Ancient Illusions

by Joanne Pence

  No answer. Just a week sob.

  “I’m here, Rachel.”

  No answer again. Another sob, but a weak nod.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s too horrible,” Rachel whispered.

  “I could guess that.”

  Ceinwen could tell Rachel was regaining her composure. She was no longer panting, and the look of terror had changed to one of utter bewilderment. Rachel sat up, but still held onto Ceinwen’s hand.

  “Did I wake up anyone?”

  “You didn’t. God only knows why not!”

  Rachel looked surprised, but then a wry smile crossed her face. “We are sound sleepers in this family.”

  Ceinwen joined her smile. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  “No, instead, I’m losing my mind.”

  “It was a dream Rachel. Your mind was telling you something, warning you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Maybe it has to do with the ordeals you went through two years ago.”

  Rachel shook her head. “It was weird, I mean, completely different from any of my other nightmares and trances and whatever.”

  “How?”

  “To start, I wasn’t in Idaho. It took place in Japan, and I’ve never even been there. I hardly know anything about it. It was crazy. Not only that, I was a Buddhist! I don’t know a thing about that religion.”

  Ceinwen listened with fascinated horror as Rachel told her about the flesh-eating ghoul who killed her.

  A long time passed before they were able to go back to sleep.

  The next day, Rachel’s parents took “the girls” over to Yellowstone Park to see the “Old Faithful” geyser, massive herds of elk and bison, and boiling and bubbling mudpots. They said Ceinwen couldn’t be that close to one of the most famous parks in the country and not see it.

  The following day, Ceinwen, Rachel, and her two brothers rode out to the brushland surrounding the farm. They planned to picnic alongside a pretty creek.

  While the boys splashed in the creek, Rachel and Ceinwen sat under a tree enjoying the warmth of the day. Suddenly, Rachel stopped talking and stared off into space. Ceinwen didn’t like the way her eyes had gone flat and emotionless. She had seen this before. She shook Rachel, but it did no good. Rachel was breathing and didn’t seem to be in any distress, so, as in the past, Ceinwen waited, hard though it was. Fortunately, again as in the past, Rachel came out of the trance about ten minutes later.

  “Rachel?” Ceinwen said. “Are you all right now?”

  Rachel lifted her head, straightening her shoulders, but then seemed to crumble. She covered her face as terrible, wrenching sobs tore from her lips. “God, Ceinwen! They were all dead! All of them.”

  Ceinwen grabbed her arm. “Who was dead?”

  “My brothers and sisters. Their kids.” She couldn’t stop her tears. “I think I’m putting them in danger being here. I’ve got to get away.”

  “What do you mean? Why would they be in danger?”

  She covered her face. “I can’t!”

  “Tell me!”

  “I don’t know why I said that. I’m having nightmares. That’s all.”

  “Why do you think you’ve got to get away?” Ceinwen insisted. “It has to do with what happened two years ago, doesn’t it?”

  Rachel looked as if she were at a breaking point. Her hands shook, and her face had lost all its color. “I haven’t been out in brush like this since I was lost in that strange area north of the Salmon River.” She tried to wipe away her tears but her efforts did little good. “I can never forget it, no matter how hard I try.”

  “You’ve got to keep fighting,” Ceinwen said.

  “It’s as if something is here with me – not only inside my head, but in me. It’s something alien to me, and evil, causing me to see images and people I’ve tried hard to forget.”

  “What kind of images?”

  “I found my family dead and knew I was the cause. I ran out of the house, through the land shrieking for them to take me, to kill me instead. Then, somehow, dead friends appeared and told me I need to go back to Salmon. That they need me there. That without me there, everyone would really die—that it would be more than a nightmare. It would come true. Then, one of them took my hand and held it tight as I watched him die all over again, just as he died two years ago.”

  “My God.” Ceinwen rubbed Rachel’s arm, and when she felt the girl’s hand, it was ice cold—as if she were already dead. “It was a dream, Rachel, a terrible nightmare. Nothing more.”

  “Was it? Look.” Rachel held out her hand, and Ceinwen could see that it had turned red, and where Rachel wore a simple birthstone ring, the fingers around the ring bore its imprint as if something had squeezed her hand tight.

  Ceinwen gasped. Rachel hadn’t moved the whole time she was in the trance. Never did one hand touch the other. Never could she have squeezed her own hand to make it look that way.

  “I’ve to go back, Ceinwen.”

  “To Salmon?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ceinwen drew in a shuddering breath. Once, not long ago, she had hoped for this. From the safety of Oxford, she imagined traveling to the River of No Return wilderness and seeing for herself where the terrible disappearances of two years earlier had happened. But now, faced with actually going there, she wondered if this wasn’t a terrible idea. “If you really think you should go,” Ceinwen said softly, “I’m going with you.”

  Rachel shook her head. “It’s far too dangerous.”

  Soon, Ceinwen told herself, all of this will make sense—logically and rationally. With strong resolve she said, “I’ve come this far. I’m not stopping now.”

  Chapter 16

  Michael arrived at the Izumo Airport in western Japan, rented a car, and drove to the nearby town of Matsue.

  Lafcadio Hearn had traveled to Matsue in 1890, soon after arriving in Japan, to work as an English teacher. He rented a house near the Matsue Castle, a place he had called, “vast and sinister in shape … made up of magnificent monstrosities.” The massive, medieval castle had multiple roofs, and most of the exterior walls were painted black.

  In Matsue, Hearn began to write Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan in which he described his first experiences in the little-known country. He also began recording Japanese ghost stories which eventually grew to several collections.

  Matsue’s coastal location meant that in winter it took the brunt of cold winds off the sea and snow from the surrounding mountains. Hearn suffered terribly from bronchitis during his first winter, and dreading another winter in such a climate, he accepted a better paying job teaching English and Latin at a government college in warmer Kyushu. It was a decision he often regretted.

  As Michael parked his rental car near the castle, he noticed a sign reading, “Lafcadio Hearn Way.” It was the lane Hearn had used to walk between his home and the castle.

  From there, Michael found himself strolling along a dusty, pine-lined street in the heart of what had once been the town’s samurai quarter. A number of the samurai homes remained. They had been built in the traditional Japanese style, raised up off the ground, with sliding panels as walls, and shoji screens to let in light.

  Among them was Hearn’s residence. Beside it was a memorial museum. Michael had spent so many hours reading Hearn’s books and letters, he felt strangely gladdened to see the respect the town gave to his maybe-relative. The museum displayed a number of photos and first editions of Hearn’s books and magazine articles, and the museum prominently displayed Hearn’s Japanese name, Koizumi Yakumo.

  Michael went from it to Hearn’s house which was quite small, but its peaceful, beautiful garden drew him outdoors. Hearn had loved his garden, and wrote an essay, “In a Japanese Garden,” describing how enchanted he was by it. He was pessimistic about such gardens lasting, however. Michael remembered his words:

  These are gardens of the past. The future will know them only as dreams, creations of a forgotten art.<
br />
  As Michael stood enjoying it, a middle-aged Japanese man came up to him. “Are you Doctor Michael Rempart?”

  “I am.”

  The man bowed. “I am most pleased to meet you. I am Yamato Toru. I spoke to your assistant, Mr. Li.”

  Soon, the two men pleasantly conversed about Hearn and his writings. Yamato’s English was good, and Michael found him interesting. When they discussed how Hearn left Matsue for Kyushu, Michael said, "Perhaps that is the next place I should visit."

  "No, not to bother. Hearn-sensei did not like it there and regretted to leave Matsue. He said he wished he could fly back against stream of time, to life of tiny villages. That, he said, was real Japan. That Japan he loved."

  Michael could well imagine Hearn saying such a thing. "I understand he never returned to Matsue."

  "Not to live. He needed more money than Matsue could pay him. He lived many places in Japan, but one place he most loved, that he kept secret from other foreigners and fellow teachers, was village called Kamigawa. It is only sixty kilometers south of Matsue, in hills with view of sea.”

  “I haven’t heard that,” Michael said.

  “He never wrote of it. He was guest of family of a student. Nakamura family. Family was wealthy, descendant of daimyo. As I am sure you know, daimyo were similar to feudal lords of European history. Samurai protected them.”

  “Are there still many daimyo families?” Michael asked.

  "Yes, of course. Daimyo lost power when Emperor Meiji regained control of country. It was around time of Civil War in your own country. So, not so long ago. Now, many daimyo families retain land and wealth.”

  “That makes sense,” Michael said.

  “I am certain if you go to Kamigawa, Nakamura family will be most happy to show you their many artifacts, and also to allow you to see house where Hearn-sensei stayed."

  “It’s not far,” Michael said. “I can do that.”

  "If you'd like, I have cousin in Kamigawa. She is … what do you call? Realtor. I will phone her. She can meet you and show you house. Maybe you like to stay there. Vacation, just like Lafcadio did."

  The offer surprised Michael and made him more than a little skeptical. It sounded like a scheme to rent an out-of-the-way property to gullible tourists—a Japanese version of "George Washington slept here." But he was willing to meet the fellow's cousin and view the house.

  After getting instructions about the route to Kamigawa, and where to meet the realtor, he got into his car and phoned Jianjun.

  “I did some searches,” Jianjun said. “I haven’t been able to find anything about Yamato Toru or any daimyo named Nakamura. Both are common names, and not a lot of Japanese history from that area has been digitized.”

  “Not to mention that you don’t read Japanese, and it uses simplified versions of many Chinese characters,” Michael said.

  “There is that,” Jianjun admitted. “But still–”

  “You worry too much, Jianjun. I’m finding it nice here—beautiful, and with helpful people.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Jianjun said. “Just saying, be careful.”

  Chapter 17

  Wade Cox opened his eyes to see the first light of dawn in the sky. He’d had a dream—a horrible, terrifying dream—and his heart was pounding. Something, some creature wanted to kill him, and he was trying to run, but couldn’t.

  With a start, he saw that he wasn’t in his bed, but outdoors, lying on the cold ground of his pasture. He sat up.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, wondering why he was out here freezing his ass off instead of inside the warm cabin. Had he started sleep-walking at his age? What kind of old fool was he?

  His aging bones ached from the cold and the ground. In the distance, he saw a light burning in the cabin window. He always slept with a light on. It made him feel less lonely somehow. He’d lived alone some fifteen years, ever since his wife got sick of the desolation of their life and ran off. They’d never been blessed with kids. Good thing, all in all.

  Something on his chest felt weird, and he looked down to see that his shirt was sticking to his skin. Something dark was on it, and the smell, acrid and sharp, almost tinny, was all around him.

  Blood? He jumped to his feet.

  He fumbled for the cell phone in his pocket. It didn’t do much good here—there was rarely any service, but it had other useful items, such as a flashlight. He turned it on and aimed it at his clothes.

  They were dark red with blood, as were his hands. And at his feet lay his seven-inch boning knife, also covered with blood.

  He directed the light to nearby land. A large object lay a few feet away, and he crept toward it.

  He stared in horror. It was the mutilated body of his neighbor, Mitch Ivansen. Well, not exactly a neighbor—Mitch’s land was ten miles away. What the hell was he doing here, on Wade’s property, in the middle of the night?

  Wade stumbled backward. He felt the blood sticking his shirt to his body. Bile rose in his throat as he stared at Mitch's dead, glazed over eyes, at his slashed and torn torso. He'd been carved open like in those autopsies they liked to show on TV crime programs.

  Only then did Wade remember the boning knife. His boning knife, covered with blood.

  Had he done this? He shook his head. No. No. It wasn't possible.

  But would anyone believe Wade was innocent of this murder?

  Wade thought about the sheriff in Salmon. The guy always had it in for him—even made him stay in jail one night just for having a couple too many drinks. Jake Sullivan would lock him up faster than a bat out of hell. Probably not even give him a chance to say he had nothing to do with Mitch’s murder.

  And what about the other ranchers? None of them were ever close to him. Not that he cared. At least, he never cared before.

  He didn’t have a choice. All he could do was pack as much stuff as he needed to survive out in the back country and run for his life. He’d need to stay out there a couple years, he guessed. He hadn’t lived on this land all his life and not learned how to survive off it. When the time was right, he’d make his way to some big city where he could get lost in the crowd. Portland maybe, or Seattle, or Reno. Anywhere outside Idaho. He’d figure that out later. Right now, he had to pack and get as far away, and as fast, as he could.

  And at that moment he heard a deep, reverberating howl, a howl that sounded not so much like that of a wolf, not even that of a man, but of something strange, nothing he’d ever heard before.

  Wade Cox dropped to his knees and cried.

  In the morning, Rachel and Ceinwen set out for Salmon.

  Ceinwen saw that Rachel’s family did not understand the way her life was now. As much as her parents and siblings were proud that one of the best schools in the world had granted her a scholarship, they didn’t recognize that returning to the farm wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life. After listening to her mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law talking about nothing but their kids and local gossip, Ceinwen found herself puzzling over how different Rachel was from everyone else in the family. In a university filled with intelligent people, Rachel was one of the smartest. She had breezed through assignments with an ease and skill that had stunned her professors. Rachel had indicated that while she’d always been an excellent student, only recently had she learned to focus to a degree that made her senior year and now graduate school surprisingly easy.

  Ceinwen couldn’t help but wonder if this exceptional braininess wasn’t another fall-out from her Idaho experience.

  Judging from the way her relatives sometimes gazed at her—as if she was no longer the person they knew—Ceinwen suspected that was the case.

  Rachel borrowed the old Ford Taurus she had used while a student at BSU, and soon the two women were driving along Highway 28, a desolate stretch of road, into the mountains around Salmon.

  Ceinwen had thought Idaho Falls looked like a throwback in time, but it was nothing compared to Salmon. One- and two-story buildings dominated Main Street. A
few were in red brick, but most were wooden and looked like what one might find in an old Western town, with high façades and covered verandas whose roofs jutted out to shelter the sidewalks.

  The sheriff’s station was on Main Street, and parking was plentiful. They walked in.

  “I’m here to see Sheriff Sullivan,” Rachel said. “Is he available?”

  “Not right now, ma’am.” The deputy did a double-take. “You’re Rachel Gooding.”

  She stiffened. “I am.”

  “Deputy Mallick.” He held out his hand to shake hers. “I looked at your photo so many times a couple years back, I thought I’d never forget it. You’ve grown up some since those days.”

  “Life has been different for me, I’ll admit that.”

  Mallick gave her a gentle smile, one filled with concern. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I don’t think it’s been easy for anyone involved.”

  Ceinwen stepped forward and introduced herself.

  “Let me call the Sheriff,” Mallick said, picking up his phone. “He’s just next door at the coffee shop.”

  In less than a minute the door opened and Jake Sullivan walked into the station. “Rachel, how great to see you.”

  She gave him a hug. “I'm glad to see you, too.” She introduced him to Ceinwen.

  Jake led them into his office.

  "So, are you all done at Boise State?” he asked Rachel after they sat.

  "Not only that," she said. "Given all I learned two winters ago, I did well and managed to get a full scholarship to a graduate program at Oxford. Ceinwen is my roommate there.”

  His eyebrows rose. “In England?”

  Rachel chuckled at his surprise. “The one and only.”

  “A full scholarship. Congratulations! What area are you studying?”

  “Archeology,” she replied.

  “I should have known. I mean, after all that, what else could you be studying? That’s great.” He faced Ceinwen. “And you go there, too?”

  “Yes. Another student of archeology.”

  “Did I catch an accent?” he asked her.