The Collector Read online

  M-- Okuda-san’s testimony however paints a different, more terrifying portrait of that night. The police blamed her confusion on the concussion sustained as well as trauma over witnessing Yumemakura’s violent death. All agreed upon Yumemakura’s distraction seconds before collision yet her account differs on the final result. She said Yumemakura turned back to the road, through the headlights she said he saw something, crying aloud at whatever it was...

  She said that he slammed on the brakes, swerving into the wrong lane - she adds that she looked back for a split second in jolting motion and saw a crouching dark shape vanish into thin air. What happened next was a blur to her.

  - Skype Transcript of M-- Okuda, October 24 2009:

  I was like a person in a trance the next couple of days. Shino let me stay at her apartment for a while, helping me prepare for Jiro-san’s sōgi. The wake was to be held closed-casket as his head injuries prevented an open viewing. His family had never welcomed me with open arms, even on this occasion, none spoke to me. Shino was there, however, guiding me to the registry book, choosing the appropriate amount of koden I left in the thin black and white ribbon adorned condolence money envelope. Jiro-san’s family had chosen to hold the service in the mortuary, elaborately decorating the main altar where his casket lay before it in state.

  Jiro’s mother and sisters were there, clad in the deepest of blacks. His sisters faced away from the casket on side cushions, their expressions somber, but his mother whom had chosen a traditional autumn kimono of great expense, faced the casket where he lay, tears in her eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to approach that plain white box. Shino tugged at my hand, whispering warnings of impropriety.

  “I can’t...,” I mumbled, shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind. I couldn’t make myself do it. I felt everyone’s eyes on us, the whispers, the knowing looks to my half-healed cuts. They were accusing me - blaming me for his death. Suddenly, I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled away from Shino-san’s hand, uttering my excuses. I left the mortuary on foot, breaking into a run like a frightened child. My pace lessened when I reached one of the main thoroughfares, buffeted by strangers, alone in a sea of humanity, I kept walking, my feet drawn on by a desperate desire to escape it all.

  Why had this happened? Why was Jiro-san dead? Was it his negligence? Was it my fault? Nothing made sense anymore. I knew what I had seen...we had done as the nuns had asked. Yet Kannon hadn’t answered my plea. In the midst of my torpor, a woman’s face floated from the depths of my mind and....her voice. Yes, I was sure of it. I had heard it again the night I had gone to Jiro-san’s apartment. She had answered his phone, she was the one who --

  It had been her all along! This sudden denouement made everything crystal clear in my mind. I called Jiro-san’s place of work, I was told she hadn’t been in for a few days. Undaunted, I called next a directory service gaining her place of address. Taking the train, I was soon let off into a poorer neighborhood of ill repute. But, I was dogged, walking the streets, my purse firmly clasped in hand. Soon enough, I came to a shabby five-story apartment complex. My mind was a steel trap, the words I would say to her forming on my tongue like hot brands.

  On the third floor, I knocked, waiting. Then, footsteps. I drew myself up, my lips parting. Then, the door opened and a woman in black appeared in the sliver of door fastened by a rusted chain. The words died in my throat. She was a near mirror image of the hateful matron I had left behind at Jiro’s wake.

  “Mrs. Kiwako?” I stammered in the silence that followed.

  “Yes?” The woman’s sad, shrunken eyes reminded me painfully of a starving bird. “Are you here to visit Arisa-chan?” The old woman’s voice was a shallow, hopeful whisper. I nodded numbly. She stepped back, unchaining the door. Within, the gray gloom of the day seemed to have seeped inward, polluting the very air. The room was small, I saw, traditional Japanese style with a low table, a bookcase, a kitchenette and a few tatami mats spread out on the yellow linoleum floor.

  A censer of incense much-blackened with use resided beside a framed photograph on the fourth shelf of the bookcase. My eyes snapped to the innocuous white urn beside them. How? When? I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I took a seat somehow, while Mrs. Kiwako slipped away to prepare tea.

  “It happened less than a week ago,” her papery thin voice wafted from the sliding doors, without my prompting. “My Arisa had fallen in love with a man of some standing. He claimed sincerity, even love for her, but he had another woman...Arisa saw them together, I never learned her name.”

  I froze, my hands balling against the tops of my thighs. Could it be? Had Jiro deceived both of us? An icy coldness seemed to descend into the room, enveloping me in its grasp. Mrs. Kiwako reentered the room, balancing a plastic tray of two cups and a chipped blue pot. “I told her to never let them be, oh, my poorly used baby.” The woman’s eyes were flat and hard. “That woman had stolen her happiness!”

  “What happened then?” I found myself asking quietly in a trance of horror. Mrs. Kiwako calmed slightly, her thin lips compressing themselves, her hands trembled as she handed me a cup of steaming bitter tea. “Not all children are Kannon-Kami’s blessing.”

  Guilt burrowed into my heart; she had been pregnant! I wondered what I was doing there, why I had been told these things? Had Mrs. Kiwako suspected-? Perhaps no...given my state of dress and face, she had welcomed me as a friend of her daughter’s. I observed the woman from the corner of my eye. She had lapsed into silence after her last words, but her face was a mask of misery in that squalid little room.

  Restless, I looked about myself. The apartment was small, sparsely furnished. The bare essentials for living lacked cheer. Had Kiwako Arisa returned home each day to these same four cheerless walls? I sighed to myself, clasping my hands together. Rather than let my mind wander, I should’ve been reciting prayers for her soul to be reborn into a happier existence. That was all I could do after all. Jiro’s death had been a blow, yet he had not been the man I had believed he was. He had caused this woman suffering, he had. Not I...not I.

  As I conjured up traditional prayers in my mind, the curls of incense snared the eye. I found myself studying the small altar where Kiwako-san’s unhappy face stared out at me from the framed photograph. That single bowl of incense and the urn adorned each side; the expression on her face - it changed! No...no, it couldn’t have, I denied swiftly.

  But, I could’ve sworn it had, Will. For the fraction of a second, she had appeared with that same smile that she had worn the night of the party, then the next, it was gone. My concentration thus broken, my gaze wandered upward past the bookshelf to the wood paneled wall and had a start.

  A plain frame of small dimensions hung above, centered prominently. In it, a textile of a heraldic design was incased in glass. That vague feeling of familiarity grew, my mind snatched upon it fiercely. I had seen it before! I was aware suddenly of Mrs. Kiwako’s surreptitious wiping of her red-rimmed eyes as she clasped her hands together supplicating. “Mrs. Kiwako...that’s a...a lovely crest.” I whispered.

  She wiped her tears away, a tremulous smile rising to her lips. “The family crest...my husband purchased it online. Real proud he was to present it to our daughter. He always dreamed of people visiting and noticing the crest, make our line proud for having been descended from the Kiyowara uji.”

  Mrs. Kiwako said no more and I was afraid to pry. I took my leave not long after, wary of the coming evening. My last glance of the woman was one of her thin smile so like her deceased daughter’s. I was glad for the company on the late train, for the noise of people and stale smells of humanity. I called Shino-san, making my apologies. She agreed to meet me at the station and drive us back to my house. Her live-in boyfriend had complained of my presence, necessitating my return to the house.

  I tried not to hold it against her, my thoughts ever churning over what I had been told.

  I had never heard of the Kiyowara clan, being familiar with my country’s turbulent
history of warring clans; it was a name I didn’t recall immediately. Shino chastised me with her eyes, briskly asked if I had eaten anything during my hours absence. I briefly remembered Mrs. Kiwako’s untouched tea then reflected that it was better that I had not drunk it.

  We ate at a small cafe along the way; her eyes constantly reproached me for my behavior earlier in the day. My mind raced, unwilling to settle for meaningless apologies. I had learned something today, my eyes had been opened to a few unpleasant truths. It mattered none to the dead Kiwako Arisa ne’ Saijo Takako as the Kaimyo posthumous name had been chosen; so I thought at the time.

  In near silence, we entered Den’en chofu, driving through the quiet, darkened streets. At the gates, Shino peered forward, a quaver in her voice. “Did you leave the lights on?”

  I shook my head slightly in the darkness, whispering. “No.” They were blazing, lights in every curtained window. Shino pulled up at the curb, hesitating between following me and staying behind. “Maybe we should call the police.”

  “No, don’t.” I said stronger than before. They’d find nothing, of that I was sure. This wasn’t over...I stepped out into the cold late September air. This time, Shino-san didn’t try to stop me. My confidence waned as I walked closer to high-walled fence. My hands were less than capable in opening the side gate. The lighted windows threw pools of light and shadow onto the barren lawn, I walked quickly through, my steps cautious.

  At the door, I fumbled with the keys, stabbing the keyhole, my anxiety paramount. The door swung gently, invitingly open into the brightly lit foyer. My breath caught, it was easy, too easy to imagine my first happiness in viewing the house with a real estate agent. As I stepped over the threshold, my heel caught on something. Oh, merciful Kannon, I knew what it was!

  It could not move, could not speak yet it was there all the same. Feverishly, I closed the door, making a brief circuitous check of the house, nothing, as I’d expected. Exiting through the study door, I went and reassured her nothing was out of place. Shino-san’s relief was more than evident. She said goodnight to me and drove off, eager to leave the shadow of the Gingko trees lining the interior of the walled yards.

  I sighed to myself, feeling more alone than ever. Inside, I made myself as comfortable as possible, retiring to my room with the laptop and a few books from the den downstairs. In the silence of my room, I began to search. Kiyowara. Kiyowara...nothing. Had I misspelled it somehow? The hour drew later, I recalled Mrs. Kiwako’s comment of a customized samurai heraldry website.

  Changing search perimeters, more than a dozen online shops offered personalized decor based off of tenuous at best familial connections. I chose the top-ranked to begin my search, this yielded some fruit as I found a match halfway down the page. I could barely contain my excitement, clicking on the image.

  You can imagine my disappointment, Will, when it contained little information. It was as follows; Fifteenth century clan decimated during the Ōnin war. Not much is known about their personal history other than a claim of kinship to the Kiyohara clan intermarried with the more illustrious ‘Abe.’ I copied that scant bit into a document, nearly back at square one again. The sword...and the mon...they were connected, but how?

  On a hunch, I typed into the search box ‘Kiyowara legend.’ Most concerned the Kiyoharas, but I was persistent. On page three of three, the last result was of urban legends from northernmost Honshu. It was just the briefest of mentions at the bottom of a page filled with cryptid sightings. The blogger mentioned being reminded of the Kiyowara cursed road through the Hakkōda mountains... in Aomori prefecture.

  It was a route, I discovered, that wended through the Mt. Hakkōda range and had been used by early travelers whose destination was a village deep in the mountain pass. I downloaded region maps, circling areas where I thought it might be. It was past three am when I finally laid aside the computer. No matter how hard I fought, my eyes were heavy, gritty with sleep. When, I succumbed, lying fully dressed atop the coverlet...I saw things. Senseless visions without meaning. A monk’s hands fervently clasping worn wooden prayer beads with faces, little faces of wood virulent with anger and gnashing teeth. A memorial tablet with the name struck from it. A dirty child pelting a burial mound with rocks. And the pit, falling down into its unending blackness of the void, my vision of the world tilting its axis of autumn leaves, the smell of dirt and blood cloying in the air - it was all so terrible that I startled myself awake, the time was six am.

  I begged off work, citing research for a paper, they were kind enough to overlook my absence yet again. Packing lightly for the trip ahead, I tapped into my savings, purchasing a roundtrip airline ticket, setting up a rental car while I was at it. Though, I hadn’t wanted to, I’d retrieved the Kiyowara sword from the front step, packing it with numerous religious items. Labeling it as an antique I meant to sell on the northern coast, the airliner gave me little problem.

  It wasn’t until fully the next day, that I began my journey. Those first three days were spent in the historical society and local library, researching local legends. My disappointment was sharp with the mild censure I received from librarians and staff alike. They scoffed at notions of cursed roads, haunted woods. Each night, I returned to the hotel room mentally exhausted. I had seen nothing nor heard anything since I had arrived. This, I’d at first taken to be an auspicious sign that I was on the right track.

  The month of October in western superstition is thought to be the time when the veil between the spirit world and the living world becomes the thinnest. In my culture, that time begins on the thirteenth day of the seventh month called Bon or O-Bon. It matters none for the first day of October as I left the hotel, from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a dark shape at a distance, watching me. Slightly nervous, I didn’t fully turn to get a full view of the watcher. Traffic flooded the intersection, by the time, I thought again of lifting my eyes - the dark figure was lost to the crowds.

  Still, though, I wouldn’t give up. City Hall yielded a few records of a village though the name had been blotted by a dark spot. No one could tell me where to find a clearer record, well, either couldn’t or wouldn’t do so. They seemed nervous somehow, on edge when I asked about that village, nameless to me, for I could learn nothing of its name. Had it been Kiyowara village?

  I also stopped by the Aomori public college with a letter of introduction from Takada-sensei in the history department. From there, I found a mention of a fire that had devastated a small town in the mountains. I did find a photo loose in the archives that I’ve managed to include: