by Susan Spann
“Saku-san!” A voice called from the road behind them. “Saku-san!”
The elderly woman backed into the house and slammed the door with startling speed.
“No! Wait! Don’t close the—” A wiry man slid to a stop between Hiro and Father Mateo. He wore a white tunic and trousers beneath a bulky hooded cloak woven from narrow, supple bamboo stems with the leaves left on. The straw sandals on his feet offered scant protection from the frozen ground, and he wore no socks. His long, skinny toes reminded Hiro of a tree frog’s feet.
He raised a skinny arm and pounded on the woman’s door. “Saku-san! Open this door right now! Your descendant’s life depends upon it!”
The conch shell hanging on a bright red cord around his neck swung sideways with the force of his knocks, but the elderly woman did not return.
Father Mateo gave Hiro a look that questioned the strange man’s sanity. Hiro shrugged.
Eventually the man ceased pounding on the door and turned to Father Mateo. “Who are you?”
“I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest of the Creator God, from Por—”
“A fellow priest!” He bowed. “I am Zentaro, humble servant of the kami and the mountains!”
He turned to Hiro. “And who are you?”
“Matsui Hiro, Father Mateo’s scribe.”
The yamabushi bowed again. “I am honored to meet you, Matsui Hiro the scribe and Father Mateo of Por.” He laid a hand on his chest. “I am Zentaro, humble servant of the kami and the mountains.”
As Noboru suggested, Zentaro’s mind appeared a few bees short of a functional hive.
“Do you live near the village?” Father Mateo asked.
The question seemed to confuse the yamabushi.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up. He raised his hand, first finger extended in triumph. “I live on the mountain!” He smiled as if pleased to have found the answer. “I came to warn these people to respect Inari-sama and the mountain gods, and not to violate the sacred mountain by trespassing in the forest after dark.” He looked over his shoulder. “Now, I must go.”
As he turned to leave, the Jesuit raised a hand. “Please wait.”
Unexpectedly, Zentaro did.
Chapter 17
Father Mateo gestured to the house. Do you know Saku-san?
Hiro hoped the Jesuit knew the woman would be listening from inside the door.
“I know many things. Things no man knows.” Zentaro dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The kami tell me.”
“They tell you about Saku-san?” Father Mateo asked.
“Who?” Zentaro blinked.
“Saku-san.” The Jesuit gestured to the door. “You called her name. . .”
Zentaro circled to his right, and then to his left. “Have you seen my walking stick?”
“You didn’t have one when you arrived,” Father Mateo said.
“Have I lost it again?” The yamabushi’s gaze grew fixed and distant. “You should leave this village now. The mountain belongs to the kami, and the kami want it back.”
Zentaro blinked, and his focus returned. He cocked his head to the side and blinked as if just noticing Father Mateo. “I know you. You arrived here yesterday, with a woman.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Inari-sama told me you were coming.”
“Inari-sama?” Father Mateo gave Hiro a questioning look.
“Inari Okami,” Hiro said. “The Shinto god of fertility, rice, saké, and swords. . .among other things.”
“Saké, fertility, and swords?”
“Have too much of any one, and the others follow.”
“Do not disrespect Inari-sama.” Zentaro set his hands on his hips like an angry samurai.
“I assure you,” Hiro said, “I have no less respect for Inari-sama than I do for any other kami.” And no more use for Inari than I have for the rest of them, either.
Zentaro nodded knowingly. “His messengers tell me many things.”
“Things no man knows,” Hiro added drily.
“Do they speak to you also?” Zentaro looked both eager and amazed.
Instead of answering, Hiro asked, “Did you visit the burial ground last night?”
“Of course. Every morning and every evening I offer prayers to the kami on behalf of the living and the dead. Lately, the mountain deities have grown angry because these people do not show respect.” Zentaro made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire village. “So far, inari-sama has intervened to avert disaster, but if the ones who remain refuse to listen. . .”
Hiro tried to steer the yamabushi back on course. “What time did you visit the burial yard?”
Zentaro whipped his head around as if a voice had called out behind him. “I must go!”
Before Hiro or Father Mateo could object, he fled up the travel road toward the forest.
Hiro considered calling after him, but suspected his words would have no impact.
As Zentaro disappeared into the forest Father Mateo said, “I do not think that man is completely sane.”
“It does not take great skill to fake insanity.”
“Where do we go next?” Father Mateo asked. “The rest of the houses look abandoned.”
“At least one of them is not.” Hiro started toward the mansion.
Father Mateo followed. “Somehow, I doubt Otomuro-san will invite us in for tea.”
“You know how I feel about assumptions,” Hiro said, “and unwilling men often have far more interesting things to say than the ones who ask you in for welcome tea.”
Otomuro’s mansion sat on a narrow rise, looking down on the village like a magistrate sitting in judgment over a line of peasants. Carved stone lanterns standing on either side of the veranda steps bore images of crescent moons and deer.
A narrow trail of churned-up earth indicated the path Otomuro, and presumably others, took to reach the mansion from the travel road. The frozen earth did not hold footprints well, but Hiro thought he saw the marks of at least three different pairs of shoes.
“Do you think Otomuro-san will speak with us?” Father Mateo asked as Hiro knocked on the door.
“Samurai crave the company of others who share their noble rank. He thinks me dishonored, but even so—”
He cut himself off as the door swung open.
An elderly man in a blue-striped servant’s robe blinked nearsightedly at Hiro and Father Mateo. Eventually he remembered to bow. “May I help you?”
“We have come to see Otomuro-san,” Hiro said.
The old man turned and tottered off into the house.
Father Mateo watched him go. “Should we follow?”
“He left the door open.” Hiro stepped over the threshold and left his shoes inside the door. As the Jesuit followed him inside, Hiro continued through another door and into the reception room beyond.
Aging but expensive tatami covered the floor. Their grassy scent competed with the cloying smell of incense rising from a lacquered butsudan that stood against the far wall of the room. The doors to the altar cabinet stood open and, inside, a pair of memorial tablets flanked a small bronze statue of a seated Buddha. An incense burner stood before the statue, sending a trickle of smoke into the air.
Braziers burned on either side of the butsudan. A third one stood, unlighted, near the tokonoma on the left-hand wall. The decorative alcove held a scroll with calligraphy flowing down it like a waterfall of deep black ink.
Hiro walked across the room to view the scroll more closely. As he finished reading the poem, he noticed the artist’s name written in tiny characters on the lower left side of the scroll.
“This calligraphy looks the same as the scroll at the teahouse,” Father Mateo said as he joined the shinobi before the scroll.
“I agree,” Hiro confirmed, “and both poems come from the Man’yōshū, an ancient collection of Japanese verse.”
“You can read it?” Father Mateo sounded impressed.
“In the rice fields of autumn, morning haze hangs above the ears o
f rice; my love has no end.”
“A love poem?”
“Attributed, originally, to the Empress Iwanohime.” Hiro switched to Portuguese. “The choice of this particular poem suggests a close relationship between the calligrapher and the recipient.”
“Close, as in lovers?” Father Mateo asked. “Did the artist sign the scroll?”
“She did. The name reads ‘Emiko.’”
“Emiri?” Father Mateo gave Hiro a look of startled alarm.
“Emiko,” Hiro repeated, “though—” He cut himself off as Otomuro entered the room with Noboru on his heels.
Hiro found the innkeeper’s presence both unusual and suspicious.
“It appears they have more courage than you think.” Otomuro crossed his arms. “Have you come to steal from me as well?”
Since the samurai did not bow in greeting, Hiro did not either. Father Mateo did. “Forgive me, Otomuro-san, but I must have misheard you. I thought you said—”
“I asked if you came to steal from me, as you stole from Noboru-san?”
The innkeeper’s cheeks flushed scarlet at the mention of his name. “Was something stolen from the ryokan?” Father Mateo asked. “Do not deny it!” Otomuro scowled. “We know the truth.”
“You may,” Hiro said, “but we do not.”
“You stole his savings.” Otomuro gestured to Noboru. “Everything he had.”
Father Mateo grasped the wooden cross that hung around his neck and raised it as if in explanation. “I am a priest of God. I do not steal.” A moment later he added, “And neither does Matsui-san.”
“Your innocent act does not fool me,” Otomuro sneered. “I’ve known too many priests.”
Chapter 18
“I do not steal”, Father Mateo repeated more forcefully.
“Where did the money go, then?” Otomuro asked.
Noboru took a hesitant step forward. “In truth, I do not think you directly responsible. I believe your housekeeper stole the silver after my mother left for the burial yard last night, before we returned from the teahouse, while Kane slept.”
“When did you discover the silver missing?” Father Mateo asked. “And why didn’t you bring this matter to me directly?”
Noboru looked at the floor. “I was afraid.”
“But not too afraid to accuse my servant behind my back,” the Jesuit countered.
“And unjustly,” Hiro added.
Noboru fell to his knees at Father Mateo’s feet. “Please, have mercy. Make your servant return the silver. If not, I will lose the ryokan, and my family will starve and die.”
Hiro found the reaction a bit extreme, but the innkeeper’s distress looked all too real.
“Ana cannot return what she did not steal,” Father Mateo said.
“Get up, you fool. The innocent do not kneel before a thief.” Otomuro raised a fist to the Jesuit. “I suggest you return the silver, before you force me to take further action.”
Hiro stepped between the samurai and the priest. He laid a hand on the hilt of his katana. “And I suggest you withdraw your threat, before I force you to regret it.”
Noboru stood up slowly, as if hoping not to draw attention.
Otomuro glared at Hiro, but took a step backward. “Do not confuse a threat with a promise. Your foreign master has until the priest arrives from Hakone to return the money his servant stole from Noboru. If he does not, I will hang his housekeeper as a thief.”
“Ana is not a thief,” Father Mateo said. “I suspect the person who killed Ishiko-san is the one that stole the missing silver.”
“Ishiko-san was killed by a yūrei,” Otomuro said, “and vengeful spirits have no need of silver. Your servant is under arrest.”
“With respect,” Father Mateo replied, still calm, “I refuse to recognize the arrest.”
Otomuro’s jowls reddened. “You cannot refuse.”
“He just did,” Noboru said.
“Be silent!” Otomuro extended a hand to Hiro. “Surrender your swords, as a promise that you will not leave the village until the foreigner returns Noboru’s silver.”
“If you attempt to touch my swords, your hands will never touch anything again.”
Otomuro pulled his hands against his chest as if the words had burned them. “You must respect my authority! Noboru, fetch Akako-san to guard the foreigner until we find your silver.”
The innkeeper scurried from the room as if grateful for an excuse to leave.
As the front door shut behind Noboru, Otomuro said, “Will you accept the guard? Or do I have to force you?”
In different circumstances, Hiro would have found the samurai’s persistence comically pathetic. At the moment, it frustrated him almost enough to force a fight.
Unfortunately, killing the local samurai would complicate his journey to Edo in ways that Hiro would rather not accommodate.
The expression on the Jesuit’s face suggested he felt something similar, though when Father Mateo spoke his tone remained as calm as ever. “Provided Akako-san does not interfere with our investigation, we will not object to his company, at least for the afternoon.”
As Hiro and Father Mateo left Otomuro’s mansion, Noboru reappeared from the mist, along with a middle-aged man whose chest looked almost as broad as a saké barrel. The massive stranger’s arms seemed large enough to lift an ox, and though his close-cropped hair had begun to gray, his unlined face and bright, sharp eyes made his age unusually difficult to guess.
The stranger stopped just short of the veranda. “Good morning, gentlemen. I am Akako.” He bowed to Hiro and Father Mateo.
“Do not treat these thieves as men of honor,” Otomuro growled from the doorway.
Father Mateo turned to the samurai. “I have told you I am not a thief.”
“Guilty men proclaim their innocence the loudest,” Otomuro said.
Hiro could not argue with the sentiment, despite his loathing for its current application. Instead, he ignored it. “Good morning, Akako-san.”
“I have arrested the foreigner’s housekeeper for theft,” Otomuro announced. “Akako-san, you will guard these men. I do not want them sneaking away from the village before the woman faces judgment.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to guard the woman?” Akako asked.
Not if Otomuro thinks he can bribe the priest to save her, Hiro thought.
“Do you question my authority?” the samurai demanded.
“I am making sure I understand your orders.” Akako showed an unusual lack of fear.
“If the woman does not return Noboru’s coins before the priest arrives from Hakone to exorcise the yūrei”—Otomuro gestured to the Jesuit—“and her employer does not repay it on her behalf, I will hang her as a thief as soon as the ritual concludes.”
“You’ll hang her after the exorcism?” Akako asked. “Why not before, in case she also returns as an angry ghost?”
Hiro searched the laborer’s face but saw no indication that the man had made a joke.
Otomuro’s cheeks flushed red. “I have spoken. Do as I command!”
“I would like to help you,” Akako said, “but I stayed home to rest today. Although perhaps, with proper compensation. . .”
Otomuro glared at the barrel-chested man. “You expect me to pay you?”
“With respect,” Akako replied, “a man who expects another man to work should also expect to pay.”
“Fine.” Otomuro pointed to Noboru. “He will pay you a silver coin each day, to ensure these men do not leave the village. But you get paid only if they do not escape.”
“Me?” The innkeeper looked taken aback. “But—”
“You will pay him. That is all.” Otomuro retreated into the house and closed the door.
Noboru sighed and led the others back to the ryokan.
“You could guard them yourself, if you don’t want to pay,” Akako offered as they reached the inn.
“I have no time to watch them,” Noboru grumbled. “I have to arrange my mothe
r’s funerary rites.”
“A wise idea,” Akako said. “We do not need a second angry ghost.”
The innkeeper turned pleading eyes on Father Mateo. “Won’t you just return the silver? It cannot mean much to you, a wealthy priest, but it means everything to me.”
“I did not take your silver, and neither did Ana,” the Jesuit replied, “and, despite what you say, I am not a wealthy man. However, I will help you find the thief.”
Noboru shook his head. “We would have heard an intruder, and no one but your servant—aside from Kane and me—knew where the coins were hidden.”
“How did Father Mateo’s housekeeper learn where the coins were hidden?” Hiro asked.
“I do not know,” Noboru said, “but I heard her showing you our hiding place in the kitchen wall.”
“If you heard her,” Hiro countered, “then you also know she attributed that hole to a hungry rat.”
Noboru crossed his arms. “A ruse to disguise her crime.”
“Why would she need a ruse,” the Jesuit asked, “since no one had accused her?”
Hiro could think of several reasons, but offered none.
Akako indicated the priest. “Have you considered he might be telling you the truth? That someone else did steal your silver?”
“You’re not supposed to take his side,” Noboru said. “Just watch them conduct their investigation, and do not let them leave the village. I have things to do.”
Chapter 19
Akako followed Hiro and Father Mateo into their guest room.
The Jesuit closed the door and gave the laborer a curious look. “If you think we’re innocent, why agree to guard us?”
“For the silver.” Akako pulled his kimono aside. Enormous purple, green, and yellow bruises marked his chest and shoulder. “Last week I startled Taso’s ox. I don’t blame the beast for kicking, but I can’t carry a load until this heals a little more. A man who doesn’t work can’t eat, and I have my mother to think of, as well as myself. This is an easy way to earn a coin.”