CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

IZANAMI-NO-MIKOTO

If you had told my wife that her husband would be licking his lips after an evening of Japanese cuisine she would have laughed, and with good reason. While Holmes had dined in courts and palaces the world over, I was usually content to stick with what I knew: good old-fashioned British food.

However, the night at Ridgeside had been a revelation, with a succession of delicious steamed and boiled dishes, the majority of which possessed names I could barely pronounce. Most seemed to include fish, although one particular dish, which Sutcliffe described as mushimono, contained the most succulent chicken I had ever tasted.

The meal concluded with a selection of fruit, although I could barely eat another thing.

“Are you sure?” Redshaw asked, tucking into slices of Bramley apple served in a sweet syrup.

“Absolutely,” I replied. “That was delicious. Every last scrap.”

“Well, good for you for having a go. Most Englishmen would have balked at the first dish.”

“I considered it an education, and a tasty one at that.”

The others agreed, although I had a suspicion that Clifford had endured rather than enjoyed his meal.

“Compliments to Mrs Pennyworth,” Sutcliffe said, raising a glass.

“Working from the recipes you provided,” Redshaw said, returning the gesture.

“Which reminds me,” Sutcliffe said, standing up from the table. “If you will excuse me for a moment…”

He left the room, to return a minute later carrying a large rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper. Drawing puzzled looks, Sutcliffe walked around the table and presented the package to Lord Redshaw.

“This came in yesterday,” he said. “A thank you for welcoming me into your family.”

“You’re n-not married yet,” Clifford muttered, but if Redshaw heard his son-in-law, he failed to acknowledge the fact. Instead, he took the gift gladly and tore the paper away to reveal a framed painting.

“Well, will you look at that?” his Lordship said, turning the canvas towards us. It was a full-length portrait of a woman in what I could only assume was the Japanese style. She was wearing flowing white robes and had long black hair that hung down to her waist. While the picture was certainly not to my taste, Lord Redshaw seemed enchanted.

“Does she have a name?” he asked.

Sutcliffe took his seat. “She does. Izanami-no-Mikoto.”

The name had an energising effect on the older man. He looked up at Sutcliffe with wonder in his eyes. “The goddess from the story?”

“What story, Father?” Marie asked.

“One I shared with Lord Redshaw,” Sutcliffe explained. “A tale of sadness and terror, but ultimately of joy.”

“You should tell them it,” Redshaw said, still holding the painting in his hands.

“Are you sure now is the time?” Lady Anna asked. “If the story is a gruesome one—”

Redshaw cut across her. “Where’s your spirit of adventure, girl? We Redshaws have strong stomachs. Why, I was saying only this afternoon how I loved telling ghost stories. Isn’t that right, Watson?”

“Really, I couldn’t,” insisted Sutcliffe before I could answer. “Not after Dr Watson has dazzled us with his own stories.”

“Nonsense,” Redshaw said. “Go on. Tell them.”

“Very well,” said Sutcliffe, leaning his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers beneath his chin. “According to the Japanese, Izanabi and Izanami were the ancient gods of creation, and their children became the eight great islands of Japan itself: Awaji, Iyo, Ogu, Tsukushi, Iki, Tsuhima, Sado and Yamota.”

“R-ridiculous,” muttered Clifford, only to be shushed by his father-in-law.

“Please, Victor. Carry on.”

“Unfortunately, Izanami became ill, and died. Izanabi wept for his bride, and his tears became the Pacific Ocean. Now, Izanabi could not accept that his beloved was gone, and so he travelled to Yomi, the shadowy domain of the dead. He searched high and low for Izanami and eventually found her, hiding in the shadows. He asked her to step into the light, but she said that she could not. She had already eaten the fruit of the tree of death, and could never return to the land of the living.”

To my left, Lady Anna squirmed in her seat, clearly hating every minute of Sutcliffe’s tale, but the fellow continued anyway.

“He finally persuaded her to go with him, but only if he agreed never to look at her again. They started the long walk, Izanami shrouded by shadows. All was well, until they stopped to rest in a sacred grove. While Izanami slept, Izanabi lit a torch and held it above his love to gaze upon her beauty. What he saw horrified him. Izanami was nothing more than a rotting corpse, her body riddled with maggots and worms.”

“R-really!” Clifford complained, as his wife screwed up her face in disgust. “That is en-enough.”

“No, listen,” urged Lord Redshaw, revelling in the story. “There is a happy ending, I promise you.”

And this from the man who had told me that he preferred facts to fantasy.

“Izanabi fled, and Izanami awoke to find herself alone. She wept bitter tears, thinking that she would never see him again. She could hear the claws of the damned crawling ever nearer, ready to take her back to the underworld, but her husband returned at the last minute and placed a bowl of soup before her. She drank from the bowl and, all at once, was whole again. Her skin was smooth, her hair like silk and her eyes bright. ‘What was in the soup?’ she asked her love, and Izanabi told her how he had found a new-born lamb, innocent and pure. He had sacrificed the animal and used its blood to make a soup from his own heart. He had given his life so that she could live.”

His story at an end, Sutcliffe sat back, as if waiting for applause. Instead we all sat in stunned silence, not quite sure what to say.

All, that is, except Clifford, who had one question: “So, w-what happened to the husband. Did he d-die without his h-heart?”

Sutcliffe was forced to shrug. “I do not know. The legend does not say.”

“Doesn’t s-sound like a h-happy ending to m-me.”

“It was positively beastly,” said Lady Anna, standing to leave. “Sacrifice and maggots, at the dinner table? It really is too much.”

She swept from the room, saying that she needed air. Clifford went to follow, but Redshaw stopped him.

“She’ll be fine, just you wait and see.” Then Lord Redshaw’s eyes fell on me, and he chuckled. “What must you think of us, Watson? I assure you that not every night is like this at Ridgeside.”

“No,” said Lady Marie, rising from her seat. “They are usually worse.”