Chapter 16
As Mume shut the door behind them, Father Mateo turned to Hiro, “We forgot to ask about the other villagers.”
“I did not forget.” Hiro started toward the road. “Mume will tell Kane everything we talked about. Everything she remembers, anyway.”
“I find it interesting that she is married.” Father Mateo looked back at the house. “Do you think she has the capacity to understand. . .”
“Marriage is hardly complicated,” Hiro said. “In principle, anyway. I’ve heard it’s rather more complex in practice.”
“It isn’t funny, Hiro. That poor girl—”
“Looked clean, well-fed, and cared for, and she sounded competent to me. Even if she did inadvertently name her sister as a murder suspect.”
“Surely you don’t think Kane-san killed Ishiko.”
Hiro noted the omission of the honorific suffix from the dead woman’s name. “It would not be the first time a bride took decisive action against a tyrannical mother-in-law.”
“Mume-san also mentioned that her husband came home late last night,” the Jesuit said. “Although, I don’t know what he would have done with the ox.”
“He could have tied it to a tree,” Hiro suggested. “The fact that he came home late did not escape my notice either, and if he does object to mistreatment of his wife, he might have held a grudge against a woman who insulted her.”
“Or worse.” Father Mateo’s voice betrayed his disapproval. “I suspect that woman beat her daughter-in-law, and that Mume-san is frightened to admit it.”
“Perhaps,” Hiro said. “Although, until we have more evidence, I trust no one.”
“Even with evidence, that won’t change.” The smile on the Jesuit’s face suggested humor, but both men recognized the core of truth.
A path of churned but frozen earth led from the travel road to the front of the house opposite Mume’s. No smoke rose from the chimney hole, but the pile of wood beside the door looked recently replenished, and no cobwebs crossed the door.
Hiro knocked and waited.
No one answered.
When no one responded to a second knock, he said, “Either no one’s home or no one’s going to answer.”
“Let’s try there instead.” Father Mateo gestured to the house next door, which looked identical to the one they stood in front of, except for the thin gray line of smoke that rose from an opening in the roof.
As they approached, the door swung open. A tiny, gray-haired woman leaned one hand on a crooked walking stick. With the other, she grasped the door.
She scowled at Father Mateo. “Go away.”
The Jesuit bowed. “I am Father—”
Her scowl deepened. “Are you deaf as well as dead?” She thumped her cane on the ground. “You go away. You go away right now!”
She took a backward step into her house.
The Jesuit jumped forward and stuck his foot in the opening just as the elderly woman tried to slam the door. “I am a pr—ow!”
The elderly woman opened the door a fraction and slammed it against the Jesuit’s foot once more. When he still refused to withdraw it, she opened the door and leaned on it while she jabbed at him with her cane. “I said be gone, ghost!”
“I am not a ghost,” the priest protested. “Stop slamming the door on my foot.”
She slammed the door against his foot again. When it failed to produce the desired result, she looked past him at Hiro. “Why won’t you take your ghost and go?”
“He is a foreigner.” Hiro struggled to hide his amusement. “Not a ghost.”
The elderly woman finally stopped hammering the Jesuit’s foot with the door. She squinted thoughtfully at his face. “His nose is big, his face is pale, and his Japanese sounds funny. He is a ghost who does not realize he’s dead.”
“I assure you, I am not a ghost. I am a priest of the Creator God, from Portugal.”
“You see?” The elderly woman gave Hiro a knowing look. “He does not know he’s dead.” She shook her walking stick at Father Mateo once again. “You died. You are a ghost. Now go away.”
Hiro had an idea. “I have come to rid your village of the yūrei—”
The old woman cut him off with a snort and pointed at Father Mateo. “You cannot even rid me of this one!” She waved her hand. “I am too old to listen to your nonsense.”
Father Mateo gestured to Hiro. “You cannot talk that way to a samurai. He could kill you—”
“Him?” She snorted again. “He won’t kill an old woman.”
Not an unarmed one, anyway, Hiro agreed to himself, impressed—and a little chagrined—that she had measured him so quickly and so well.
“But neither will I leave you in peace until you accommodate my request,” he said aloud. “I need to know if you saw or heard anything unusual last night.”
“Aside from three visitors coming into town on a winter evening?” The woman opened the door enough to suggest she had finished trying to shut them out. She glared at Father Mateo, who withdrew his foot with a small, embarrassed bow.
“Saku-san!” A voice called from the road behind them. “Saku-san!”
The elderly woman backed into the house and slammed the door with startling speed.
“No! Wait! Don’t close the—” A wiry man slid to a stop between Hiro and Father Mateo. He wore a white tunic and trousers beneath a bulky hooded cloak woven from narrow, supple bamboo stems with the leaves left on. The straw sandals on his feet offered scant protection from the frozen ground, and he wore no socks. His long, skinny toes reminded Hiro of a tree frog’s feet.
He raised a skinny arm and pounded on the woman’s door. “Saku-san! Open this door right now! Your descendant’s life depends upon it!”
The conch shell hanging on a bright red cord around his neck swung sideways with the force of his knocks, but the elderly woman did not return.
Father Mateo gave Hiro a look that questioned the strange man’s sanity. Hiro shrugged.
Eventually the man ceased pounding on the door and turned to Father Mateo. “Who are you?”
“I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest of the Creator God, from Por—”
“A fellow priest!” He bowed. “I am Zentaro, humble servant of the kami and the mountains!”
He turned to Hiro. “And who are you?”
“Matsui Hiro, Father Mateo’s scribe.”
The yamabushi bowed again. “I am honored to meet you, Matsui Hiro the scribe and Father Mateo of Por.” He laid a hand on his chest. “I am Zentaro, humble servant of the kami and the mountains.”
As Noboru suggested, Zentaro’s mind appeared a few bees short of a functional hive.
“Do you live near the village?” Father Mateo asked.
The question seemed to confuse the yamabushi.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up. He raised his hand, first finger extended in triumph. “I live on the mountain!” He smiled as if pleased to have found the answer. “I came to warn these people to respect Inari-sama and the mountain gods, and not to violate the sacred mountain by trespassing in the forest after dark.” He looked over his shoulder. “Now, I must go.”
As he turned to leave, the Jesuit raised a hand. “Please wait.”
Unexpectedly, Zentaro did.