Ghost of the Bamboo Road Page 9

  Noboru stood on the porch of the ryokan, holding the door and waiting for them to enter.

  Hiro stopped at the foot of the steps. “I would like to speak with the yamabushi who lives on the mountain. Where can we find him?”

  “Most likely, talking to a tree.” Akako snickered.

  Noboru pressed his lips together in disapproval. “No one knows where he lives, or if he even has a home. We see him only when he comes here threatening doom. Stop wasting time. Just go inside and wait for the priest to arrive from Hakone.”

  “He may have seen the person who killed your mother.”

  “We know what happened to my mother,” Noboru said sharply. “A man who talks to boulders cannot help you.”

  “Will it hurt to let them look for him?” Akako asked.

  “Otomuro-san ordered them not to leave the village!”

  “He arrested the servant,” Akako said, “and neither you nor I have the legal right to restrain a samurai.”

  “Why are you helping them?” Noboru grumbled.

  “Because doing nothing is what caused the yūrei to curse this village,” Akako said.

  “And angering her will only make it worse!” Noboru countered. Akako gazed at the innkeeper, impassive as a stone.

  “Fine. But it’s on your head if they escape.” Noboru went inside the inn.

  As the door banged shut behind him, Hiro started up the street with Father Mateo at his side.

  Akako followed. “Do you really want to see Zentaro, or were you just tired of sitting around inside?”

  “A bit of both,” Hiro said. “Do you know how to find him?”

  Akako gestured toward the hazy peak. “I don’t think he ever leaves the mountain. Beyond that? No one knows.”

  “Does anyone else live up there with him?”

  Akako shook his head. “In the winter, no one climbs above the burial yard except to go over the pass on the travel road. Since the landslide, only about a dozen people have even made that trip. The pass is icy and dangerous. The newer route is safer—even without considering the ghost.”

  “Then the tracks we followed earlier probably do belong to Zentaro.” Hiro started up the mountain path. “I’d like to take another shot at following them, before they melt away.”

  Chapter 22

  The three men returned to the burial yard and followed the tracks up the mountainside. In addition to muting the sunlight, the chilly haze preserved the snow beneath the trees and left the tracks unchanged.

  Father Mateo gestured to the tracks. “He moves back and forth across the slope, almost as if he’s looking for something.”

  “More likely, trying to avoid the snow,” Akako said. “He wears no tabi, even in winter.”

  Once again, Hiro placed his feet in the tracks wherever possible. Where the tracks disappeared, he attempted to trace the yamabushi’s leaps from stone to stone. He hoped, this time, he would not lose the trail.

  “We could make better time by heading directly up the hill,” Akako suggested. “You can see the tracks without following them so closely.”

  Hiro continued walking in the yamabushi’s tracks. “If the route has a purpose aside from the wanderings of a disordered mind, we might not see it if we deviate. You can follow a more direct path if you wish, but stay behind me so you don’t confuse the trail.”

  The porter fell back, allowing Hiro to move ahead.

  Father Mateo slowed his pace to match Akako’s steps. Hiro approved of the decision. Despite his occasional blunders—or perhaps because of them—Father Mateo had a knack for obtaining useful information, especially from commoners who would not speak freely in front of a samurai. Hiro kept his eyes on the tracks, but listened carefully to the conversation in his wake.

  “Does Zentaro-san come to the village often?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Before Riko died, we rarely saw him,” Akako said. “But since the landslide, he comes down from the mountain at least a couple of times a week. He claims the kami send him to warn us, but I’ve noticed that things go missing when he appears.”

  “Missing?” Father Mateo repeated. “You didn’t mention he might be a thief.”

  “Because the things he steals—if he takes them, I don’t know for sure—they have no value. A broken bowl, a leaking teapot with a crack, that kind of thing.”

  “Have you asked him about it?”

  “I’m not even sure he takes them,” Akako said. “And if he does take broken things, who cares? Nobody wants a broken bowl.”

  A branch snapped farther up the hill.

  Hiro stopped and raised a hand for silence.

  The mist had grown thicker as they climbed. It swirled among the trees, concealing the mountaintop and making the upper slopes fade in and out of view. Its movement tricked the eye, creating the illusion of shadows moving among the trees.

  A deeper shadow moved behind a tree trunk. Unlike the others, this one looked human.

  In the instant it took Hiro to shift his gaze, the shadow had disappeared and the movement ceased. He wondered if both his mind and the mist were playing tricks on his perception.

  He regretted that he could not conceal his approach. Alone, he might have managed to sneak up on Zentaro, though the yamabushi doubtless knew the terrain well enough to disappear at will. Unfortunately, Akako and Father Mateo moved through the forest with all the stealth and caution of drunken boars. Hiro simply had to hope that Zentaro would choose to show himself instead of fleeing.

  As if summoned by Hiro’s thoughts, a familiar voice rang out on the slope above him. “Welcome to the mountain!”

  The mist swirled and Zentaro appeared. The yamabushi bounded down the hill like an overexcited hare, pale trousers flapping as he leaped from stone to stone, only rarely setting his feet on the icy ground.

  “Hello! Hello!” He descended with startling recklessness, rarely glancing at the ground.

  Hiro watched the mountain priest’s descent with awed respect. Despite his own upbringing and extensive training in the mountains of Iga Province, he had never seen anyone move with such breakneck speed over icy ground without suffering a painful fall.

  Father Mateo and Akako drew alongside Hiro as Zentaro arrived.

  The yamabushi placed his palms together and bowed. “Welcome to the mountain. May I ask your honorable names?”

  Akako and Father Mateo returned the bow. Hiro gave the requisite nod, without taking his eyes from the mountain priest.

  “Zentaro-san,” the Jesuit began, “we have—”

  The ascetic’s mouth fell open. “How do you know my name? Did Inari-sama send you?”

  “We have already met.” Father Mateo gestured down the mountain. “In the village. Earlier today.”

  Zentaro tipped his head to the side and squinted. “We did?” His forehead wrinkled. “Are you certain?”

  Slowly, his eyes returned to their usual shape. “I remember now. You are the ones Inari-sama said would come.”

  “Inari-sama told you?” Father Mateo tried to mask his disbelief.

  “He warned me to beware of you.” Zentaro looked at Hiro. “Trouble stalks your footsteps, and death follows in your wake.”

  Hiro kept his face a neutral mask. Zentaro could not possibly know the shinobi’s true identity, or how many men had died at Hiro’s hand. However, killers often tried to throw suspicion off themselves by making others seem like greater threats.

  “Does Inari-sama tell you everything that happens on the mountain?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Of course not,” Zentaro said. “Defecating owls are no concern of mine.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Father Mateo looked confused.

  “Precisely,” Zentaro said.

  The Jesuit turned to Hiro, even more perplexed.

  “He means the mountain does not tell him everything.”

  “Exactly,” Zentaro agreed. “Inari-sama does not burden his messengers with unimportant things.”

  “Did Inari tell yo
u anything last night?” Hiro asked.

  “You refer to Ishiko-san.” Zentaro’s face turned grim. “She should not have gone out alone at night, especially not on a night when the veil between life and death was stretched so thin.” He pulled his hands apart as if stretching an invisible cord between them.

  “Do you know who killed her?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro wished the Jesuit would learn that direct questions seldom inspired honest answers. He watched the yamabushi carefully, waiting for the lie.

  “I did not even know she died until this morning,” Zentaro said. “I saw her body standing near the grave when I went to offer prayers for the dead.”

  “Then you did not visit the burial yard after dark last night?” Hiro asked.

  “Wise men do not walk on this mountain after dark.” Zentaro’s zealous tone made the shinobi’s blood run cold. “Even I return to shelter when the sun goes down.”

  “Because of Inari-sama?” Father Mateo asked.

  “There are other, more dangerous, spirits on this mountain,” Zentaro warned. “Things against which even Inari-sama cannot protect you.”

  “Where were you last night?” Hiro asked.

  “Beneath a roof and safe from the mountain’s wrath.”

  “Can you tell us where to find that roof?” Hiro asked.

  “That would not be safe.”

  For whom? “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

  “Inari-sama.” Zentaro made an expansive gesture. “And the kami of the mountain.”

  Hiro waited, but the stones and trees said nothing.

  Chapter 23

  Wind rustled the cedars. The hazy sunlight filtering through the trees faded away as a thicker cloud passed overhead.

  “You should respect the mountain spirits,” Zentaro said. “Do not leave the village after dark, and do not fail to honor the kami as they deserve.”

  “Does murdering a woman in the burial yard dishonor the mountain spirits?” Hiro asked.

  Zentaro’s eyes took on the light of a zealot once again. “The vengeance of the kami is not murder.”

  “Did Inari kill Ishiko-san?” The Jesuit asked.

  Zentaro’s mouth dropped open. He looked around, hands raised as if to ward off an attack. “Great Inari,” he called to the treetops, “forgive the foreigner. He does not understand.”

  Lowering his face to the priest, and his voice to a hissing whisper, the yamabushi added, “Do not say such things. You do not know the risk you take.”

  “Did Ishiko-san take similar risks?” Hiro asked.

  “She did not heed the warning—” Zentaro raised his face toward the mountain’s peak, as if listening to voices only he could hear.

  He turned back to Hiro. “The mountain calls me. I must go.”

  “If we need to find you again—” Father Mateo began.

  Zentaro raised a hand to the trees. “Tell the mountain and I will know.”

  He retreated up the hill as recklessly as he had descended, leaping from stone to stone with a speed and agility Hiro would not have believed if he had not seen it.

  “Are all yamabushi so. . .eccentric?” Father Mateo asked.

  “A diet of bark and wild mushrooms would make any man a little strange,” Akako said.

  “And attract only those who were odd to begin with,” Hiro added.

  The Jesuit continued looking at the place where Zentaro disappeared into the mist. “Could he have killed Ishiko-san?”

  “I care less for whether or not he could,” Hiro replied, “than for whether or not he did.”

  “Why do you find it so hard to believe that a yūrei killed her?” Akako asked.

  “As we mentioned—” Hiro began.

  Father Mateo finished for him. “We do not believe in ghosts.”

  “But you are a priest,” Akako protested.

  The Jesuit drew a breath, but once again appeared to change his mind before he spoke. “God is not the same as ghosts. A man can believe in one and not the other.”

  Akako turned to Hiro. “But you are Japanese.”

  “A fact that creates no philosophical obligations.”

  Another gust of wind blew down the hill. Overhead, the cedars creaked in ghostly chorus.

  “We may as well return to the ryokan,” Hiro said. “There’s nothing more to learn here at this time.”

  As Hiro opened the guest room door, Gato jumped off the low wooden table and greeted him with a plaintive mew. She trotted to the sliding door on the opposite side of the room, looked back at him over her shoulder, and meowed again, more urgently.

  As Father Mateo and Akako knelt on the tatami, Hiro crossed the room and opened the outer door. A swirl of frigid air blew in as Gato slipped through the opening and leaped to the ground.

  “It won’t get lost?” Akako asked as he knelt on the tatami.

  “She won’t go far,” Hiro said. “She hates the cold.”

  As if to prove his point, Gato suddenly darted back into the room and leaped into Father Mateo’s lap. The Jesuit made a startled noise and raised his hands.

  Gato circled once, lay down, and licked the priest’s kimono.

  “Hiro. . .” Father Mateo gave the cat a pointed look, his hands still raised to avoid making contact with her fur.

  The shinobi smiled and started to close the door, but stopped, smile fading, as he noticed movement on the travel road.

  A muscular figure crested the hill, his features blurred by the afternoon haze.

  “Does your son wear a brown kimono?” Hiro asked.

  Instead of answering, Akako stood and approached the door. He leaned past Hiro and peered through the opening. “That is Chitose.” He leaned to the side as if seeking a better view. “But where is the priest?”

  As they watched the road, Noboru emerged from the teahouse and met Chitose. The men exchanged bows and began a conversation.

  Noboru crossed his arms and dipped his chin. He leaned forward, weight on the balls of his feet.

  Hiro wished he could hear the conversation.

  “Noboru-san looks angry,” Akako mused. “Something must have delayed the priest.”

  Chitose bowed to Noboru and started up the road again, but paused when the teahouse door swung open. His shoulders raised and straightened, and he turned his head expectantly.

  “Noboru-san?” Hanako’s voice carried clearly through the evening air.

  The innkeeper started toward the teahouse.

  Chitose’s shoulders slumped, and he continued on his way.

  “Excuse me. . .” Father Mateo said pointedly.

  When Hiro turned to look, the Jesuit nodded to his lap. Gato had closed her eyes and tucked her tail between her paws as if settling in for an extended nap.

  “My cold is bad enough without her help.” Father Mateo sniffled, though Hiro doubted the priest intended an illustration.

  Hiro slid the shoji closed and crossed the room to retrieve the Jesuit of his feline burden. Gato mewed in protest.

  As he set her down, the inner door slid open.

  Hiro leaped to the doorway, hand on the hilt of his wakizashi, as Noboru entered the room.

  The innkeeper jumped backward, raising his hands in self-defense. “Don’t hurt me!” When Hiro did not draw his sword, Noboru lowered his hands and smoothed his kimono, “I came to tell you that the priest from Hakone Shrine did not return with Chitose-san.”

  “Did no one teach you to knock before you enter?” Hiro did not hide his irritation.

  Noboru made a perfunctory bow. “I apologize. I saw you watching”—he gestured to the door on the opposite side of the room—“and assumed you would want to hear the news.”

  “That’s the problem with assumptions,” Hiro said. “Make enough, and eventually one will kill you.”

  “Do you know what happened to the priest?” Father Mateo asked, with concern.

  “He is away, on a pilgrimage, but the priestesses promised to send him as soon as he returns.” Noboru shifted his a
ttention to Akako. “You may leave, for today.”

  The porter extended an open hand.

  “You expect me to pay you now?” Noboru asked.

  “Have I done what I was asked to do? You are supposed to pay a silver coin each day.”

  Noboru dropped a coin into Akako’s palm with a silent sigh.

  The porter bowed to Hiro and Father Mateo, then to Noboru, and left the room. A moment later, they heard the front door close behind him.

  “I do not trust a thief to cook my evening meal,” Noboru said, “so I have instructed Kane to prepare the food herself. Your servant will remain in her room instead.”

  “I object to you calling Ana a thief,” Father Mateo replied, “but take no issue with your decision about the meal.”

  Chapter 24

  “Now I understand why Noboru-san prefers to eat at the teahouse.” Father Mateo examined the gelatinous gruel on the table before him. Halfway between liquid and solid, but not quite either, it gave off a pungent odor of rotting fish.

  Hiro regarded his own, regrettably identical, meal. “It looks like Gato ate it once already.”

  “Please! I’m eating.”

  “That makes one of us.” Hiro pushed his bowl away.

  “I would have argued against confining Ana to her room, had I known the consequences.”

  Hiro breathed shallowly through his mouth. “Speaking of the teahouse, why not go over and buy ourselves a meal?”

  “Wouldn’t that offend our host?”

  “Not as much as what would happen if I ate this.” Hiro gestured to the bowl.

  “It’s not that bad.” The Jesuit took a bite of the congealing porridge.

  Bile rose in Hiro’s throat. “Clearly, your illness has interfered with your sense of taste.”

  Gato approached the table, nose raised high as she sniffed the air. She thrust her questing nose toward Hiro’s bowl and exhaled sharply, retreating so quickly that she almost stumbled in her haste.