In Darkness, Death

by Dorothy Hoobler

  “Yes?”

  “If any harm comes to Seikei, there will be no place in Japan where you can hide from me.”

  7

  IN DISGUISE

  Five days later, Seikei and Tatsuno were on the road to Minowa. Seikei had cut his hair and shed the garments that marked him as the son of a samurai family. He still carried his wooden sword as protection, but had left the horse at a stable when they entered Shinano Province, three days’ ride north of Edo.

  “Our story will be that we are pilgrims,” Tatsuno told Seikei at the beginning of the trip. “We’re going to visit the sacred mountains in Etchu. There are so many pilgrims on the roads that we will pass without notice. And it gives us an excuse to stop anywhere to ask for food or a place to sleep.”

  He gave Seikei a sly look. “I know that as the son of a merchant you’re used to much finer things, but—”

  “It won’t bother me,” said Seikei. “I’m the son of a samurai now. I followed a troupe of kabuki actors along the Tokaido Road by myself.” He immediately felt annoyed with himself. It was beneath the dignity of a samurai to brag.

  “Don’t display that bag of money your father gave you,” Tatsuno said. “There are robbers and outlaws on the roads here. Maybe you’d better let me carry it for safekeeping.”

  “I am not so foolish as that,” said Seikei.

  Tatsuno retorted with a proverb: “A man who thinks he is smarter than anyone else is foolish indeed.”

  “No danger there,” said Seikei, “for I know I will never be as smart as Judge Ooka.”

  “He too must meet his equal someday,” said Tatsuno, “and I assure you he will if he ever finds the person who left that butterfly in Lord Inaba’s room.”

  Seikei hesitated. He had been wanting to ask something, but didn’t want Tatsuno to think he was ignorant. Now seemed to be his best chance of finding out. “What does the butterfly mean? Why does it make you afraid?”

  “Aha,” said Tatsuno. “You don’t even know, do you? The judge sends you, his own son, on a mission like this and fails to tell you what danger you’re in. And yet people admire him!”

  “Everyone admires him,” Seikei said fiercely. “And you fear him.” Once again, Seikei regretted his rash words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

  “It is only good sense,” Tatsuno responded, “to fear someone who could have me executed on a whim. That is why—” Tatsuno cut himself off, demonstrating that he had greater self-control than Seikei.

  “Why what?” prodded Seikei.

  “No matter,” said Tatsuno, waving away the thought with his hand. “I can tell you, however, that the person who left the butterfly did so to drive off the evil kami he had released by killing Lord Inaba.”

  Seikei was so surprised, he stopped walking and stared at Tatsuno. “But ... that means he was a Shinto priest.”

  Tatsuno shook his head. “He does not devote his life to Shinto, as the priests do, but yes, he knows how to perform the Shinto rituals.”

  “I never heard of a priest killing people,” Seikei said.

  “I told you, he’s not a priest,” Tatsuno said. “Haven’t you been paying attention at all? He’s a ninja—the ninja who calls himself Kitsune: the fox.”

  Stung by the rebuke, Seikei seethed. He was more confused than ever.

  After walking without speaking for quite a while, Tatsuno finally broke the silence. “It isn’t fair, you know,” he said.

  “What isn’t?”

  “That I’m responsible for your safety and I’m supposed to teach you about ninjas. I suppose all you’ve heard is that ninjas wear black and sneak about killing people.”

  Seikei didn’t want to admit that was true.

  “And, of course, that ninjas have magic powers that they can use to make themselves invisible or defeat enemies just by waving their hands.”

  For Seikei, Tatsuno’s words were like an itch that had to be scratched. “Can they really do that?”

  “Certainly,” Tatsuno said, “but that’s only part of being a ninja. Centuries ago, when the emperor lived at Nara and the Fujiwara family were shoguns—”

  “Wait,” said Seikei, “I want to know how you become invisible.”

  “Why would you want to know that?”

  “Well ... it sounds interesting. It must be very useful in certain situations.”

  “It is, yes.” Tatsuno spoke as if he became invisible whenever he liked.

  Then Seikei realized something: “How come you didn’t become invisible when I chased you into the alley? Then the judge couldn’t have caught you.”

  “Well, I did, don’t you remember? You couldn’t see me in the alley, could you?”

  “No, but that was only because you hid behind some crates.”

  “I may have given that illusion, but in fact I was invisible. After I lost you, I was off my guard and that is when the judge saw me.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Seikei.

  Tatsuno shrugged. “That’s of no concern to me.”

  Seikei was annoyed. “If you can really become invisible, let’s see you do it right now.”

  “It’s not some trick to be performed for the amusement of crowds in the street,” Tatsuno replied haughtily. “It requires a close connection with the nature kami.”

  Seikei laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “And you have that connection?”

  “When the occasion requires it,” said Tatsuno with a nod.

  “Yes, well, I hope to see that occasion,” Seikei said.

  “If you do,” replied Tatsuno, “it will mean we are in grave danger.”

  As they proceeded onward, Seikei thought there was little chance of that. The road that led to their destination was lightly traveled. Seikei and Tatsuno passed only an occasional farmer or laborer, who looked at them without curiosity or threats.

  Approaching the Akaishi mountains, Seikei had thought them beautiful. Even though the peaks were bare of snow, the green pines and the bare-branched maples that covered their sides made a striking combination. But now that the road led upward through those very trees, he was often tired and out of breath. The weather grew colder the higher they traveled, and Seikei wished he had worn warmer clothing. But all the other clothes he owned showed that he was the son of a well-to-do samurai.

  He was determined not to ask Tatsuno to stop for a rest. But the older man showed no signs of tiring, putting one foot in front of the other as steadily as if he had just started on the journey.

  The first night they stopped at a small shrine where three Shinto priests lived. Families from the surrounding area contributed rice and vegetables to support the shrine. Though the priests gladly shared their meal with the two guests, Seikei could see there was barely enough. Later, when he and Tatsuno attended the evening prayer ceremony, Seikei left a silver coin for the kami that lived inside the shrine. He knew it would allow the priests to buy themselves a fish or two for their meals.

  The next morning, Seikei awoke to find that a heavy snow had fallen during the night. The tree limbs hung low with their blankets of white, and the ground appeared as fresh as it must have when the earth was new. Even so, the sight dismayed Seikei as he realized it meant the journey would be harder today.

  The priests, however, were delighted. They prepared a special meal for breakfast, opening a jar of daikon pickles that had been stored away for a festive occasion.

  Tatsuno explained. “They haven’t had much snow this winter,” he told Seikei. “Without snowfall, the mountain streams won’t flow when spring comes, and the farmers around here wouldn’t get their planting season off to a good start. That would reflect badly on the priests. It would mean the shrine kami wasn’t pleased.”

  After breakfast, Tatsuno spoke quietly with one of the priests, who left and returned with some otter skins. “We can tie these around our feet so they won’t get cold in the snow,” Tatsuno said.

  “I should leave the shrine an offering for these,” said Seikei.

  �
��No need. I saw you leave the coin last night,” Tatsuno told him.

  “That was only for the food,” Seikei said. “The otter skins are valuable.”

  “Yes, but the priests think it was our presence here that pleased the kami enough to send the snow.”

  Seikei was puzzled. “Why would they-did you tell them that?”

  Tatsuno smiled. “I mentioned that you had a close connection with the kami of nature.”

  “I cannot allow myself to benefit from such a lie,” said Seikei.

  “It wasn’t you who lied,” Tatsuno replied. “Anyway, how do you know it was a lie? You were the only person who made an offering at the shrine last night, and this morning the kami showed he was pleased.”

  “I never pretended to be close to the kami.”

  “Showing your humility,” said Tatsuno. “Yet another of your virtues. Wrap those skins around your feet. With luck we’ll reach Minowa by nightfall.”

  8

  THE PAPERMAKER

  Minowa turned out to be a small, neat village poised on the edge of a high bluff. The view, when Seikei paused to turn and look at it, was breathtaking. He wanted to stop and use his writing kit for the first time, but Tatsuno pulled him onward.

  “If we hurry, the papermaker will still be in his shop,” said Tatsuno. “I don’t want to be stranded out here with no place to stay for the night.”

  It was easy to find Bakkoro. Though his shop had no sign, the sharp, pungent smell of tororo seeds wafted through the doorway. The pulp of the seeds was one of the ingredients of fine handmade paper. Seikei had smelled that same odor, not nearly so strongly, in the Ogawas’ shop. Michiko and her father made their paper in a separate room. Here in this mountain village, Bakkoro had one large room as a workshop. No doubt few, if any, customers entered from the street. He made paper to order for regular customers and sent it to them.

  Even so, Bakkoro didn’t look up when Seikei and Tatsuno entered. He was just lifting a large bamboo frame from a vat of liquid paper—a mix of pounded wood fiber, tororo seeds, and water. Shaking the frame so that the excess liquid returned to the vat, the papermaker now held high the delicately thin, shimmering liquid sheet that would dry into paper.

  The slightest mistake on his part at this stage would ruin not only the sheet he was holding, but all the sheets he had made today, for he had to place the sticky, half-dry new sheet exactly on top of the others resting on his worktable, so that each edge lined up as neatly as the side of a box.

  As the papermaker turned to face the light from the window, Seikei saw that Bakkoro was very old. His face was deeply lined, and only a few strands of white hair grew across the top of his skull. Yet the expression on his face was one of perfect calmness, as if he had performed this action too many times to worry that he might do it wrong.

  Bakkoro opened the bamboo frame, and one edge of the sticky paper brushed against the stack of sheets below it. It seemed to touch as lightly as a downy feather from a newborn chick. As Bakkoro leaned forward, the rest of the sheet rolled off the frame as smoothly as a turning wheel. The far edge fell perfectly aligned with the top sheet on the stack. Seikei exhaled, and realized that all this time he had been holding his breath in anticipation.

  Bakkoro set the now-empty frame down, and finally seemed to notice Seikei and Tatsuno. “How may I help you?” he asked.

  “We are here by the authority ofJudge Ooka, official investigator of the shogun Tokugawa Yoshimune,” Tatsuno announced in a voice that was needlessly loud.

  Seikei was startled. He didn’t like Tatsuno assuming such high authority for himself.

  Bakkoro’s face still wore the same placid expression. “I am very honored to have you visit my humble workshop,” he said. “Does the judge wish you to bring him some paper?”

  “No,” said Tatsuno. He snapped his fingers in Seikei’s direction. “Show him the butterfly.”

  Seikei nearly refused. He resented Tatsuno’s tone, which was one that he might use to a particularly slow-witted servant. But this was what they had come to find out, so Seikei fought back a retort and took the butterfly from his kimono.

  Bakkoro turned his eyes upon it, then looked at Seikei as if asking permission to handle it. In response Seikei held it closer to the old man.

  He picked it up and gave a chirp of disapproval when he saw the bloodstain on it. Delicately he took hold of each wing and pulled slightly to see the inside. Peering within the body of the butterfly, he nodded slightly.

  “Is this your paper?” asked Tatsuno.

  “I made it, if that is what you mean,” Bakkoro responded.

  “Who bought it from you?”

  Though Tatsuno barked out his questions as if he were the judge and Bakkoro a prisoner, the old man’s composure remained unshaken. He didn’t hurry with his answer: “I don’t ask my customers for their names.”

  “You must know their names if you send the paper to them—if you made it for a shrine, for example.”

  “I make paper like this for many shrines. The priests shape it into creatures that attract the kami.” Bakkoro smiled. “Or make the kami go away, as this one was intended to do.”

  “You know the purpose of the butterfly?”

  “Of course. It is used to purify a place where the kami of a dead person has been.”

  “You smile,” Tatsuno said. “Do you find that amusing?”

  “No. I expect that I myself will be dead before too long. It will be interesting to see where I go after that.”

  “We can make that happen sooner instead of later if you prefer,” said Tatsuno in a voice filled with menace.

  Seikei could no longer restrain himself. “That’s enough!” he shouted.

  He turned to Bakkoro. “We will not harm you,” he said. “But we’re trying to find a murderer. He left this butterfly near the man he killed. Won’t you help us?”

  Bakkoro looked at Seikei. His eyes were kind, but there was sadness behind them too. A sadness that gave Seikei the uneasy feeling that it was meant for him. The old man handed the butterfly back to Seikei. “This paper,” he said, “was made for the O-Miwa Shrine at the base of Miwayama.”

  Seikei took the butterfly, but then Bakkoro’s hand moved—swifter than a leaping frog—and gripped Seikei’s wrist. Seikei could feel the bones of Bakkoro’s fingers, for the old papermaker’s flesh was as thin as paper itself.

  “But you must not go there,” Bakkoro said.

  Tatsuno was still angry as they left the town. “You shamed me by interrupting my line of questions,” he told Seikei.

  “You had no right to threaten him that way,” said Seikei, who was in no mood to apologize. “You’re not one of the shogun’s officials.”

  “The papermaker didn’t know that, did he?” Tatsuno shot back. “Anyway, we were sent here by one of the shogun’s officials, so it’s practically the same thing. I was just trying to find out what the judge wanted to know.”

  “He didn’t want you to threaten people.”

  “How do you know? He wanted us to find out where that paper came from. The old man pretended he didn’t know. Well, I know how to turn a fish into a songbird.”

  “He told us anyway,” Seikei pointed out.

  “Lucky for you,” Tatsuno said. “And I hope you paid attention to the last thing he said too.”

  “About not going there? Where is the O-Miwa Shrine, anyway?”

  “In Yamato Province. The shrine has no honden, no sanctuary for the kami to stay in.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the kami resides in the sacred mountain, Miwayama. There’s a torii, a gate on the side of the mountain, but it’s forbidden to go any farther than that.”

  “You sound as if you’ve been there.”

  Tatsuno didn’t say anything for a while, unusual for him. Seikei was curious.

  “Have you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Tatsuno said quietly. “I first visited it with my teacher, many years ago.”

  “What is there
about it that makes you afraid?”

  “Nothing,” replied Tatsuno, but Seikei did not believe him.

  Seikei thought about what he had learned. Yamato Province. The judge had told them to meet him at the governor’s house in Yamato Province. Did he know already that was where the butterfly had come from? If so, why did he order Tatsuno and Seikei to go on to Etchu Province to investigate the enemies of Lord Inaba?

  Seikei sighed and marched on. The judge had sent him before on journeys whose purpose was unclear. It was not up to Seikei to ask why, but to obey. In the end, he was sure, the judge would reveal the reasons behind his instructions.

  A gust of wind blew up, sending icy flakes of snow against their faces. In the howl of the gale, Seikei thought he heard the voice of the old papermaker, urging him to go back.

  9

  BLAZING SKiN

  Seikei was not used to walking in otter skins, and some-where on the road to Etchu Province, he slipped and fell. He twisted his ankle badly, and Tatsuno examined it. “Put it into the snow,” he said. “That will keep it from swelling.”

  Seikei thrust his bare foot into a snowbank. The cold immediately numbed it, and the ankle seemed to stop throbbing. In a little while, though, Tatsuno told him to take his foot out of the snow. “But it feels better this way,” Seikei protested.

  “Maybe so, but if it freezes solid, it will break off and you won’t have a foot to walk on,” said Tatsuno.

  Walking was easier for a while, but then Seikei’s ankle began to hurt again, and he had to hobble. Finally, Tatsuno found a heavy branch on the ground. He broke it at a fork so that Seikei could use it as a crutch. They spent the night in a farmer’s storage shed, and the next day, the ankle was worse than ever. Seikei gritted his teeth and forced himself to go on, even though the snow was now deeper than before. From time to time they would stop so Seikei could untie his otter-skin boot and dip his foot into the soothing snow.

  While they were stopped this way, a tradesman passed by, leading a horse loaded with sacks of rice. When he saw what was wrong, he told them the next town was very close, only two hills beyond where they were. Better yet, the town had a doctor. “Look for the third house on the left from this end of the village,” the man said. “His office has no sign, because everyone knows where he lives.”