Chapter 17
Father Mateo gestured to the house. Do you know Saku-san?
Hiro hoped the Jesuit knew the woman would be listening from inside the door.
“I know many things. Things no man knows.” Zentaro dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The kami tell me.”
“They tell you about Saku-san?” Father Mateo asked.
“Who?” Zentaro blinked.
“Saku-san.” The Jesuit gestured to the door. “You called her name. . .”
Zentaro circled to his right, and then to his left. “Have you seen my walking stick?”
“You didn’t have one when you arrived,” Father Mateo said.
“Have I lost it again?” The yamabushi’s gaze grew fixed and distant. “You should leave this village now. The mountain belongs to the kami, and the kami want it back.”
Zentaro blinked, and his focus returned. He cocked his head to the side and blinked as if just noticing Father Mateo. “I know you. You arrived here yesterday, with a woman.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Inari-sama told me you were coming.”
“Inari-sama?” Father Mateo gave Hiro a questioning look.
“Inari Okami,” Hiro said. “The Shinto god of fertility, rice, saké, and swords. . .among other things.”
“Saké, fertility, and swords?”
“Have too much of any one, and the others follow.”
“Do not disrespect Inari-sama.” Zentaro set his hands on his hips like an angry samurai.
“I assure you,” Hiro said, “I have no less respect for Inari-sama than I do for any other kami.” And no more use for Inari than I have for the rest of them, either.
Zentaro nodded knowingly. “His messengers tell me many things.”
“Things no man knows,” Hiro added drily.
“Do they speak to you also?” Zentaro looked both eager and amazed.
Instead of answering, Hiro asked, “Did you visit the burial ground last night?”
“Of course. Every morning and every evening I offer prayers to the kami on behalf of the living and the dead. Lately, the mountain deities have grown angry because these people do not show respect.” Zentaro made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire village. “So far, inari-sama has intervened to avert disaster, but if the ones who remain refuse to listen. . .”
Hiro tried to steer the yamabushi back on course. “What time did you visit the burial yard?”
Zentaro whipped his head around as if a voice had called out behind him. “I must go!”
Before Hiro or Father Mateo could object, he fled up the travel road toward the forest.
Hiro considered calling after him, but suspected his words would have no impact.
As Zentaro disappeared into the forest Father Mateo said, “I do not think that man is completely sane.”
“It does not take great skill to fake insanity.”
“Where do we go next?” Father Mateo asked. “The rest of the houses look abandoned.”
“At least one of them is not.” Hiro started toward the mansion.
Father Mateo followed. “Somehow, I doubt Otomuro-san will invite us in for tea.”
“You know how I feel about assumptions,” Hiro said, “and unwilling men often have far more interesting things to say than the ones who ask you in for welcome tea.”
Otomuro’s mansion sat on a narrow rise, looking down on the village like a magistrate sitting in judgment over a line of peasants. Carved stone lanterns standing on either side of the veranda steps bore images of crescent moons and deer.
A narrow trail of churned-up earth indicated the path Otomuro, and presumably others, took to reach the mansion from the travel road. The frozen earth did not hold footprints well, but Hiro thought he saw the marks of at least three different pairs of shoes.
“Do you think Otomuro-san will speak with us?” Father Mateo asked as Hiro knocked on the door.
“Samurai crave the company of others who share their noble rank. He thinks me dishonored, but even so—”
He cut himself off as the door swung open.
An elderly man in a blue-striped servant’s robe blinked nearsightedly at Hiro and Father Mateo. Eventually he remembered to bow. “May I help you?”
“We have come to see Otomuro-san,” Hiro said.
The old man turned and tottered off into the house.
Father Mateo watched him go. “Should we follow?”
“He left the door open.” Hiro stepped over the threshold and left his shoes inside the door. As the Jesuit followed him inside, Hiro continued through another door and into the reception room beyond.
Aging but expensive tatami covered the floor. Their grassy scent competed with the cloying smell of incense rising from a lacquered butsudan that stood against the far wall of the room. The doors to the altar cabinet stood open and, inside, a pair of memorial tablets flanked a small bronze statue of a seated Buddha. An incense burner stood before the statue, sending a trickle of smoke into the air.
Braziers burned on either side of the butsudan. A third one stood, unlighted, near the tokonoma on the left-hand wall. The decorative alcove held a scroll with calligraphy flowing down it like a waterfall of deep black ink.
Hiro walked across the room to view the scroll more closely. As he finished reading the poem, he noticed the artist’s name written in tiny characters on the lower left side of the scroll.
“This calligraphy looks the same as the scroll at the teahouse,” Father Mateo said as he joined the shinobi before the scroll.
“I agree,” Hiro confirmed, “and both poems come from the Man’yōshū, an ancient collection of Japanese verse.”
“You can read it?” Father Mateo sounded impressed.
“In the rice fields of autumn, morning haze hangs above the ears of rice; my love has no end.”
“A love poem?”
“Attributed, originally, to the Empress Iwanohime.” Hiro switched to Portuguese. “The choice of this particular poem suggests a close relationship between the calligrapher and the recipient.”
“Close, as in lovers?” Father Mateo asked. “Did the artist sign the scroll?”
“She did. The name reads ‘Emiko.’”
“Emiri?” Father Mateo gave Hiro a look of startled alarm.
“Emiko,” Hiro repeated, “though—” He cut himself off as Otomuro entered the room with Noboru on his heels.
Hiro found the innkeeper’s presence both unusual and suspicious.
“It appears they have more courage than you think.” Otomuro crossed his arms. “Have you come to steal from me as well?”
Since the samurai did not bow in greeting, Hiro did not either. Father Mateo did. “Forgive me, Otomuro-san, but I must have misheard you. I thought you said—”
“I asked if you came to steal from me, as you stole from Noboru-san?”
The innkeeper’s cheeks flushed scarlet at the mention of his name. “Was something stolen from the ryokan?” Father Mateo asked. “Do not deny it!” Otomuro scowled. “We know the truth.”
“You may,” Hiro said, “but we do not.”
“You stole his savings.” Otomuro gestured to Noboru. “Everything he had.”
Father Mateo grasped the wooden cross that hung around his neck and raised it as if in explanation. “I am a priest of God. I do not steal.” A moment later he added, “And neither does Matsui-san.”
“Your innocent act does not fool me,” Otomuro sneered. “I’ve known too many priests.”