The Mists of Osorezan

by Zoe Drake

  If so, where was it now?

  Weiss returned to the reception desk, the Japanese phrase book in his hands. He asked the lady there in clumsy Japanese whether there was any more information available on the Tomb. Not here, she replied. The will, the documents and other materials had all been placed in a museum belonging to a shrine somewhere else in Japan.

  “Well, is there anyone else around here who knows the tomb and the pyramids? Is there someone who may have studied them?”

  The woman instantly picked a booklet up from the desk and handed it to him with both hands. Weiss looked doubtfully at the explosively colorful display of kanji characters on the booklet’s cover. “And this is?”

  “Arashi no Maebure.” She pointed out of the doors, off to the north. “Big house,” she said in English. “Thirty minutes by walk.”

  “Thank you.” Weiss opened the leaflet, flipped through pages of unreadable text. “Arashi no Maebure,” he replied thoughtfully. “I wonder…”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Blood Types

  The taxi drove Weiss to a set of gates at the end of another long country road, and dropped him off in a courtyard lined with trees. Once the Professor had walked across the yard and past the screen of conifers, he stopped and looked in bemusement at the building in front of him.

  A grim façade of raw slabs of concrete loomed up ahead. The exterior was covered with low-walled verandas connected by steep, undecorated staircases, rising up in harsh, angular lines between the narrow windows. Large metal doors studded the ground floor, all exactly the same size, all closed, nothing indicating a front entrance to welcome visitors.

  As well as the unsettling architecture, something on the edge of the flat concrete roof caught his attention; a large black billboard with a single Hebrew letter painted upon it. The letter Yod. Facing the main gate for every visitor to see.

  Sensations buzzed in his head, but he patiently filed them away for further introspection. There was too much to take in. Young men and women in groups of three or four walked across the courtyard wearing white clothes that reminded him of Namiko – white smocks that came down to their knees, under which they wore jeans or long dresses.

  He suddenly realized that his stomach, which had been giving him cramps since the pyramid, had gone completely numb.

  He waved and a couple of acolytes, as he had already come to think of them, came over to greet him. Weiss managed to make himself understood, and the acolytes asked him to wait. A low two-story building to the left evidently functioned as a hospitality room. In the reception area they asked him to take a seat on a long leather sofa, among magazines, paintings and notices, all exclusively Japanese. Outside the sliding door he noticed a small dish that visitors walked past on their way in; it held white crystals that looked very much like salt.

  It wasn’t long until someone came to tend to him.

  “Welcome,” said the man in the open doorway. His slightly accented English was clear and confident. “My name is Nobuaki Matsuoka.” He produced a name card, and bowed as he presented it to Weiss with both hands, who stood up to accept it. The cast of the man’s eyes was unmistakably Japanese, but the skin of his swarthy face was deeply tanned. Above his lengthy jaw, full lips and thin black moustache, the cartilage of his nose was noticeably twisted.

  Like the acolytes, he wore a white smock, and Weiss took the chance to study it more carefully. Unreadable kanji characters ran down the front of his chest, even down his arms, as far as his sleeves – but what struck Weiss was the letter Yod, once more, on the left side of his chest, and below it a six-pointed star – the Seal of Solomon. Weiss turned his head to the side and used the power of his Sight. The man’s aura was a thick, clotted black: a warning to use caution.

  As Namiko had taught him, Weiss brought out his University of London business card and bowed as he handed it over. He stumbled through the basic Japanese greetings he’d memorized.

  “Professor of Jewish studies. You are Jewish, yes?” Matsuoka enthused in English. “What brings you to us? You felt that you had to come here, did you? You had a wish, a desire?”

  The questions took Weiss by surprise. “Well, I was curious. I’m doing research, you see. Research on the grave of, er…whoever it may be up there.”

  “Of course, of course! The tomb receives many visitors, many scholars. Please sit down. Can we offer you some Japanese green tea? We only have that, I’m afraid.”

  Weiss nodded and smiled weakly. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not sure exactly what you do. You are some kind of…religious organization?”

  The man shrugged. “We are the missing link, professor. The link between the Japanese and their ancient Israelite brethren.”

  Weiss smiled outwardly, but inside he was in confusion. Why couldn’t he sense anything? Was it because the man was simply deluded? Namiko had mentioned that the Shinto religion was plagued with right-wing nationalist members. Fanatics obsessed with emperor worship and historical revisionism. Was that all Matsuoka was?

  “Please, do tell me more.” Weiss realized he was overacting, but something in the other man’s face suggested he was, also.

  They sat side by side on the sofa. “The Arashi no Maebure have a mission, you see,” Matsuoka continued. “A mission for Japan to achieve the same level of international acceptance and business skills as the Jewish people.”

  “Why the Jews, in particular?”

  “What we are dedicated to proving, Professor, is that the Japanese are in fact descended from one of the ten lost tribes of Israelites, exiled in the year seven hundred and twenty-two BC.”

  “I’m aware of that theory. I’m also aware of the other races that claim to be descended from the lost tribes, such as the Yusufzai, the Pathans, the Chiang-Min. All of them have elements of historical fact.”

  “Yes, but if people look at ancient history, they will find remarkable similarities between Biblical events and the ancient customs of the Japanese.” Matsuoka picked up a book from the coffee table, leafed through it, and showed it to Weiss, touching a photograph lightly with a fingertip.

  “Look – this is an Omikoshi, a Japanese portable shrine. The shape is very similar to the Ark of the Covenant. At festivals Japanese people carry it on their shoulders between two poles, and they sing and dance in front of it. This is very similar to ancient Hebrew customs.”

  “I see what you mean.” Weiss looked up as a nervous-looking acolyte stepped through the open door, carrying a tray and two china cups. Weiss accepted the tea. It was chilled and much more bitter than the brew Namiko had served. Matsuoka was claiming his attention again, pointing at another photograph in the book.

  “Here, see the priests at a Japanese festival; their robes are white. In ancient Israel, ordinary priests wore simple white linen.”

  “‘And David was clothed in a robe of white linen.’ Chronicles fifteen – twenty-seven, I believe.”

  Matsuoka nodded excitedly. “The whole structure of the Shinto shrine is similar to the Tabernacle of ancient Israel. You know the torii, the gate? This is not found in China or Korea, only in Japan – and in the Aramaic language, the word for gate is ‘taraa’, almost the same as ‘torii’.

  “This is all very intriguing.”

  Matsuoka’s smile mutated into a teeth-bared grin as he guided Weiss through the book. Ringing the bell and clapping hands in front of the shrine, using salt and water for purification, all could be traced back to ancient Israel. “These kanji characters, on the front of the book, you see; this is the motto of Arashi no Maebure. In English, it says, if you wish to untie a knot, you must first understand how it was tied.”

  “The thing is,” Weiss commented, “across the world, similarities between religions, folklore and customs do turn up, you know. Not just in Japan.”

  “Yes, but look at this!” Matsuoka twisted over to his side to ruffle through another book. “Japanese funerals, weddings, even the Kagome Crest at the Grand Shrine of Ise…”

  “Can
be traced back to Israel, yes, I see where you’re going with this.”

  Matsuoka put down the book, and settled back onto the sofa, looking very pleased with himself. “Professor, can I ask you, what is your blood type?”

  Weiss frowned. “Well, I can’t recall off hand.”

  The other man’s smirk vanished. “Really?”

  An awkward moment of silence stretched out between them.

  “Yes, really. I’ve had medical treatment, but I don’t carry anything with my blood type written on it. Why? Is it important?”

  “We Japanese,” the leader said, his tone carefully even, “think it is very important. It is an indication of a person’s character. Some companies make hiring decisions based on blood types, and certainly for most young people, when they start a relationship, finding out if their blood types are compatible is one of the first things they do. Type A people, for example, are careful people, hardworking and loyal. About forty percent of Japanese are type A.” Matsuoka peered shrewdly at Weiss. “You seem to me to be a Type B, Professor.”

  “I’m sorry, but that line of thinking was totally discredited. The Nazis distorted the discovery of blood types and used it as an excuse to claim racial superiority over Jews and most other people.”

  Matsuoka leaned forward. “We are not talking about racial superiority here, but racial uniqueness.”

  Weiss stared back at him, speechless.

  “Professor, the Japanese and the Jews have both suffered persecution and discrimination in Western civilization – and we also share historical experiences.”

  “Persecution? Don’t talk nonsense. If you look at the twentieth century you’ll find that Japan was mostly dishing out persecution, not suffering it. Sorry to be rude.”

  Weiss leaned back and took a deep breath. His stomach pains were returning. Don’t get upset, he told himself; an angry man will read the Torah and find it full of anger. He reached out for his teacup: empty. He’d drunk it all.

  “Is everything all right, Professor?”

  “I’m feeling rather thirsty. I wonder if I could…”

  He stopped. His hands trembled, pain shot through his fingers; his brow felt hot and sweaty. Everything was blurred. A fog swept down upon his mind. “What have you done?” he asked slowly, with a heavy tongue.

  The man in front of him smirked again. “We did what we had to do, Professor. This is destiny. The Kamisama brought you to us.”

  Unbelievable. Idiotic. Weiss tried to stand up, but his legs were as limp as string. He slumped forward, pushing away the coffee table, and the floor tilted crazily to meet him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Storm Coming

  Slapped and jostled back to consciousness, with his head feeling like it had been squeezed in a vise, the first thing the professor saw was Matsuoka. He was still dressed in the white smock covered with kanji writing, but this time a cowl covered his head to his eyebrows. He also carried a bamboo cane held tucked under his right arm. It reminded Weiss of the officers in old photographs of the Imperial Japanese Army.

  The Professor sat up and looked around. His surroundings had changed. They had placed him in a wooden chair in a large hut with rough walls and a bare concrete floor. The acolytes stood around and behind him, with their leader at the center of the rough semi-circle.

  Weiss felt so old and stupid that perhaps he deserved to be killed – or whatever fate they had planned for him. What had killed Ayin? Overconfidence. And now the same thing was happening again. He had written off these people as bigots and right-wingers – nothing more than that.

  Or was it his fault after all? Was something in this place actually deadening his instincts? Something deliberately confusing him to lead him into a trap?

  “People wonder,” Matsuoka began, “why the Christian God and the Jewish God do bad things to good people. But we Japanese understand there are many Kami, many faces of God. There is much space among them for a strict and punishing God.”

  “In other words, a supernatural school bully,” Weiss replied.

  His face calm, Matsuoka took a folder off a nearby workbench and approached Weiss. “There are more things I have to show you, Professor. Secret things, the heart of the Arashi no Maebure. Things you will appreciate as a scholar.”

  “More of your family snapshots?”

  Matsuoka’s smile was cool and disturbingly self-possessed. “The Jewish Penteuch tells us that the Israelites did not always worship the one god called Yahweh. Sometimes they adored idol-gods, such as Baal and Ashtaroth. We believe that Baal was incarnated, in the Shinto pantheon, as the deity named Susanoo-no-Mikoto, and Ashtaroth as the Sun-goddess, Amaterasu-Omikami.”

  Weiss stared back at him. “What are you saying? That the Japanese have actually been worshipping Baal and Ashtaroth all these centuries?”

  “In effect, yes. Susanoo, as well as Baal, is the god of storms and fertility.”

  “The worshippers of Baal were a minor cult based in Babylon and Assyria. It’s got nothing to do with Japan.”

  “That is where you are wrong, Professor. What I showed you earlier is the reason why. There are two kinds of Japanese people, you see. There are those with a great sense of kindness and compassion, like Amaterasu; and those who are swift and strong in action, like Susanoo. The building of the Japanese Empire in the Showa era, from Korea to India, was the work of men filled with the spirit of Susanoo. As for Amaterasu – Japan has accepted women as equals, which is good, but this means we have turned away from the true qualities of men, from strength and masculinity. We are here to restore the spirit of Susanoo.”

  If he hadn’t felt so weak, Weiss would have laughed. “Is that all you are, then? Just another bunch of tinpot right-wingers?”

  “Do not call us that!”

  Matsuoka strode across to the Professor with his cane held out threateningly. “The Arashi no Maebure are much more than that. The storm can fertilize the crops and bring life to the land, but it can also bring destruction.”

  Breathing heavily, The Japanese man walked over to a bench, out of the Professor’s sight.

  “Matusoka,” Weiss called, “can’t you get on with killing me? I’d prefer it to listening to more of your drivel.”

  “Do you call this drivel?” Matsuoka returned with something wrapped in black velveteen cloth. “Almost one hundred years ago, Kiyomaru Takeuchi found the documents of Christ in the shrine at Ibaraki. He also found this. Something he kept secret, held in his own local shrine, until we acquired it. Look at it.” He carefully unwrapped the object from the cloth, holding it out towards Weiss. “Look at it.”

  It was a sturdy leather-bound book with yellowed parchment pages. On its darkened cover was a familiar sigil; the object was identical to the Achaz Codex.

  It was the Second Book of the Veils. Wiess’s stomach lurched sickeningly.

  “This,” said Matsuoka, indicating the sigil on the front, “this is the true name of Susanoo-no-Mikoto.”

  Weiss looked the other man squarely in the eyes. “Listen…you don’t know what you’re doing. Names are dangerous things. Names are sacraments, prayers, blessings…”

  “Names are power,” Matsuoka said proudly. “Look at the story of Adam in the Bible. He was given the holy task of naming all the beasts of the Earth.”

  “But you’re using the wrong names! It’s like using drums of high explosive with the wrong labels on them; you have no idea what you’re really dealing with. I tell you, that’s not the name of Susanoo.”

  “But it is. This name has already given us wealth and power – and it is going to show us wonders, Professor. Majestic and unnatural wonders.”

  Matsuoka turned smartly and waved at the acolytes with his cane, barking something in Japanese. In response, three of the tallest and burliest males strode over to Weiss, took hold of his arms and lifted him to his feet. His chest and stomach ached with knotted pain.

  In front of him, the leader was holding something up. It looked like a sheet or a robe;
again, linen in creamy white. “Have you ever heard of the Ooharai, Professor?”

  “No. If we’re doing karaoke, try a song that we all know.”

  Matsuoka went on unheedingly. “It is a Shinto ritual of atonement similar to the one of ancient Israel. The priests take the sins of the people, and they transfer them to white paper cut in the shape of a man. The paper figures are put into a boat and set adrift in the river, where they finally sink. I think you know it in Israel as the ritual of the Scapegoat.”

  Weiss stared back. “As the prophet Micah once said, ‘you will cast out your sins into the depths of the sea.’”

  “That is correct. You are our scapegoat, Professor. That is why you felt a wish to come here; it was your destiny. You are the sign that the stars are in place, and Susanoo is ready to return.”

  “Oh come on, man, this is ridiculous. I told the lady at the museum that I was coming here, so the police will come straight to your door.”

  “The museum attendant is one of our members. The police? They will believe what we tell them. Aomori police do not want to get involved with the affairs of foreigners. It is too troublesome. One foreigner goes missing while hiking in a remote place… It is regrettable, but nobody will investigate very closely.”

  Matsuoka gestured with the cane, and handed the robe to the acolytes holding Weiss. They lifted up his arms and began to force them through the holes in the robe. “You can’t do this,” he shouted to them and the other acolytes who stood in a crowd at the back, “He’s telling you to commit murder!”

  They ignored his protests and wrapped the white robe around his slender frame, and bundled him through the doors of the shack.

  Weiss realized they’d moved him out of the grounds of the main building. Night had fallen. A dirt path led through a grove of trees down to a concrete walkway. A body of water stretched away beyond the trees, to a cluster of workmen’s huts in the distance. A reservoir.