The Collector Page 4

  A small village...a fire...had they tried to rebuild? Was it connected? Frustratingly, I had hit a dead end. I’d been given seven days, three of which were gone. I was feeling pretty desperate for a breakthrough when the ramen stall owner that I’d stopped at for dinner, glanced at my notes, a surprised expression coming over his face.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your papers, ojo.” The man had a good-natured countenance. He wore a cook’s apron and a white forehead protector to keep the sweat off his brow. My plate of yakisoba and okonomiyaki had been served without me noticing it. “Itadakimasu.” I mumbled before looking inquiringly.

  “Been a long time since I’ve seen that there picture.” His glance strayed to the scattered papers, the photo from the archives had his attention. I sat up straighter, “you know it? Can you tell me where it is? What’s there? What’s its name?” My questions tumbled out into one incoherent mass. Embarrassed, my face flushed, I looked down. “Gomen nasaii.”

  The cook excused me airily, his Tsugaru-ben accent heavier. A few other stalls lined the street, his was the least populated with only myself in attendance. Seeing a group of tourists walk toward a takoyaki stand around the corner, he sighed and began talking. This is what he said:“It all happened quite a number of years ago, my daddy was a child when the village was abandoned for good. He’s nigh passed after a long life that’s how long ago we’re looking at. Things went mighty queer down in Kuronuma, folks say it was the curse that started the village going downhill. What with the disturbance of the burial mound-”

  I interrupted him here, my heart strangely pounding. “A burial mound? Was a nobleman buried there or a person of some repute?”

  His thick gray eyebrows shot up toward his receding hairline. “Not all were meant for a peaceful afterlife, ojo. Some were meant to contain...things.” He shivered, his gaze sliding to the approach of those same tourists I’d noticed before. Instantly, a welcoming smile wiped away the lingering traces of apprehension. I plucked up the digital recorder, thrusting it out, fumbling to find the right words. “But, wait-- how can I find this place?”

  “There’s no finding,” he drawled, halfway to the gaggle of Germans. “Town’s long vanished...become an urban myth.”

  I knew that, plowing on determinedly. “Anything else? Shite kudasai! This is a matter of great urgency!” I bowed my head. I’m still not sure whether or not it was my expression that caused a change of heart. He told me to look for Yamaguchi Kahei-sensei, a retired teacher from the college and amateur historian for the region.

  It was from Yamaguchi-san that I learned the rest. During the 1700s, many travelers passing through the Mt. Hakkōda region came to a gruesome end at the hands of a ronin, or a masterless samurai. A highwayman of the worst caliber, his one defect was that he had been blinded in service to the Mutsu no Kami, and sent away in disgrace.

  He had been an honorable man when serving his lord, but without, disparaged and turned away by the peasants for his scarred face and sightless eyes; his rage grew. On the lone Yatani road, he waylaid a humble monk on a pilgrimage to the place of reverence Mt. Osore in another part of the province. Slaying the monk, he donned the monk’s simple robes and wore a low sakat over his forehead. Disguised thusly, he began robbing and murdering travelers on Yatani road.

  The head man of the Kuronuma-chō grew worried with the lack of trade. Something had to be done yet none knew of whom committed the murders. At the time, another priest by the name of Kikotsu passed through the road and came to no harm. The villagers gathered around him, asking how he had braved the night-oni as they called it, whom haunted the desolate path. Kikotsu wove a strange tale of a brethren monk whose home he had taken shelter with. He spoke wonderingly of the monk’s magnificent katana one half of a daisho set and how he before his days of worship to the all-embracing Bodhisattva, had given up the name of Kiwako-no-Yoemon, once in service to my Lord of Mutsu. There had been another, a comrade in the truest sense of the word, that had been my Lord of Mutsu’s guard so trusted was he. But, his friend’s blade had never been tainted with unjust acts.

  The monk thought perhaps he had been wrong and had hesitated in calling his old friend’s name. The head man listened to the monk’s story and thought the whole night long. When morning came, he called upon the monk once again to relate his tale.

  “A fellow man of the cloth, you say?” The head man further probed Kikotsu’s recollection of the man’s face and Kikotsu could not answer satisfactorily for it had been dark and the man had kept his face turned away. A dark scheme began to form in the head man’s mind, at length he summoned the monk and laid his plans bare. If the people believed the murderer had been punished, trade would resume and the village would begin to prosper once more. Whether he be innocent or red with guilt, only the divine ones may answer.

  “The man whom calls himself ‘Jikantenshi’ might answer to the call of a friend.”

  The monk was at first appalled by the head man’s words. A holy man could not tell a lie, nor could trick another man. But, his heart swayed by misgivings of the murderer’s indentity at last made agreement. Alone, it seemed, Kikotsu went to the path beyond the village end. There, he hailed aloud his friend’s forgotten name three times, “Kiyowara-dono, Kiyowara-dono, Kiyowara-dono!” Then, leapt with a coward’s grace behind a large tree. There, from the darkness, the bold stride of a former warrior stepped out onto the road, answering in kind. Men from the village whom had been lying in wait, set upon him like rabid dogs. An old blind man such as he stood little chance of escape.

  Kiyowara’s remains were strung up on the outskirts of the village as proof of the murderer’s demise; men walked without fear from their village through the mountain passes once again. But, as with all karmic deed, the living must pay the price. The month of Bon came and the spirit of the murderer refused to rest, causing terrible hauntings in the village. Kikotsu was sent for, returning with a conscience that wouldn’t cease torment for he had never been convinced of Kiyowara’s guilt and knew that if mistaken, the three Buddhist Hells awaited his soul.

  He remembered Kiyowara’s blade and how it lacked its second half, calling upon the men of the village, he asked to see a fine sword. One of the men whose wife had been a victim of the vengeful spirit, stepped forward eagerly, presenting a fine black Wakizashi bearing the crest of my Lord of Mutsu. He knew then that he had been tricked and the murderer lay before his sight. Kikotsu’s anguish was great, but at last he calmed himself and spoke of what must be done. The spirit had been wronged in life, that wrong must be rectified for his soul to find peace as a guardian spirit.

  The people of the village protested the canonization of the man whom in their eyes was a murderer. Refusing the monk’s counsel, they returned to their homes, turning the monk from the village. As the time of the spirits drew near, a terrible wailing arose from the desecrated remains, every bell in the village began to toll and in the bed-chamber of the head man’s eldest son, life fled.

  The monk was summoned in the morning by the bereaved family. “Lift this curse from us,” wailed piteously those whom had scorned him. Kikotsu withheld censure from the frightened men and women, gathering unto him those items necessary for the ritual. In seven days time, at the close of the Bon, he performed the arduous rites to bind the ronin’s spirit to his sword, placing them inside a special utaki or holy place so that none would disturb the bound spirit ever again.” Yamaguchi-san finished. “For many years Kuronuma-chō knew peace. But...,” and he was reluctant to go on. I prompted him gently, my nerves taut. “But, what? Was Kiyowara-shi innocent?” The horror of the monk’s mistake, filled me with pity. Pity, you may ask? Whom did I pity? The long-dead? It was a strange feeling.

  “That’s the beauty of the story,” Yamaguchi-san replied, “one cannot answer for those long gone as for the village...Something...something changed.” He shrugged, “anyhow, it’s an old story. That’s all I really know, I’m afraid.”

  I pressed him eagerly as to
the location of the village, knowledge of which the historian was unable to answer. Perhaps, an interring of the sword might appease its wrath. But, the man had no information to give. The name of the village along with the legend was the only thing that had survived to this day. Kuronuma...I left with few questions. Kuronuma, the town that disappeared after a tragic fire. Two swords...Kiwako-no-Yoemon. The Kiwako family...they were connected through my fragmented dreams.

  Rising from my bed, I drew toward the window of my hotel room. The night thickened the reflection of the street below. Somewhere distant, a bell tolled, something waited below, malevolent, blacker than the night. Like a feral animal, it slunk and crawled before my eyes. I returned to the bed, malaise-ridden, my flesh recoiled from the unholy thing. I stayed there until morning came. Was it a dream, Will? Tomorrow, will I awake to find it was all a figment of my imagination?

  I could do no more in Aomori city, driving as far as I could into the mountains. I left the car at a traveler’s station, spending the remainder of the next day hiking through the woods, following map lines all the while the shadow of Mt. Hakkōda’s range was in the distance. At last, forced to give up yet again, I camped overnight in a small hut kept for hikers, obtaining fresh water from a nearby stream.

  I must’ve drifted off from exhaustion, falling asleep where I sat, leaning against the back wall. Something startled me awake, a sound of some sort. Checking the illuminated dial of my watch, I saw that it was 2 am. The time of spirits. I felt afraid for no reason, slipping my hand in my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the tiny mamori I’d been given by the monk. The noise came again, deceptively soft like scree rolling beneath a dragging step.

  Slipping closer to the door, I inched the thin screen open a crack, peering through. Seeing nothing at first, my imagination ran foolish toward a wild animal conjecture. But the longer I looked, the more I became convinced, fancy had nothing to do with it. A dark mass gathered up from the ground, solidifying into a writhing shape of blackness more terrifying than before. I longed to shrink back. Hide myself far, far away from the aberrant shape.

  At length, my wavering courage resolved itself. I would see this through - I had to. So, peering forth once more, I watched the form glide about, rustling in the low grasses on the mountain knoll, seeming to search for something.

  Time stretched to an eternity, I don’t know how long I knelt there until at last it turned toward the tiny hut where I was hidden away. Before my senses could quite react, the light of the moon was blotted out, the gap was filled by the dark shape. Its rasping breath released a death’s rattle of decay and pollution. Its mass undulated in noisome waves retaining the barest aspect of terrible human likeness and in the place of eyes, two pinpricks of hellish pale glimmer shone through. The scream in my throat forced its way out in a choked sob. I back-scrabbled, sharp splinters tearing into my palms unheeded. The thing crawled inside, resuming its search. My back hit the wall only a few feet in, I pulled my legs close, clutching the mamori to my chest. As I shrunk away from its probing, my eye fell on the duffel bag I’d carried since the station. Trembling, I stretched my hand out, pulling the snaps apart. Edging sideways, I reached in, my hand closed around the worn scabbard -- and flung it out. A dull thunk sounded as the scabbard struck the floor only feet away. The blackness rushed upon it, seizing the scabbard like something long lost. Within seconds, it had disappeared through the sliver of door. What happened next, I can only ascribe as a mixture of curiosity and desperation; I set off after it.

  Off the main path, always keeping the figure in sight; I soon lost track of time. It slipped through fallen trees, dense undergrowth. Water babbled nearby, the beginning of the stream I had drunk from? Something drove me on, the slopes wended deeper into a barren valley, a cradle of land between the rise of the mountains. Above, the moon was a perfect sliver, stars sprinkled the sky.

  As my eyes focused, shapes loomed up from the loamy earth. The smell of burnt wood arose strongly from the night air. I had flung my arm out at first to ward off the guardians of this land. They didn’t stir. Nothing moved. Slowly, fear evaporated, I took in my surroundings with a new eye. This was...what was left of Kuronuma-chō.

  Burnt shells, stone boundaries that marked the end of the village, a fallen beam and one rising to the sky...the cross. I passed a circular indentation that might’ve been a well at one time. I hadn’t expected it to remain so untouched, so isolated. Ahead, something arose from the earth; I stilled, my hand finding the hidden mamori nestled in my hip pocket.

  The shapeless mass turned away after a long moment of cold sweat running down my skin. The air was chill as I’ve said, yet I sweated easily under the moonlight. It started to move, lurching away toward a destination known only to itself. I followed, my hand wrapped tightly around the Buddhist charm.

  It went on for some distance, passing through ruins I stumbled over. Here and there, the shells of houses thinned, gate posts stood rotting, rooted to the ground from whence they had been planted. We passed a demarcation of sorts, grass rustled beneath my feet. I started from the change in terrain, around me, the sky had lightened to mid-afternoon. The wind rustled through the trees, o-fuda strung a barrier around the central mound of earth and rock. Ahead of me, the shapeless mass had become a middle-aged man in loose monk’s robes.

  I could only see his slightly stooped back, prayer beads wrapped firmly around his withered wrist, flesh like tanned hide. He gazed mournfully at the mound of earth. Grass grew abundantly until ceasing in a perfect circle around the burial chamber. I wanted to speak yet the dream-like quality wouldn’t permit me to even utter a sound. An eternity seemed to pass, then the monk turned slightly, a look of recognition in his expression.

  “You.” And then he was gone. The night swallowed me in its vastness, I was alone, standing where I had been in the vision. Ahead were pair of footprints neither mine nor an animal’s and the earth ahead had caved into a pit of itself. The utaki! I remember thinking, hurrying forward. The loam was soft, yielding, the scent familiar to my nostrils as I inhaled. Half-frenzied, I dug with my hands, then with a broken spade.

  As the light of early morning crept over the mountaintop, my tired eyes beheld the outline of a man-made structure...a casket...deeply rotted, almost crumbling to the touch. I dug my bruised fingers in, feeling, searching and pulled back with a cry. Something cold and hard had met my searching fingertips. The light grew stronger, brighter into the valley, the shadows of night fled in the brilliance of daylight.

  The utaki’s ruined form half rose from the earth, the Buddhist symbols eroded by age and the elements. Within, I glimpsed the shape of a human skull, the crown of its head smashed inward. My fear seemed to vanish observing mortality. I drew nearer, noting the ligatures of skeletal fingers, half-curled within the jumble of bones.

  In a few minutes, I had located the katana amid the tangle of ruins. Returning to the utaki, I reached in, resting the scabbard as best as I could inside. Leaning back, I pressed my dusty palms together, praying as I hadn’t done since I was child in my aunt’s care. I don’t know what exactly I prayed for or who? The monk whose betrayal had condemned his soul...the blood of the innocent blind man spilled on a forgotten mountain pass...Kiwako Arisa-shi for her connection to the lost village or myself?

  Then, feeling lightened, peaceful, I walked out of there, rejoined the main path by three pm and was on the road by seven. I returned to Tokyo Sunday night, visiting the temple by midday. Hosokawa presided over the inscribing of the ihai memorial tablet, promising to hold a special segaki-service. He has instructed me to place the ihai on the sbôryôdana beside my parents picture and recite the Nembutsu as an invocation to appease the akuryo.

  There ends my story, Will. Nothing further has happened, we’re drawing close to the end of the year...I’ve been writing a comparison between my country’s supernatural beliefs and those of Americans. I’ll send you a copy when its published. As for now, I bid you goodnight, Will.”

  -
end of transcript.

  She never did publish her work. After this last recorded instance of M-- Okuda, the collector seems to fall off the face of the earth. To this day, no trace of her has been found. But, I have my conjectures and this one last curious footnote to add to the tale. The story concludes with Morris, M-- Okuda’s friend and mine.

  Statement of William Morris, November 19 2009:

  I never saw nor spoke to Miyuki again. Not long after our last correspondence of which I’ve provided a voice to text transliteration of; I was contacted by mail, then phone by an investigator working with the Japanese police.

  She disappeared from her house on the night of October 31st. No one had seen nor heard from her since. Her last contact had been with me, found in the files of her computer. I of course could provide nothing but useless conjecture. I mentioned the story she had told me, also...ah, pertinent facts concerning the strangeness of the sbôryôdana or shelf of souls, in the downstairs den.

  I did not ask what they found, but rather flew down to pay my respects to Tsubame-san, M--‘s aunt. The police accepted the story I have copied for you, with a world-weary sigh on the other end of the telephone. They live in a country where the otherworldly is a stone’s throw away, beyond that door, peering in the window. Spiritualism is everywhere.

  Tsubame-san and I drove to the house in Den’en chōfu. The elderly lady wouldn’t set foot inside but rather bade me to pack up some of M--‘s personal things. The house belonged to her now, its contents divided between her and myself. I carried a few empty cartons from the trunk through the main gate into the dry, dusty yard where withered plum trees drooped sharp arrow leaves. M--‘s car sat in the driveway, dust lay thickly upon the midnight blue sheen. The keys I had seen her handle in her delicate hands, rested squarely in mine.

  There was a disturbance in my soul, call it grief, denial or a combination of both, it left a nauseated feeling in my throat and stomach. I entered the house, marveling at its tomb-like atmosphere. The Ii armor reposed where it always had, a few tattered strips of yellow police tape were stretched over the doorways of some of the rooms. My glance strayed to her office and then across again to the back den. The latter’s door was firmly shut, tape stretched across the doorframe.

  Saddened, I began my task, retrieving her photo albums from upstairs, a few shells we had collected as children, these were items of sentimental value. Tsubame-san had me call movers in to carry out the heavier pieces of furniture, but they wouldn’t be here until sometime tomorrow. Working quickly and methodically, I soon had filled most of the boxes and planned on leaving to have a late lunch. Then, I remembered in one of the rooms, there was a photo of M-- among friends that I had liked. Backtracking through the upstairs hallway, I found it where memory served...but there was something else too. In the printer tray, there was photos printed out and as I lifted them up, curious, the date was file:///C/Documents and Settings/me/10/27/2009

  The first was of a memorial tablet; another of her room stripped of its o-fuda. I noticed where I hadn’t before, a lacquered sword stand on the mantel in another picture of the downstairs den, cradling a lone Wakizashi of high polish and on its sage-o...I found a magnifying glass, recoiling violently away the next moment. In my haste, the papers scattered, fluttering like large, frightened birds to the floor. The closest came to my hand...a grainy shot of M-- ... I have enclosed it here for you.

  Call me a coward if you will, Lindstrom, but there are some things, some mysterious powers that remain unexplainable. In crossing the main hall, my gaze strayed inevitably once more to that solitary door in the alcove behind the stairs, it stood ajar.

  Finis

  Connect with the author: https://yumechanproductions.blogspot.com/

  Excerpt of The Accursed, Dancing in Darkness book 4

  ...

  “We’re back to square one then. Fat chance Mr. Baker’s going to let the murderess be within sight of sanctified familia grounds.”

  Sight...Evelyn brightened, saying slowly. “No, wait. She said something...,”

  “Huh? Who?”

  “Camilla....,” Evelyn struggled to remember, “she said something strange the last time I saw her before she killed Devon.”

  “Like what?”

  Evelyn paced away, frowning. “She said I saw you with him, two or three times. Each time, her mother or I changed the subject. We just didn’t pay attention.”

  “So?”

  “She was watching us from the window.”

  He started to catch on, “hey, and Reno said - ”

  “She watched them arrive from the window.”

  They stared at one another.

  “She’s always watching.”

  Quinn shuddered, rubbing his arms briskly despite the heat of the day. Dry, crisp grass tickled the sides of her feet clad in simple strap sandals. The cemetery ground sloped in slight dips where broken stone rolled underfoot and broken angels wept. Evelyn turned in a complete circle, “but which direction?”

  North. South. East. West.

  “If it was from the Baker mausoleum, then it would be...,” she drew an imaginary arc from the monolith of stone to somewhere past their vehicles parked on the curve of narrow road stretching through the cemetery grounds.

  He looked at her in consternation. “The road.”

  ... coming Summer 2014

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