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 you 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.