by Zoe Drake
“You mean I’ll learn faster if I’m scared shitless.”
Weiss frowned. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
David looked again at the ancient leaves of paper. The arcane marks upon the page rippled as the parchment moved in his hands. He remembered them from his dreams; symbols, something larger and older than what was in his own head, taunting him with their mystery.
Maybe it was best if he looked at them in some other way. These marks were basically ideograms, and as such they were similar to the kanji writing system. And that meant…
David took the chalk from Weiss. Moving around Namiko’s altar, he drew a large, slightly ragged circle on the floor, stretching from the windows to the opposite wall.
Weiss told him to draw the first line of characters from the diagram in the book within the first circle. He held the parchment in his hands. He studied the marks, looking for stroke order, crowning marks, repeated features.
“In Japanese calligraphy the writer must be attentive and focused,” he mused, and bent down to write upon the floor.
“Not only in Japanese calligraphy,” the old man replied. “Torah scribes used a carefully cut goose feather pen to write the sacred words in ink upon parchment, prepared from the skin of a kosher animal. We call it Kavanot. The focus and concentration that must agree with the laws that govern the writing of the holy words.”
David continued to draw the first line of symbols, staring fiercely at the letter-shapes. From what Weiss and Nozaki had told him, he knew the brain wasn’t really a computer, but more like a jungle, with areas in constant motion, communicating with each other. Maybe jungle brain could cope with jungle dangers. A place where he’d have to act fast if he wanted to get out with his sanity in one piece.
He finished the first line. “Now what?”
Weiss indicated the section of the pages. “Two inner concentric circles, with these characters here – and here.”
David bent down with the chalk. A few days ago, Weiss had given him a puzzle. No, not a puzzle, but a way of looking at things. If you’re trapped in a plastic bag, and you want to cut your way out, what are you going to use, a sledgehammer or a scalpel?
A scalpel, David replied. And the old man had smiled, laughter lines creasing up his long face.
Now David understood. The chalk was his scalpel, and every character he drew was cutting into the skin of reality, taking the circle away, placing it in a realm of safety one step removed from their surroundings.
He had finished the three circles. Weiss patted him on the shoulder, muttering words of gratitude.
He turned to speak to Namiko, and drew back in surprise. She had donned a headdress, and fastened to it were two long, thin white candles, burning with a steady, hard light, sticking up from her hair like horns. She returned his stare, holding up a long wooden stick with white paper-strips twisted around it. “Now hold this,” she said.
“What is it?”
“It is the Tamagushi, and these paper strips are called Shide. Very important for what we are about to do.”
“What do I do with it?”
“Hold it in front of you.”
David took up a stance, as if he were holding a fishing rod, facing the large mirror hung on the wall at the back of the room.
“Now we begin,” Namiko said. She went to the altar, carefully lit the candles there, and bowed to them. Her hands in her sleeves, she walked to the east wall of the classroom and stood at the edge of the circle. Weiss stood at the other side, his arms spread, his ritual dagger and wand in his hands, silver pentagram around his neck, cup filled with blessed water at his feet.
At the same moment, the two of them began to chant, the professor in Hebrew, Namiko in Japanese. Her voice was low, deep and rhythmical. From the corner of his eye David saw her take her hands out of her sleeves and make a pattern of curious, esoteric gestures with her fingers; hands together, fingers interlocked, middle fingers raised, then index fingers, then ring fingers…
He caught some of the words she intoned.
“Rin, Pyou, Tou, Sha, Kai…”
They stayed like that for what felt like an hour.
Nothing happened; holding the stick of sacred paper, David’s neck hurt, his back was stiff and his legs were numb. His two companions continued to chant, their voices deep, sonorous, the rhythm hypnotic.
Then David saw something that chilled his heart, his throat, his spine. He looked over his shoulder to scan the rest of the classroom, and it was there. It hadn’t been there when they entered.
The marks chalked on the blackboard. The writing, in three concentric circles, the same as those he had marked on the floor. No, not the same; some of the characters were new, and the familiar ones were in different positions. When had they appeared? Who had written them?
“We know,” came the Professor’s voice. He had stopped chanting.
“What do we do now?” David whispered.
“We watch. We wait.”
David tightened his grip on the stick and cast his gaze around the classroom. The smeared mirror in front of him threw back their reflections. Peculiar sensations drifted into David’s consciousness. A soft buzzing grew in his ears, and a faint smell caught his nose…was it sulfur?
“If the enemy makes you see things, roll your eyes, do not close them,” Namiko whispered.
After a moment David realized the mirror was reflecting more than the contents of the classroom. The surface had darkened. Patches of intense crimson light appeared, along with spots. David’s eyes widened. He saw the patches dissolve to show something like the picture of a cloudy sky at night, a moon the color of blood. Suddenly, the whole picture came into focus, as if it were a slideshow.
It was a desert. Endless stretches of desert, where ancient columns of stone reached up into the skies, and a moving forest of lights writhed in the distance. Something was coming closer; a line of robed, hooded figures, their outlines grossly misshapen. Something vast and semi-solid hovered above them, huge, luminous wings beating slowly.
David knew he couldn’t turn away from the terrible glory of that landscape. He felt it begin to suck him in. He tried rolling his eyes upward, and the motion brought relief, broke his link with the mirror. But there were still shapes within it, he knew, fighting to get his attention.
“Stay calm,” came Namiko’s soft, whispering voice. “Hold onto the stick. Try not to move.”
“What’s it going to do?” David whispered.
“It will try to come out.”
David swallowed and braced his grip on the stick. He was aware of a presence close to him, watching him intensely. He tried to look away, but some horrible compulsion drove him to stare at the mirror.
There was someone inside it. She wore a white cloth mask over her nose and mouth. She had white cotton gloves on her hands, and those gloves were now pressed up against the inside of the glass. She still wore sunglasses, but David could feel hate radiating from her eyes, a hate for anything that still had a normal face.
His mouth dried. He stared, unable to move or take his eyes away.
The Professor suddenly barked out a command, three syllables in an unfamiliar language. A ripple went through the room like an earthquake, and the floor beneath them shook.
The mirror suddenly ripped itself from the wall and flew across the room. David frantically ducked and slipped to the floor as it spun over his head, whirring around and around, hitting the blackboard and shattering with a high, piercing crash. Jagged splinters of mirror twisted in the air and fell to the floor with loud chiming sounds.
David wanted to get to his feet, but couldn’t. “That’ll be seven years bad luck,” came the Professor’s voice.
David thought of Lisa, and it made him feel even more depressed. How did I end up here, he thought, how did things go this way? Who do I blame? My own bad decisions? Bad luck? The universe?
Namiko stood next to him, offering a hand to help him up. “How do you feel, David-san?”
&nb
sp; “Like I want to throw up.” He took her hand and got to his feet. The twin candles at her brow seemed like another pair of eyes, burning with a fierce intelligence. “Did it work?” he asked.
“Oh yes.” Weiss answered him from the blackboard, where he was picking his way through the shards of mirror, shoes crunching on fragments of glass, examining the spirit writing that had appeared on the blackboard. “The school has been cleansed, and this particular gateway is now closed to the King of the Veils. That was the easy part, however.”
“Yeah, easy.” David mopped the clammy sweat from his brow. “So, that mirror nearly taking my head off was like, what? A Frisbee in the park?”
“David.” Namiko’s voice was soft and compelling. “Everyone is scared of death, but there are things more frightening than death.”
The candles at either side of her head flickered. “One of those things is being controlled by fear. Do not waver, David. You will need all your courage to face what is to come.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Dark Waters
The Yoshida family had kept a video recording of the press conference where Tsugaru University Hospital had officially apologized for their daughter’s death. They lost count of the number of times they watched it, they said. Now, they were showing it to Fujita, who stared at it unsmilingly from the sofa.
Surrounded by the explosive flashes of scores of cameras, Dr. Kageyama and the hospital Chief of Staff left the table, walked forward and got down on their hands and knees, bowing their foreheads to the floor. They prostrated themselves before the eyes of the media.
This was the Dogeza posture, and Fujita was overly familiar with it. In the Edo period, it was practiced as an act of extreme humility. These days, Fujita knew, it was used as an escape route. To get their own way, or to absolve themselves of what they had done, the act of prostration before one’s feudal lord was used by Japanese politicians and corporations to get themselves out of trouble. Look how sorry we are, they were really saying. Now please forget about it and let’s all get back to business as usual.
Mr. Yoshida reached out and switched off the sound and picture by a click of the remote control. “We asked them to explain in detail the cause of Ayano’s death,” he said tonelessly, “but they said that wasn’t necessary, as they had explained it before, at the conference. A weak heart, they said.”
“We’re certainly glad you’re here, Mr. Fujita,” his wife continued. “Our previous lawyer told us he repeatedly called the hospital, but he was repeatedly told Dr. Kageyama wasn’t available. The man was an idiot!”
Fujita sat back, surveying the debris of the slice of watermelon they had invited him to eat. He rubbed his hands on a paper tissue. “Some lawyers can be pushed around by hospitals as well, not only patients.”
“I just want them to admit their mistake, Mr. Fujita,” Mrs. Yoshida said. “Yes, of course I realize this machine could possibly harm someone else, but more than that, I want them to admit the pain they’ve already caused. I want the staff of that hospital to go to Ayano’s temple and pay their respects.”
“So what do we do now?” asked her husband.
Fujita held up his notebook. “That’s a very good question. One possible way is to get expert testimony as to the care offered by the treatment – and its possible breach.”
“Experts? You mean experts on sleep?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been doing some asking around, you see, and I’ve found out that neurologists agree it’s medically possible to die from intense trauma caused by fear. That could have happened to Ayano.”
Mr. Yoshida frowned. “So it could have been a nightmare that killed her? It frightened her so much her heart stopped?”
“Well, of course, a lot of people have nightmares, but the experience doesn’t kill them – so what we have to show is that the stress was induced by this Sleep Modulator device. And there’s the catch. Doctors don’t want to give evidence about other doctors, as you know. I remember there was one case where the plaintiffs had to get an expert from America to come over to Japan.”
“Well, I don’t know about expert evidence, Mr. Fujita, but there is someone else who knows the truth, apart from those doctors.”
“And who is that?”
Mrs. Yoshida fixed him with a steely gaze. “Ayano herself.”
Fujita remained silent. He flicked a gaze at the woman’s husband, but Mr. Yoshida stared at his wife with an unfathomable look in his eyes. “We have been to Osorezan, you see, and we have spoken to the Itako. We heard Ayano’s voice. There was no error, no doubt. If we cannot undo this tragedy, Mr. Fujita, I believe my daughter’s spirit will never rest.”
To stop insects flying into the house, Fujita urged them to close the door after he went; but they left it open, standing at the threshold and bowing, watching until their honored guest had left the premises. The chirping of the crickets surrounded him as he turned the corner and walked to where he’d parked his car.
“Hey!”
Fujita turned in alarm as a figure stepped out from behind his car and into the lamplight. He stood there, looking directly at Fujita. The lawyer had been threatened by Yakuza more than once; everyone – politicians, hospitals, big corporations, they all had connections to the Mob. Fujita balled his hands into fists and waited for the challenge.
It never came. The man simply stood there. He didn’t say anything, but Fujita could tell he was breathing heavily. “What do you want?” The lawyer asked.
The man looked around at the empty street. He was medium height, medium build, and he had three or four cell phones strung around his neck like lucky charms. Fujita couldn’t see much of the other’s face in the weak light, but he could tell that the skin around his eyes was puffy and inflamed.
“Where is she?” the man said.
“Where’s who?”
“The girl. The Yoshida girl, where is she?”
“I don’t think that’s any business of yours. Mr.–?”
“Ishida. Atsushi Ishida.” The man bowed, the gesture more reflex than more polite. “It’s happening again. I think she knows all about it.”
“What’s happening again? What have you got to do with the Yoshida family?”
“I’m one of the subjects.” The man’s face twisted as he spat out the words. “I’m part of their big experiment.”
Comprehension dawned upon Fujita, and his lawyer’s instinct kicked in. “You’re part of the Sleep Research Program? Mr. Ishida, I think we need to talk.”
“You’re too late. He’s called a meeting.”
“Who has?”
“Kageyama. He wants all the subjects to attend a meeting at the hospital this week.”
Fujita started back at the man, sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. “What are you doing hanging around the Yoshida house, anyway?”
“I thought I might see her. The girl.”
“Saori Yoshida?”
“No, her. The other one. I think she started this whole business. Now I can’t sleep. I daren’t, I’m… I’m so scared.”
Fujita stared, his mind racing. “Listen, let’s go somewhere we can talk. I can help you, Mr. Ishida.”
“No, you can’t.” The man looked directly at Fujita for the first time, his eyes manic. “Get the Yoshida family out of here. Close down the hospital, that’s the only way you can help. Put a bomb in it and blow it up!”
Suddenly, the man was on the move, rage in his face. He pushed past Fujita and started to run down the street, running as if his life depended on it. Making a snap decision, Fujita turned and ran too. He followed Ishida’s silhouette, down the long street and around the corner. He didn’t feel the heat at first: after he’d chased the man for three blocks, his throat burned, his skin crawled with the sweat oozing out of his pores.
He came to a major intersection and turned the corner, looking around him wildly. Taxis cruised up and down the street along with a steady stream of traffic.
Ishida was nowhere to be seen.
He found the ageing apartment block and located the landlady’s residence, a detached house right next to it. A middle-aged woman answered the door.
“I don’t mind, if you say it’s urgent, but I’ve never had a problem with Mr. Ishida,” she said as she keyed in the numbers to open up the security doors at the front entrance. “In fact, I hardly ever see him…a place to wash themselves and sleep, that’s what our young working men treat the place as…”
Once through the front entrance, they took the elevator up to the fifth floor in nervous silence. The landing led out to a concrete walkway where Ishida had his apartment; Room 504, the landlady had said.
Someone was there before them. An elderly couple, looking quite perplexed. “Oh, thank you for coming,” the woman said.
The landlady stared blankly back at them.
“We called your son at the house a few moments ago. It’s the water, you see.”
“We’re from the apartment below,” the man said. “There’s water coming through the ceiling into our bathroom and kitchen.”
Fujita took the key from the landlady’s hand and twisted it impatiently in the lock. The door clicked open and the lawyer kicked off his shoes in the lobby. “Ishida?” he called. “Are you there?”
The apartment was in total darkness, and he heard a slick, flowing sound, the sound of running water. He found the switch for the kitchen lights, saw where the bathroom was, pulled open the door.
The big bathtub was full to the brim and water poured over the side. Fujita caught a glimpse of something blue, and he forced himself to cautiously enter the bathroom.