand as if to pat her shoulder, but laid it in his lap again as if remembering that he should not.
Mume sniffed and wiped her tears away. “I was lucky to marry Taso-san. I got to stay near Kane-san. She used to take good care of me. But now, Ishiko-san won’t let her, so Kane-san has to—” This time, Mume clapped both hands over her mouth.
“What does Kane-san have to do?” Father Mateo asked.
Mume bit her lip and shook her head.
“We promise not to tell Ishiko-san,” Hiro coaxed.
Mume lowered her hands. “You cannot tell Ishiko-san. Ishiko-san is dead.”
“Then it no longer matters,” Hiro countered.
Mume considered the comment. “That is true.” She nodded, as if to herself. “Kane-san sneaks out to see me. But she says I must not tell. Because Ishiko-san would beat her if she knew.”
“Did Ishiko-san beat your sister often?” Hiro asked.
“No,” Mume said vehemently. “No.”
As Hiro suspected, she was a terrible liar.
“Did Ishiko-san ever beat you?” Father Mateo asked.
Mume shook her head. “Taso-san would not let her do that. Tasosan does not let anyone say bad things to me. Or about me. Before we came here, sometimes people said mean things.” She paused. “Because I am not smart.”
She touched the place where the white streak of hair emerged from her scalp. “Kane-san says I hit my head when I was small. After that, I was not smart. But, Kane-san says, I am not stupid either.”
“Kane-san is correct.” Father Mateo smiled kindly.
“Now that Ishiko-san is gone, the only bad thing in this village is the yūrei.” She gasped and her eyes filled up with frightened tears. “I should not have said that! She will come.”
“You do not need to worry about the yūrei,” Father Mateo said.
Mume clasped her hands. “Can you really make her go away?”
“We will do everything in our power to keep you safe,” the Jesuit replied.
Hiro noted that, as usual, the priest refused to make an idle promise, on the chance it might become a lie. He swallowed the last of his now-cold tea and set the empty cup on the tray. “Thank you for helping us. We will not inconvenience you any longer.”
Chapter 16
As Mume shut the door behind them, Father Mateo turned to Hiro, “We forgot to ask about the other villagers.”
“I did not forget.” Hiro started toward the road. “Mume will tell Kane everything we talked about. Everything she remembers, anyway.”
“I find it interesting that she is married.” Father Mateo looked back at the house. “Do you think she has the capacity to understand. . .”
“Marriage is hardly complicated,” Hiro said. “In principle, anyway. I’ve heard it’s rather more complex in practice.”
“It isn’t funny, Hiro. That poor girl—”
“Looked clean, well-fed, and cared for, and she sounded competent to me. Even if she did inadvertently name her sister as a murder suspect.”
“Surely you don’t think Kane-san killed Ishiko.”
Hiro noted the omission of the honorific suffix from the dead woman’s name. “It would not be the first time a bride took decisive action against a tyrannical mother-in-law.”
“Mume-san also mentioned that her husband came home late last night,” the Jesuit said. “Although, I don’t know what he would have done with the ox.”
“He could have tied it to a tree,” Hiro suggested. “The fact that he came home late did not escape my notice either, and if he does object to mistreatment of his wife, he might have held a grudge against a woman who insulted her.”
“Or worse.” Father Mateo’s voice betrayed his disapproval. “I suspect that woman beat her daughter-in-law, and that Mume-san is frightened to admit it.”
“Perhaps,” Hiro said. “Although, until we have more evidence, I trust no one.”
“Even with evidence, that won’t change.” The smile on the Jesuit’s face suggested humor, but both men recognized the core of truth.
A path of churned but frozen earth led from the travel road to the front of the house opposite Mume’s. No smoke rose from the chimney hole, but the pile of wood beside the door looked recently replenished, and no cobwebs crossed the door.
Hiro knocked and waited.
No one answered.
When no one responded to a second knock, he said, “Either no one’s home or no one’s going to answer.”
“Let’s try there instead.” Father Mateo gestured to the house next door, which looked identical to the one they stood in front of, except for the thin gray line of smoke that rose from an opening in the roof.
As they approached, the door swung open. A tiny, gray-haired woman leaned one hand on a crooked walking stick. With the other, she grasped the door.
She scowled at Father Mateo. “Go away.”
The Jesuit bowed. “I am Father—”
Her scowl deepened. “Are you deaf as well as dead?” She thumped her cane on the ground. “You go away. You go away right now!”
She took a backward step int
o her house.
The Jesuit jumped forward and stuck his foot in the opening just as the elderly woman tried to slam the door. “I am a pr—ow!”
The elderly woman opened the door a fraction and slammed it against the Jesuit’s foot once more. When he still refused to withdraw it, she opened the door and leaned on it while she jabbed at him with her cane. “I said be gone, ghost!”
“I am not a ghost,” the priest protested. “Stop slamming the door on my foot.”
She slammed the door against his foot again. When it failed to produce the desired result, she looked past him at Hiro. “Why won’t you take your ghost and go?”
“He is a foreigner.” Hiro struggled to hide his amusement. “Not a ghost.”
The elderly woman finally stopped hammering the Jesuit’s foot with the door. She squinted thoughtfully at his face. “His nose is big, his face is pale, and his Japanese sounds funny. He is a ghost who does not realize he’s dead.”
“I assure you, I am not a ghost. I am a priest of the Creator God, from Portugal.”
“You see?” The elderly woman gave Hiro a knowing look. “He does not know he’s dead.” She shook her walking stick at Father Mateo once again. “You died. You are a ghost. Now go away.”
Hiro had an idea. “I have come to rid your village of the yūrei—”
The old woman cut him off with a snort and pointed at Father Mateo. “You cannot even rid me of this one!” She waved her hand. “I am too old to listen to your nonsense.”
Father Mateo gestured to Hiro. “You cannot talk that way to a samurai. He could kill you—”
“Him?” She snorted again. “He won’t kill an old woman.”
Not an unarmed one, anyway, Hiro agreed to himself, impressed—and a little chagrined—that she had measured him so quickly and so well.
“But neither will I leave you in peace until you accommodate my request,” he said aloud. “I need to know if you saw or heard anything unusual last night.”
“Aside from three visitors coming into town on a winter evening?” The woman opened the door enough to suggest she had finished trying to shut them out. She glared at Father Mateo, who withdrew his foot with a small, embarrassed bow.