“Just thought you should know.”
Shimada nodded, reluctantly. Said nothing.
“Maybe you should investigate?”
With the noblest of bureaucratic sighs, the officer opened his police log—the one that no one read, not even him—and entered the time and date: Thursday, March 10, 2011. A quiet day in Japan. He checked his watch, added the time and where he was going, tugged his cap into place. And all the while, Tamura-san waited.
“Are you going to bike it?”
“I’ll walk.”
“I’ve got my truck—”
“I’ll walk.”
Shimada tucked in his shirt, turned the ON PATROL sign over, shoved his shirt back in, then stepped outside into the sun.
Narrow lanes and bamboo stands. Lion-dogs and turtleback tombs. Sugarcane fields and goats in tall grasses. He walked down the long slope toward the port, drawing the widow’s guesthouse toward him as he went. Kept his eyes on the front door as he passed, hoping he might see her hefting her futons over bamboo poles to air them out—her guests slept on mattresses, but she on futons—or maybe slopping wash water into the gutter, hair pulled back under a kerchief, a single strand having slipped free, face pink, a downward glance, a small smile, but she was inside when he walked by, and try though he may to think of an excuse to knock on her door, he couldn’t come up with anything, and anyway, he could hear the radio playing soft music inside, saw her shadow through the kitchen window, moving, maybe swaying, almost dancing.
Beyond the widow’s guesthouse, her husband’s boat was tethered still, awaiting sale, finding none—bad luck had attached itself to the vessel—as the crumbled cement of the pier reached out into a haze of sea and the curve of the earth beyond.
He wondered if she’d changed the number on the door.
She had confessed, when he’d gone back to see her, that she’d been unnerved by what had happened. “I’m not superstitious,” she’d said, “but—it’s like something dark passed through Hateruma.” Caught in a labyrinth of coral walls, escaping out to sea.
He had assured her, as the island’s senior police inspector, only police inspector, that he was there for her, should she ever need him, anytime, even in the middle of the night, just call and he would come. But she never did, and he never had.
The morning’s ferry was now disappearing into the distance. Other islands, lost at sea.
The beach where he’d seen the sea turtle was farther along, out of reach and out of view, as were the cliffs on the other coast and the observatory that stood above them. The observatory was now closed, temporarily it was hoped, following the police investigation, but the Southern Cross itself was still visible. At night, if you stood, perched at the very edge of the world, peering over the horizon, south by southeast, you just might see it.
Hateruma’s only police officer followed the tramped-down footpath through the grass, along the shore, and past the pier, stepping carefully, watching for foreigners and coiled reptiles alike. The season for fireflies had passed, but not of habu. He wondered if the visitors were aware they’d been sleeping among serpents, but he was never able to ask them, for when he arrived at the campsite, they were gone, as insubstantial as a rumor. A flattened circle marked their presence, but even that would be gone with the next monsoon.
There was a smattering of clues as to their identity, items forgotten or discarded, it was hard to say. He gathered these up and dutifully tagged each item, entering them in the ledger after he got back to the police box: one (1) lens cap; two (2) plastic tent pegs, still embedded in the earth, which he worked free and brushed clean; one (1) bottle of wine (empty), and a single pewter locket, shaped like a heart. Shimada placed these items in the lost and found, and when several months had passed and no one had come to claim them, he gave the locket to his wife.
POSTSCRIPT LOCH LOMOND, ON THE RAINY SIDE OF THE LAKE
HE WAS ON HIS SECOND pint when the poison began to take effect.
A rainy day in a rainy pub on the rainy shores of Loch Lomond, the weather drumming restlessly outside, the amber glow of a fireplace within. A damp country, Scotland, even with a fire to warm you. He was dimly aware that something was wrong—the early stirrings of a fever perhaps, or simply the chilblain and dark bitters taking hold—but then his body suddenly jerked. His hand lunged across, knocking his pint to one side, the foam inside sloshing.
“Easy there,” said the small man sitting across from him. “You don’t want to cause a fuss.”
He struggled to look up, lips moving as though chewing on his words. No sound came out. He was young, in a heavy sweater and an oversize rain jacket, had been passing himself of as a local, had failed.
“The first of September and already the leaves are starting to fall,” the small man said, somewhat wistfully. He raised a glass to his companion. A proper whisky for him, none of this bitter ale or Guinness. He took a long, contented draw. Single malt, peaty, with tinges of burned oak. “Shall I order you another round? No? Had enough, have you?”
The fire crackled and hissed. A knot of wood popped, and the rain continued, restlessly, relentlessly, pelting the window, sliding down the panes of glass, rendering the world outside a ruined watercolor.
“Did you know,” said the small man, as he swirled his scotch, considered its hue. “Over in Brig O’ Turk, not far from here, an hour’s drive at most, there is a bicycle caught in a tree. I don’t mean the bicycle is on the tree, I mean it is in the tree, embedded in the trunk. A bizarre sight to behold, so it is. The handlebars, the tire rims, the rusted frame, all of it swallowed by a sycamore. Story is, there was a village lad who had headed off to fight the Hun and had left his bicycle resting against a tree. The boy never returned, and over the years his abandoned bike was slowly absorbed into the wood, rising off the ground as the tree grew. I imagine his own bones may be twisting themselves into roots of their own, out there in Flanders.” Memories of Okinawa, of shoes knotted into trees, spiraling upward.
The man in the knitted sweater tried again to speak, but couldn’t. Something unintelligible, thick with saliva.
“That will be the paralysis kicking in,” said the small man, helpfully. “Your tongue will be starting to swell, as well.” He finished the last dram of his single malt. “Ah, yes. Sherry-casked and aged to perfection, carries the scent of the Highlands, of bracken and heather, of thistle and cold waters. It’s like drinking a landscape. This village we’re in, it’s named Luss. An odd name, don’t you think? It was originally Clachan Dubh, ‘the Dark Village.’ Something to do with a murder on its shores, but more likely because of the mountains that surround it. Come winter, very little sunlight reaches this town. Gloomy, in that Scottish sort of way. Now, Luss, this comes from a baroness, born of the village, who married a French officer and moved away, only to die—tragically, as baronesses are wont to do. Her grief-stricken husband brought her home in a casket arrayed with fleurs-de-lys, lilies that would eventually take root in these cold Scottish environs. The name Luss comes from the Scots pronunciation—one might say, degradation—of the word fleur-de-lys. A beautiful story, wouldn’t you say? And a beautiful village, as well. Low stone cottages, slate roofs, and garden walls entwined with roses. But where are the lilies? Gone, you might suppose, but no, not gone. Hiding. French lilies now grow wild in the swampy grounds south of town. But that isn’t why we are here, is it? The two us. We haven’t come all this way for lilies.”
Outside, the rain, restlessly falling, falling.
The small man considered his empty glass. “Shall I have another dram? Perhaps some Arran Gold instead? Have you tried it, a liqueur from the Isle of Arran? It will restore your faith in man. Smoky and sweet at the same time, like honey and hickory. On the Isle of Arran, above the distillery, a barren peak rises up. They call it the Devil’s Punch Bowl, so named because once a year, when the angle of the sun is just right, the ridge along the top throws a shadow onto the hills of Cioch na h-Oighe, creates a silhouette of Old Nick. Chin and nos
e and horns, the very profile of Beelzebub himself. The devil appears on that one certain day, so they say, but—here’s the thing.” He was staring now, unblinking, into the other man’s gaze. “That’s not entirely true. The devil was always there, you see. He was only revealed on that day, but he was always there, they just couldn’t see him.”
The small man took out his handkerchief, said, “You’re perspiring. Is something wrong? Perhaps it’s the fire. Here, let me get that for you.” He reached across to mop the other man’s forehead. “And are those tears?” he asked. He dabbed the man’s eyes as well. “There you go. All better.” He folded his handkerchief in half and began, methodically, to wipe his own glass clean. “It’s the church, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here, tracing Saint Kessog’s footprints, as it were. It was Kessog who first brought the Holy Word of Our Lord to these lawless lochs, did you know that? It was Kessog first raised a northern cross in the heart of this dark Druidist world. They killed him, of course. Martyred him on the lakeshore in 530 AD. Best thing for him, really; martyrdom is always a smart career move among saints. Then came the Reformation. In a frenzy of piety, Catholic symbols were smashed and altars destroyed across this fair land. Here in Luss, the frightened parishioners hurried away two key icons of faith: a stone carving of the saint himself, a contemporary likeness, in fact—think of that! A crude stone bust a thousand years old, spirited to safety, along with the church’s baptismal font. They were buried under a cairn by the crossroads, to be recovered after the madness passed, but of course it never did. Over time, the font and the saint were forgotten.”
He leaned across, onto his elbows, the fire dancing in his eyes.
“Remarkable isn’t it, that one could misplace a saint? Now, this may sound immodest, but I’ve always had a knack for finding things. A blessing, let’s call it, or a curse perhaps, either way it is a talent I have sedulously fostered over the years. But even I would have been stumped by the stone head of a dead saint buried five hundred years ago under an unmarked cairn with no records to sustain the location. In such cases, it is usually happenstance that brings such objects to the surface, and so it was with Saint Kessog and his baptismal font. A corps of army engineers was widening a road, and they unearthed these relics, long thought lost. Hidden, forgotten, found. Such was the arc. They are on display at the church, even now: the baptismal font and a stone saint. A primitive rendering, I must say. Just the rough shape of a face, much like an outline waiting for the details to be filled in. You think that’s why I came here, isn’t it? To Luss, to the rainy shores of Loch Lomond. But you are wrong.”
The other man began to pitch forward, his hands on the table, knotted in fists. The small man leaned across, gently tilted him back.
“There’s no shame in being wrong. But I must say, the notion that I would come here for the saint is mildly insulting. I am not a common thief! That stone sculpture and baptismal font have already been found. I haven’t come all this way to engage in an act of mere thievery.” A dash of anger, quickly subsiding, and then a smile, all teeth. “Did you notice the workers from earlier? The road crew, the ones in the orange vests, down by the river, behind the church? No? No one ever does. Council orders, they assume, or parish, it is never clear. You see, the Luss church is surrounded by graves. You must have noticed. You had to walk through them to get to the church when you came sniffing about, setting up your”—and here he laughed; he couldn’t help it—“security cameras. As though a store-bought motion detector and wall-mounted lens would deter the likes of me! So fixated were you on that stone head that you missed the graves outside. A beautiful graveyard here in Luss, particularly beautiful in the rain. Lichens and moss, headstones leaning as if into a wind. Behind the church, among the other graves, is one particular tombstone. Very unusual. It looks like a loaf of bread with fish scales, but of course it is no such thing. It is a Viking grave, meant to imitate a longhouse with cedar shingles. What on earth is a Viking grave doing in a quiet churchyard in a small village on the shores of Loch Lomond? An invasion, of course. The last great Norse incursion. It was here, in this labyrinth of lakes and islands, that the Vikings were finally turned back. They battled their way in, but were unable to battle their way out. Had to drag their longboats over a neck of land just to get here. Such determination! But that doesn’t answer the question: Why that grave, and why here? Regular Vikings would have been buried where they died, thrown into a pit, more or less, and sent on their way. The Viking burial, ship ablaze, is largely a myth. We know from the size of this stone monument that it is the grave of someone of great importance. But why at a Christian site? Near as I can tell, there are only two possibilities: either it is the grave of a Viking Christian—there were some, even then, even as they hacked their way across these British Isles—or it was an act of defiance, a way of lording it over a cowed populace, placing a pagan grave smack in the very heart of Saint Kessog’s Christian mission.” The small man held up his hands in mock surrender. “Who knows? The mystery remains. The only way to find out is to look. To lift up that slab and dig down, into the heart of it. Norse coins, a shield, a sword to fight your way into Valhalla, or perhaps, even more valuable, a Viking cross. Not lost, you understand, because we know where it is, but forgotten, because we don’t know what it is.” The fire cracked and popped. Wood crumbling into embers, an everyday act of transubstantiation. “It always starts with forgetting, doesn’t it? With memories that fade and erode over time, dissolving, leaving only riddles and hints at what might have been.”
The rain and the fire and the empty glass.
“What lies buried beneath that stone? We do not know, because we are not allowed to move it. Parish rules and such. But”—and here his face brightened—“what if one were to come in, from the side, from the bank of the river, say, snake a fiber-optic camera through, poke about? The next step, and understand I am speaking only hypothetically, would be to present oneself as, oh, I don’t know, an historic restoration expert, I suppose, concerned about the sad state of the graveyard. Have I given you my card? No? How very rude, I apologize. It reads: ‘National Trust Historic Sites Restoration Agency,’ followed by a string of postgraduate letters, all bogus I’m afraid, but people are so very impressed with abbreviations. After that, one need only surround that section of the graveyard, put up a tarp, blocking the view, clean some of the tombstones, straighten a few—mainly as a courtesy—and, of course, move the Viking capstone off, burrow down, retrieve that which has been forgotten. Over and done with in a single weekend, before any questions can be asked.” Another flash of anger, distant but sharp, like a lightning strike behind a hill. “At least that was the plan, and a good plan it was, but of course you had to show up like an uninvited guest at a wedding. You just had to muck up the works, didn’t you? It was your accent that betrayed you, by the way. Trying to pass yourself off as Scots when I’d wager the closest you’ve been to Glasgow is a dialect seminar in London. Don’t feel bad. Happens to the worst of us. I’m still trying to shake off the last bits of Ulster from my own speech.”
The barmaid came over, but the small man stopped her with an embarrassed nod in the direction of his friend. “I’m afraid he’s had enough.” Then, staring into the other man’s eyes. “Isn’t that right?”
She cleared the glasses anyway, and after she’d left—with the evidence, as it were—the small man tugged on a pair of lambskin gloves, reached across, and retrieved the other man’s wallet from his inside jacket pocket. Flipped through it, pulled out various pieces of ID, a driver’s license, and—“What do we have here?” He studied the name card with a mockingly disappointed shake of the head. “You have been less than honest with us, haven’t you? Passing yourself off as a humble security consultant from Glasgow, come to update the kirk’s system, protect the saint’s head and whatnot. You’ve taken advantage of our trust, haven’t you? Catch yourself on, mate. Interpol, is it? And third-tier from the looks of it. Probably your first big case. Such a shame. I’m afraid she ha
s pulled another unsuspecting soul into her world of fantasy. You do realize I don’t exist, yes? Ask anyone.” Another sigh, sadder than the first. “I would ask that you give my best to Agent Rhodes when you see her next, but I daresay that won’t be possible. Perhaps, instead, you might convey a message to her on my behalf? You’re drooling. Here, let me get that.” He leaned across one last time, pressed his handkerchief against the sides of the other man’s mouth, then took out a pen, turned one of the young man’s ID cards over, wrote on the back: You did this. All I wanted was the grave. He tucked the card into the wallet, the wallet back into the man’s jacket.
The small man then stood up, turned his collar against the cold and damp, pulled his scarf in tighter. He looked around him, and then laughed. “I’ve gone and lost my umbrella. Funny, don’t you think? No matter. These things happen. Not lost, as my mother would say, only misplaced.” And with that he bid farewell and walked out into the rain.
ON OBJECTS LOST AND FOUND NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR
THE OBJECTS THAT GADDY RHODES is hunting—Muhammad Ali’s gold medal, the stolen Stradivarius, the Kalinga drum, the Fabergé eggs, Buddy Holly’s glasses, the postmodern urinal signed “R. Mutt,” and the lost reel of Hitchcock’s first movie—are all real, are all still out there waiting to be found. All except one, which has indeed been recovered, though not quite in the manner described in this book. I will leave it to the reader to discover which. The story of the fifty-year-old wedding cake, the one-cent magenta stamp, and the lost Pollock are allusions to actual events as well.
The locations are real too. These are all places I have visited, from the beaches of Hateruma Island to the rockabilly joints in Okinawa City, from Uluru to Lavender Bay, from Hell’s Gate and Whakarewarewa to the art deco city of Napier, from Gushikawa Castle to Cape Kyan, from the Viking grave in Luss to the Devil’s Punch Bowl on the Isle of Arran. The story of the boy’s shoe in the tree, the unicorn horn on Kume Island, the bicycle in Brig O’Turk: these are all real places. All except one. Devil’s Spite Creek does not exist. If one were to search for this purgatorial community on the ghost line of an abandoned rail track, it would be an hour south of Alice Springs, and then east from the Stuarts Well Roadhouse along the Hugh River road, but I urge you not to try, for it is folly to do so, and if you did, you would find only sparse foliage, a kiln-baked emptiness, and ominous warnings posted on unwelcoming gates.
The Finder Page 33
