Ghost of the Bamboo Road

by Susan Spann

  “I did not know you thought so much about men’s motivations.”

  Hiro lowered his hands. “An effective hunter understands all aspects of his prey.”

  Father Mateo sighed. “I hope, someday, you stop regarding men as prey.”

  “Our friendship does not change the way I view the world, or my position in it.” Hiro met the Jesuit’s gaze. “Any more than I believe it should change yours.”

  Father Mateo set his Bible on the table. “I wonder if the unknown benefactor who hired you knew his gift would bless me with far more than just my life.”

  “Your benefactor hired the Iga ryu, not me specifically.” Hiro paused. “And I assure you, my cousin Hanzo considers me anything but a blessing.”

  The Jesuit laughed, and then grew serious. “What will we do if the thief decides not to come and steal my gold? I think we need a backup plan.”

  Someone knocked on the inn’s front door. A voice called, “Kane? Kane, are you home?”

  Father Mateo rose. “That sounds like Mume.”

  “Not our business,” Hiro said.

  The Jesuit had barely knelt on the floor again when someone knocked on the guest room door.

  Father Mateo called, “Come in,” and gave Hiro a look that suggested it was about to become their business after all.

  The door slid open.

  “Please forgive the interruption.” Kane gestured to the woman at her side. “My sister asked to see you.”

  “Help me.” Mume clasped her hands. “The thief has struck again.”

  Chapter 31

  “When? Father Mateo rose to his feet. Come in and tell us everything.”

  Mume glanced at Kane. “I. . .”

  “A married woman should not meet with two strange men alone, in a ryokan,” Kane said.

  Understanding softened Father Mateo’s features. “Would she feel more comfortable if you remain with her?”

  Instead of answering, Kane stepped across the threshold. Mume followed, still clutching her hands together but looking slightly more relieved.

  “Tell us what happened,” Father Mateo said again, as Kane closed the shoji.

  “Our silver—all we had—is gone.” Mume looked on the verge of tears.

  “And you just discovered it missing?” the Jesuit asked.

  “Right now—I mean, a few minutes ago.” Mume bit her lip. “When I went to the latrine.”

  “You keep silver in the latrine?” Father Mateo seemed to find that difficult to believe.

  “Not anymore,” Mume replied. “It’s gone.”

  “But you kept it there, when you had some,” the Jesuit clarified.

  “Taso said no one would look there for it.”

  “Perhaps your husband took it with him,” Hiro suggested, “to keep it safe.”

  “He would not have left the sack behind.” Mume bit her lower lip again.

  Father Mateo took a step toward the door. “If you show us where it was, perhaps we can find a clue to its disappearance.”

  Despite his intense desire to avoid a tour of Mume and Taso’s latrine, Hiro followed the others through the kitchen and out the door at the back of the ryokan.

  When they reached the small, squat building adjacent to Taso’s home, Mume opened the door, revealing a hole in the ground surrounded by a narrow square of wooden boards. The pungent odor of human waste that emanated from the hole made Hiro glad that winter temperatures muted smells.

  In summertime, the stench would kill an ox.

  Father Mateo coughed and took a step backward.

  Mume gestured to a pair of beams that supported the wooden roof. “Up there. You see the sack?”

  A piece of limp, dark cloth hung over the side of the nearest beam.

  Hiro stepped into the narrow space, reached up, and retrieved the bag. Its weight and flexibility left no doubt that it was empty.

  “Last night, that bag had thirty silver coins.” Mume’s voice held an edge of desperation.

  “Why did you keep your silver on a beam, where anyone could see it?” Father Mateo asked.

  “We hid it against the beam.” Mume pointed to a dark place in the corner of the roof. “You could only see it if you knew. . .” She bit her lip, which had begun to quiver.

  Hiro considered the latrine a ridiculous hiding place, but held his tongue. Shaming a woman in distress would serve no purpose.

  Mume clasped her hands against her chest. “Please, sir. Ask your servant to return it.”

  “Ana did not steal your silver,” Father Mateo said. “Even had she known where you hid it, she could not reach that beam.”

  “Your servant did know where it was hidden,” Kane countered. “Mume and I discussed her silver after ours was stolen. We were in the ryokan kitchen, and your housekeeper was in there, cleaning, at the time.”

  “Kane told me to move my silver.” Mume’s eyes filled up with tears. “But I forgot to tell Taso. Now it’s gone!” She began to cry.

  “Ana did not do this,” Father Mateo repeated.

  “Taso will be so angry,” Mume sobbed.

  “I will speak to him on your behalf,” Father Mateo said. “This theft is not your fault.”

  “If you will not acknowledge your servant’s guilt, and restore my sister’s silver, we will take the matter to Otomuro-sama,” Kane threatened.

  “I will not call an innocent person guilty,” the Jesuit said, “but I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to catch the thief and recover your stolen silver.”

  “I hate to suggest this,” Father Mateo told Hiro after their return to the ryokan, “but perhaps we should discuss these thefts with Ana.”

  “How long has Ana worked for you?” Hiro asked.

  Four years next spring.

  “And has she ever given you the slightest reason not to trust her?”

  “No.”

  “So. Does it make more sense that Ana would risk her trusted position, not to mention her life, for a handful of silver, or that someone else in this village is a thief?” He laid a hand on the door. “While you think that over, I’m going to get some exercise.”

  Hiro left the ryokan and walked to the empty rice field at the far end of the village near Otomuro’s mansion. A thin, ice-crusted layer of snow lay over the field, obscuring the stubbly remains of the stalks beneath. Hiro entered the field, drew his katana, and began the first of the samurai weapon forms he used in place of shinobi katas when training where other eyes could see. For over an hour, he forced himself to concentrate on movement, form, and steel.

  By the time he stopped and sheathed his sword, his muscles burned and his robe was damp with sweat. The sun rested about a hand’s breadth above the pines in the west, bleached to a pale white disc by the hazy sky.

  Hiro’s stomach snarled like an angry wolf.

  As he returned to the ryokan, he hoped this evening meal would prove more edible than the last.

  In the guest room, Father Mateo knelt on the floor with the Bible in his lap. Gato perched on the edge of the table, watching the book with hungry eyes.

  The Jesuit pulled a cloth from his sleeve and sneezed.

  “Do you want me to take Gato back to Ana?” Hiro asked.

  “Hm.”

  Hiro turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. She stood behind him, holding a laden tray.

  “I see you’re back in time to eat, as usual,” she said.

  Hiro found the insult unexpectedly reassuring. “Did you cook?”

  “The innkeeper asked me to prepare the evening meal early.” She stepped over the threshold. “So I can return to my room before dark.”

  Hiro stepped aside. As Ana passed him with the tray, he caught the pungent scent of onions and the oily, slightly fishy smell of eel past its prime.

  His stomach lurched and a lump rose in his throat.

  “I am sorry about his accusations,” Father Mateo said, “and that they have imprisoned you unfairly.”

  Ana set the tray on the tab
le. “Do not apologize for someone else’s failings.” She straightened. “Just find the thief so we can leave for Edo.”

  “We will,” the Jesuit said, “I promise. Thank you for preparing this meal, despite the circumstances.”

  Hiro joined the Jesuit at the table.

  In addition to a teapot and a pair of cups, the tray held two steaming bowls of golden broth laden with chunks of winter vegetables and topped with inch-wide strips of pale, ribbed flesh. Beside the eel-topped soup sat a pair of empty rice bowls and a covered circular container that undoubtedly held rice.

  “Unagi soup?” Father Mateo asked.

  “With eels ‘fresh caught today,’ if you believe the innkeeper’s wife.” Ana’s tone suggested she did not.

  Hiro swallowed against the nausea that rose in his throat. He could barely eat fresh eel without gagging, and the smell suggested the one in the bowls was anything but fresh.

  “I used every onion I could find.” Ana scooped Gato into her arms and started toward the door. “I hope it helps. There’s also rice, but not much else.”

  “It is winter.” Father Mateo sounded apologetic.

  “And too far from Kyoto to find any decent food.” Ana paused on the threshold. “I appreciate you watching Gato while I cooked. She can spend the night with me, so you don’t sneeze.”

  “Not by her doing, anyway.” Father Mateo sniffed and forced a smile.

  Chapter 32

  After Ana left with Gato, Hiro turned his attention to the food. Tiny specks of fishy oil floated on the murky soup. Curls of steam rose off the bowls, with a distinctive fragrance that made Hiro’s stomach stop its angry growling instantly.

  Father Mateo said a silent blessing, raised his bowl, and took a sip. “It tastes like Portuguese fish stew.”

  Hiro raised his bowl, but his throat and gut rebelled.

  He set the bowl back down.

  Raising the teapot, he poured a cup of tea for Father Mateo and another for himself. The scent of roasted tea helped calm his stomach. He drank it slowly, savoring the deep, rich flavor and the lingering natural sweetness on his tongue.

  After finishing the tea, he considered the bowl of soup once more. The strip of eel lay atop the vegetables like a corpse atop a pyre, a stinking barrier between his lips and the soup that lay beneath.

  “You like eel?” he asked Father Mateo.

  “This one less than most,” the priest acknowledged, “but I’ve eaten worse.”

  Hiro gestured to his bowl. “Then you may have mine also.”

  “You need to eat.”

  Hiro refilled the Jesuit’s teacup and then his own. “Many people live on only roasted tea and rice. I can manage for a night or two.”

  “If you’re certain.” Father Mateo reached for the second bowl. “You don’t like eel?”

  “I like them fine. . .in the river or the ocean.”

  “But isn’t eel a specialty of Iga?”

  “An unfortunate truth that has no bearing on my sense of taste.”

  Some time after they finished eating, they heard a knock on the guest room door.

  “Come in,” Hiro said.

  The door slid open, and Kane bowed from the threshold. “I have come to take your tray.”

  Hiro felt relieved to see the innkeeper’s wife instead of Ana. Her presence saved him needing to find an excuse to see Noboru. He stood up. “The foreigner wishes to visit the burial yard, to offer prayers for the dead. I will accompany him, to ensure his safety. Please lay out the futon for us now, while we are gone.”

  Kane froze, bent over the dinner tray. “He wants to go now? But it will soon be dark.”

  “A priest of his religion does not fear the darkness, or the dead.” Hiro removed his purse from his obi, set it on the table, and drew his cloak around his shoulders.

  Kane picked up the tray but did not leave the room. When the men finished fastening their cloaks, she said, “Please excuse me, but you must—”

  “Foolish woman!” Noboru appeared in the doorway. “Do not attempt to tell a samurai what he should do.” He bowed to Hiro and Father Mateo. “I could not help but overhear. Forgive my wife.”

  “But Noboru. . .” Her protest barely rose above a whisper.

  “Prepare the room as he requested.” The innkeeper’s voice grew harsh.

  Kane bowed her head in obedience, but cast a worried glance at Father Mateo as she hurried from the room.

  “May we trouble you for the loan of a lantern?” Hiro asked Noboru.

  “Of course. I will light one for you.”

  Father Mateo carried the lantern as he and Hiro left the ryokan.

  Although the sky still glowed with the remnants of a hazy sunset, the temperature had dropped dramatically when the sun disappeared below the trees.

  A bitter wind blew down from the mountain, rustling the trees and making Hiro shiver.

  “H-how long do we have to stay out here before we circle back to the inn?” Father Mateo’s teeth chattered in the cold.

  “Just long enough to make the thief believe we went to the burial yard.”

  “Then why are we heading to the teahouse?”

  “To make sure the thief is aware we’ve left the ryokan.”

  “You think Hanako is the thief?”

  Instead of answering, Hiro stepped up onto the teahouse’s veranda.

  As he hoped, the door swung open before he knocked.

  Hanako wore a pale kimono adorned with hand-stitched bamboo stalks that bore a coat of embroidered snow. Silver threads shot through her dark green obi. “What are you doing here?” she shrieked. “You should not be here! She will come!”

  “We merely wished to ask—” Hiro began.

  Hanako raised her hands before her like a shield. “Go away!” Her voice rang clearly through the silent street. “I will not listen! I do not care what you have to say!”

  Father Mateo stepped backward off the porch, but Hiro held his ground. “The foreigner is going to the burial yard, to offer prayers—”

  “Then go to the burial yard, and leave me alone!” Hanako slammed the door.

  “That went even better than I hoped,” Hiro said as he joined the priest and they started up the road.

  “You wanted her to yell.” Father Mateo’s voice held grudging respect. “So everyone in the village would believe we’d left for the burial yard.”

  Hiro smiled. “A shrieking woman finally proved useful.”

  “Go away, you ghost!” Saku stood in the open doorway of her home. “Stop scaring innocent women and go away!” She thumped the ground with her cane for emphasis.

  Father Mateo turned to face her. “I am not a ghost.”

  She shook her head. “The longer it takes you to accept the truth, the harder it will be for you to go.”

  “I am taking him to the burial ground right now,” Hiro said.

  “To offer prayers.” Father Mateo glared at the shinobi and repeated, “I am not a ghost.”

  Hiro smiled.

  “See that he stays there,” Saku said. “This village is cursed enough already, without a foreign ghost as well.”

  “If you truly believe the village cursed,” Hiro commented, “why don’t you leave?”

  “Because it does no good!” Saku thumped the ground with her cane once more. “Only a fool attempts to outrun a yūrei. If she wants you dead, you die, and we deserve it. All of us. No one raised a finger when she screamed for help. Not even me.” In a sorrowful voice she added, “I wish I had.”

  She pointed her cane at Hiro. “Leave this village. And take that fool ghost with you.”

  Chapter 33

  “Do you think we need to talk with anyone else? Father Mateo asked as he and Hiro continued on the travel road.

  “Otomuro.” The shinobi gestured to the samurai mansion at the far end of the village. Its shadowed form nestled against the trees as if trying to disappear into the night. The lanterns near the veranda steps were cold and dark, and wooden shutters barred the w
indows against the night. But for the sliver of light that escaped beneath the large front door, Hiro might have thought the occupants were sleeping.

  “Surely he wouldn’t—”

  Hiro held up a hand for silence.

  “What—” Father Mateo began.

  “Shh.” Hiro gestured toward the forest.

  Silence fell.

  Twilight drained the colors from the village, casting every shape in shades of darkening blue. The only movement came from the pale lines of smoke that rose from the chimneys of the ryokan, the teahouse, and the occupied village houses.

  Just as Hiro decided he must have imagined the sound in the forest, it came again—a gentle, distant crunch, like footsteps moving through the snow.

  It grew fainter as he listened.

  “Circle around behind the houses and return to the ryokan,” Hiro whispered. “Go in through the veranda door, and make sure no one sees you. Hide in the cupboard and wait for the thief.”

  “We are supposed to go back together,” The priest objected, his voice a silent hiss.

  “The plan has changed.”

  Father Mateo looked into the forest as if considering further argument.

  The footsteps faded into silence.

  “Go,” Hiro whispered.

  “Be careful.” Father Mateo shuttered the lantern and hurried off across the empty field.

  Hiro wondered whether he should have loaned the priest a sword. Then again, Father Mateo did not like weapons, and had no skill with them anyway.

  Leaving the thought and the village behind, Hiro started up the mountain.

  He moved as silently as he could without sacrificing the necessary speed. Gathering darkness transformed the ground beneath his feet into a ragged quilt of black and gray, with patches of indigo where the snow reflected the last of the failing light.