Ghost of the Bamboo Road

by Susan Spann

  Noboru staggered backward, jostling Kane. The collision knocked them both off balance. As they tried to avoid a fall, Hiro had an idea.

  He turned to Father Mateo. “Put on your cloak. We need to find Zentaro.”

  “That bag of wind?” Noboru asked. “What could he possibly do to help?”

  “He doesn’t care about anyone but himself,” Kane added. “He even steals the offerings from the graves. . .” An idea lit her eyes. “Do you think he stole our silver?”

  “Nonsense,” Noboru sniffed.

  Hiro ignored him and answered Kane. “I accuse no man without evidence, but I do have questions for the mountain priest.”

  Once again, Hiro and Father Mateo walked up the deserted travel road to the forest. Thin lines of smoke rose from the roof of Saku’s house, and Taso’s, scenting the air with burning pine. Beyond them, shuttered houses crouched like empty tombs on either side of the narrow road.

  Clouds had begun to gather in the sky, though the anemic winter sun still shone, its light more white than gold. Where sunshine reached the ground, the veil of snow grew thin and dark, discolored by the dirt beneath. Yet in the shadows of the houses, and beneath the trees, the snow remained pristine.

  As Hiro and Father Mateo entered the forest, the smell of wood smoke from the village blended with the deeper, earthy scents of living pines, decaying leaves, and the faint, wet odor Hiro recognized as melting snow. As always, its distinctive smell called back a memory of himself, just five years old, trying in vain to persuade his older brother that he could smell the snow.

  Since then, Hiro had learned to keep esoteric knowledge to himself.

  Father Mateo stopped walking.

  Hiro snapped to attention. “Did you hear something?”

  “No, and that’s precisely the problem. It’s too quiet.”

  In the silence that followed, Hiro heard the muffled thump of his pulse inside his ears. His breath, and Father Mateo’s, emerged as silent puffs of cloud.

  Higher up the mountainside, a crow cried out and then fell silent.

  As he listened to the distant ringing that the mind sometimes created in the absence of all other sound, Hiro agreed with the Jesuit. The silence did seem strange. That said, he felt no need to say so. It would cause his friend concern and, for the moment, Hiro saw no danger.

  He continued walking.

  Father Mateo fell in step beside him. “Why do you want to find Zentaro? We spoke with him twice already, and. . .surely you don’t think that he’s the thief?”

  “Akako did mention him stealing objects from the village,” Hiro answered, “though I want to see him for a different reason. A man who sees what happens on the mountain may have also seen Chitose in the woo—”

  A mournful cry, somewhere between a wail and a moan, came through the trees. It wavered as if in mimicry of speech.

  Father Mateo looked alarmed. “That came from the direction of the burial yard.”

  But Hiro did not hear the words. He was already running toward the sound.

  Chapter 29

  The torii that marked the entrance to the burial yard came into view, a brilliant splash of vermilion against the snowy ground. Beyond the gate, stone monuments rose like the jagged, rotting teeth of a mountain troll.

  A hooded figure dressed in white crouched next to Riko’s grave, almost precisely where Ishiko’s corpse had stood the day before. The figure swayed from side to side, hands clasped around a bowl of rice.

  The moaning came from underneath the hood.

  “Z-Zentaro,” Father Mateo said, out of breath from running up the path.

  At the sound of his voice, the moaning stopped. Zentaro straightened, turned, and bowed. “Inari-sama told me you would come again.”

  “And did he also tell you why?” Hiro asked.

  “You seek answers.”

  “Will you. . .help us. . .find them?” Father Mateo panted.

  Zentaro set the bowl of rice on the sharp-edged monument by Riko’s grave, beside the bowl that Ishiko left the night she died. He pressed his palms together and executed a deep, reverential bow. As he straightened, he withdrew a pair of wooden chopsticks from his sleeve and stuck them upright in the bowl of rice.

  Only then did he answer Father Mateo’s question. “While I would like to help you, a sage once taught me that answers received without effort have no value. Every man must find his answers for himself.”

  He faced the grave and bowed again.

  Hiro ignored the comment and the teaching. “Did you know that someone from the village walks the woods at night?”

  Zentaro spun around. “Who would do such a dangerous thing?”

  “While I would like to tell you,” Hiro said, “regrettably, an answer received without effort has no value.”

  “I never liked that teaching,” Zentaro muttered. His face lit up. “But if we traded answers, each would require an effort, and thus have value.”

  Hiro doubted any sage would agree with that logic, but had long since learned to accept any argument—no matter how illogical—if it produced the results he wanted.

  “But not here.” Zentaro looked around. “It is not safe.”

  “Why not?” Hiro gestured to the monuments. “If Inari cannot save us from the dead—”

  “Do not mock Inari-sama!” Zentaro hissed. “Just one ill-spoken word could mean your death!”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  Father Mateo shot Hiro a warning look. “Have you a safer place in mind?”

  “Follow me.” Zentaro raised a finger to his lips. “But do not say a word until we get there.”

  He led them across the burial yard and up the mountainside. Wherever possible, he jumped from stone to stone instead of walking on the ground. Father Mateo tried to follow the yamabushi’s trail exactly, but after the first few awkward leaps the Jesuit gave up and climbed straight up the slope through the shallow snow.

  Hiro didn’t bother with acrobatics, even from the start. As he followed the others up the hill, he wondered yet again if life in the mountains made ascetics strange, or if only strange men chose the ascetic life.

  He decided it was likely some of both.

  As they ascended, a cloud slipped over the sun. The shadows faded and the light turned gray. The temperature dropped, and the clouds that emerged with Hiro’s breath grew denser and more visible. The snow grew deeper, too, and covered the top of Hiro’s shoes with every step. He felt the cold in the soles of his feet. His toes began to numb.

  Still Zentaro bounded up the mountain, leaping from stone to stone like a hunting fox. Behind him, Father Mateo struggled not to slip on the smaller stones and rotting leaves that lay beneath the snow.

  The forest grew denser here as well, untouched by human hands. Huge cedars towered overhead, forcing the smaller maples to strain their branches for a share of light. The clumps of shoulder-high sasa grew larger, and Zentaro made broad detours to avoid them.

  Eventually the yamabushi emerged in a house-sized clearing. An enormous, flat-topped boulder sat just left of center in the open space, flanked by a pair of carved stone foxes. The fox on the left appeared to hold a scroll in its mouth, while the one on the right held a spherical jewel carved from stone. An unpainted wooden torii stood in front of the stone, adorned with a rope of hemp and strips of paper folded into zigzag shapes. More folded papers hung from the trees at the edges of the clearing and from cords around the statues’ necks.

  Zentaro gestured to the stone. “Inari-sama will protect us in this holy place. At least, during daylight hours.”

  “Why is the mountain so dangerous after dark?” Father Mateo asked. “Does the forest have wolves? Or bears?”

  “Any man can kill a bear.” Zentaro dropped his voice to a whisper. “It is the kami men should fear.”

  “I understand the need to show respect,” Father Mateo said, “but why does that require avoiding the mountain after dark?”

  Zentaro gave the Jesuit a sidelong look. “I thought yo
u claimed to be a priest.”

  “He does not understand the Japanese kami well,” Hiro explained. “His land has only a single god.”

  “One kami?” The yamabushi looked as if the Jesuit had grown a second head. “Which one?”

  “His name is Jehovah,” Father Mateo said. “The One True God.”

  Zentaro turned to Hiro. “You must take this foreigner off this mountain. Now. Today. And do not let him return.”

  “Can you tell us—” Father Mateo began.

  Zentaro spoke over him. “Inari-sama warned me you were dangerous. A priest who denies the kami of the mountain. . .he will cause disaster. He must leave right now.”

  “Not until you answer our questions.” Father Mateo stood his ground. “You agreed to an exchange of information.”

  “I agreed to one question,” Zentaro countered. “Ask it now, and go.”

  “How often does Chitose enter the woods at night, and what does he do?” Hiro asked.

  “That is two questions. However, a single answer will cover both. I do not know.”

  “But you do spend nights on the mountain,” Hiro pressed.

  “In a cave, where my presence cannot offend the kami that walk the mountain after dark.”

  “And yet, you knew Chitose enters the woods at night,” Hiro said. “When you came down to the village and called to Saku through the door, you mentioned her descendant’s life. A reference to Chitose.”

  The flush began to fade from Zentaro’s cheeks.

  “If you spend every night in a cave, how did you know he risked the kami’s anger?” Hiro asked.

  The yamabushi regarded him evenly. “Because Inari-sama told me so.”

  “The deity told you.” Hiro didn’t even try to hide his disbelief.

  “Not directly.” Zentaro laid a hand on his chest. “The kitsune speak to me on his behalf.”

  “You talk to foxes,” Hiro said.

  “The kitsune told me to warn the villagers that the mountain belongs to the kami after dark,” Zentaro said. “The villagers must not leave their homes, or enter the forest, after the sun goes down. When Chitose-san began to violate this edict, Inari-sama warned me, through the kitsune. Chitose-san ignored my words, but I hoped his grandmother would make him stop before disaster struck.”

  “A kitsune told you all of this?” Hiro didn’t believe in talking foxes any more than he believed in ghosts or gods.

  Zentaro raised his chin. “Ishiko-san did not believe me either, and she paid a deadly price.”

  “You believe a mountain deity killed Ishiko?” Father Mateo asked. “She entered the forest after dark,” Zentaro said. “She did not heed the warning.”

  “How long have you been talking with kitsune?” Hiro asked.

  “I have answered your question.” Zentaro pointed down the mountain. “You must go.”

  Chapter 30

  “Do you think he truly believes the mountain deities killed Ishiko?” Father Mateo looked back up the mountain, even though they had already left the sacred clearing far behind.

  Hiro continued walking. “He believes in talking foxes.”

  “At least he confirmed that Chitose walks in the woods at night.”

  “Again, if you believe the talking fox.”

  As they continued down the mountain, Hiro silently reviewed the evidence. Unfortunately, he concluded they knew nothing that seemed likely to unlock either the murders or the theft. At this point, he no longer cared if the killer escaped, or killed again. The superstitious villagers could keep their yūrei and their talking foxes. He wanted only to prove Ana’s innocence and leave.

  When they reached the village, Hiro turned off the road and headed for Saku’s house.

  “What are you doing?” Father Mateo asked.

  Instead of answering, Hiro knocked on the wooden door.

  Shuffling footsteps approached, and then fell silent. A female voice called, “Take your foreign ghost and go away!”

  “For the last time, I am not a ghost!” the Jesuit returned.

  Hiro doubted this time would truly be the last.

  “I do not talk to ghosts!” Saku called through the door.

  “We have come to see Akako,” Hiro said.

  “I will not open my door to that ghost again!”

  Before Hiro could reply, Father Mateo gestured down the street.

  Akako stood on the veranda of the teahouse, deep in conversation with Noboru and Hanako.

  The woman stood with her face cast down and her shoulders low, as if she lacked the strength to stand erect. She wore a pale kimono with an obi of a slightly darker shade. Although not formal mourning clothes, the lack of bright colors doubtless paid homage to Masako’s death.

  Hiro started toward the teahouse with Father Mateo at his side. Hanako noticed their approach. Without taking her eyes off the foreign priest, she whispered something to Noboru.

  He left the porch and intercepted Hiro and the Jesuit.

  “Forgive me.” Noboru bowed. “Hanako-san would rather not speak with you today.” He flushed. “I apologize, but. . .”

  “She fears the yūrei,” Father Mateo said.

  Relief washed over Noboru’s face. “Thank you for understanding.” Hanako opened the door and disappeared into the teahouse as Akako descended the steps to join Noboru and the other men.

  “Forgive my ignorance,” Father Mateo said, “but why does our presence endanger her? Surely the yūrei has no reason to seek revenge against her.”

  Noboru shrugged. “No man can understand the mind of a woman. Or a spirit, for that matter.”

  “An onryō does not need a reason,” Akako said. “Hate propels it. Hate defines it. But the creature does not think about philosophical questions, or right and wrong, any more than a spider ponders poetry.”

  “She is a yūrei,” Noboru interjected. “Not an onryō.”

  “No matter what you call her,” the porter said, “she will continue to attack, and kill, until she sates her thirst for vengeance.”

  “But if she has no grudge against Hanako-san, our presence should create no threat,” the Jesuit persisted.

  “Hanako thinks if she shows kindness to a stranger it could make the yūrei angry,” Noboru said. “Foolish, but—”

  Akako cut him off. “She is not wrong. A show of compassion could anger the spirit, because no one in this village showed her any while she lived.” He fixed Noboru with an angry glare. “And I don’t speak only of the night she died. Her unanswered screams for help were merely the last in a lifelong chain of insults that began the night she left her mother’s womb.”

  “How dare you judge what you do not understand.” Noboru raised his chin. “She did not share your blood. You barely knew her.” Raising a hand to cut off any possible response, Noboru turned to Father Mateo and changed the subject. “Have you found my silver yet?”

  “If we had, we would have told you.” Hiro paused. “Have there been any other thefts in the village, recently or otherwise?”

  “No one here has anything to steal,” Akako said, “except for Otomuro-san.”

  “And Hanako,” Noboru added, “but if we had a village thief, what reason would I have to accuse your servant?”

  “Indeed.” Hiro could think of several, but decided to let the question—and Noboru’s lack of manners—pass.

  “You claim you have solved mysteries, and yet you make no progress.” Noboru gestured to Father Mateo. “His servant faces judgment when the priest arrives from Hakone. Do you even have a plan?”

  “Right now I plan to take a nap while the foreigner says his midday prayers.” Hiro turned and walked off toward the ryokan.

  Father Mateo’s hurried footsteps followed.

  “Before you chide me for unnecessary rudeness,” Hiro said in Portuguese, “remember that he started this with his wrongful accusation against Ana, and that, by law, I owe no courtesy to commoners.”

  “The law does not excuse a lack of manners,” the priest replied in his n
ative tongue, “and he has a point. Our time is running out.”

  Hiro woke from his nap with a strong sensation of something out of place.

  Father Mateo knelt on the floor nearby with his scarred hands folded and his head bent down in prayer. A leather-bound Bible lay open on the floor beside the Jesuit’s knees. The upper corner of the right-hand page was ripped away.

  The page made Hiro recognize the cause of his discomfort. Normally, he woke with the comforting, familiar warmth and weight of Gato on his knees.

  He sat up silently to avoid disturbing the priest’s meditation. He did not share the Jesuit’s faith, but his respect for Father Mateo extended to their differences as well as to the attributes they shared.

  Hiro crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and meditated on the sounds around him. But unlike most meditation, in which men attempted to shut out the world, Hiro exercised his lesser senses, trying to identify each sound that reached his ears. He heard his own breathing, and Father Mateo’s. The beams creaked overhead as someone walked across the upper floor, followed by the scratch of tiny claws in the space above the ceiling. Apparently, Ana’s comments about rats had some foundation after all.

  “You’re awake.”

  Hiro opened his eyes at the Jesuit’s words.

  Father Mateo closed his Bible. “It occurred to me that Otomuro might have stolen the silver after all.”

  “Why would he take the risk?”

  “Why else would he befriend Noboru?” the Jesuit countered. “Samurai do not consort with men from the common classes voluntarily. Clearly, Otomuro had something to gain from the relationship, and the only benefit I see is learning where Noboru kept his money—and, perhaps, how much he had.”

  “You overlook a more obvious explanation. Men require companionship. As a man with no equals in the village, Otomuro had no choice but to accept a friend of lower status. More importantly, as owner of the ryokan, Noboru had access to useful information about the people who passed along the travel road.”

  “No man treats a friend the way that samurai treats Noboru.”

  “While I appreciate your opinion, you do not understand the way a man like Otomuro thinks.” Hiro raised his hands, palms up, in imitation of a scale. “One side of him craves friendship, but the other feels shame when he associates with men of lower rank.” He moved his hands out of balance, and then rebalanced them. “He reassures himself about his own superiority by wielding his power—no matter how small—against the man he feels forced to call a friend.”