The Girl from the Well

by Rin Chupeco

  Callie turns her head briefly and catches sight of me drifting into one of the bedrooms farther down the hall. As the guide continues with his monologue, she slips quietly away and enters the room I disappeared into.

  It is one of many small quarters in the castle. It is one befitting a humble, unimportant servant.

  There is nothing now in the room to indicate its previous owner’s preferences or her idiosyncrasies. The bed is bare, wooden and devoid of design, and the barred windows look out into the great courtyard outside, where soldiers once trained under the lord’s watchful eye.

  Callie looks out the window and does not see them, but I do.

  I can still see the clashing of swords. I can still hear General Shigetoki barking orders as he drills the soldiers again and again, until they perform adequately enough to his satisfaction. I can still see the gleam of silver and the flashing of blades. I can still see the quiet young lord who stands before these men as they practice, watching them train long and hard so they can fulfill their purpose: to defend the castle and protect him from enemies foolish enough to assault Himeji.

  I can still remember his dark brown eyes and

  the way he

  frowns a certain way when he is deep in thought. I can still remember

  how he throws his head back and laughs when he is in high spirits, and I can still remember how he

  sulks for days

  when queer moods take him, his flaring temper. I remember how, this creature of dark still remembers, how I remember my heart

  racing, this heart that has not beaten in over three centuries. I remember how my heart raced when he took my hand very gently in both his own and said, in his strange and gentle voice—

  Okiku,

  I will always be in your debt;

  that strange and gentle voice, as he turned to his retainer and said—

  Do with her

  as you will.

  With shaking fingers, Callie traces the faded wooden frame, knowing that this was where, several hundred years ago, a girl named Okiku once laid her head to rest.

  “The paths inside Himeji Castle were built to confuse invaders,” the guide continues, after Callie rejoins the group. “You will notice that the corridors are not built with the same sizes in mind. Hallways lead into secret passages not easily discernible to the eye. The stairs are of varying heights so invaders might trip while engaging the defenders in battle. Outside, I will take you to a hall farther on where a whole passageway can collapse with the removal of a single keystone.

  “Himeji Castle’s builders created these complexities for one purpose, and one purpose alone: that in the event the castle was overwhelmed, its inhabitants would be able to defend its walls long enough for the lord of Himeji to commit hara-kiri. It was considered dishonorable among samurai to be taken alive after being defeated.”

  For all its outside grandeur, the inside of Himeji Castle is wooden and sparse, nearly devoid of furniture and ornamentation. Empty suits of armor greet the tourists at selected corners as they climb the last of the steep stairs to have their brochures stamped with an authentic Himeji seal. From outside, the shachihoko, half-tiger and half-fish gargoyles, stand guard on the castle turrets, their tails lifted in haughty dismissal.

  The castle itself is nearly how I remember it, and yet the turning of centuries has saddened me more than I care to admit. What had once thronged with warriors and daimyos—great leaders—who discussed and paved the paths to Japan’s great future, who held the lives of the people in the palm of their hands, the place that had once housed and protected the man I had once served and

  loved,

  has now been overshadowed by the hum of tourists, who, in their misguided appreciation, only consider Himeji Castle a memory of the distant, once-glorious past.

  By the time the group wanders out of the fortress and into the series of almost labyrinthine mazes on the castle grounds, it is early afternoon. “We have time for one last place to visit,” their guide says, leading them toward a large imposing gate and beside it a five-story tower. “This is the Hara-kiri Maru,” he says, “known as the Suicide Gate. It is here where lords and dishonored samurai were forced to commit hara-kiri, sometimes to atone for their masters’ sins. And this is the donjon, the main tower of the castle keep.”

  “Was this well used for drinking water during a siege?” Callie’s friend asks, peering gingerly inside.

  “No, nothing of that sort. It was used to wash away the remnants of the disembowelment ritual of the hara-kiri. This is famously known as Okiku’s Well.”

  For a moment, the sun seems to hide behind the clouds, casting the surroundings in a queer gray color.

  “This is the well Okiku’s ghost is supposed to haunt, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. It is one of our most popular ghost stories, perhaps second only to the Yotsuya Kaidan. There are many different versions of Okiku’s legend. The Himeji version is that Okiku was a young maidservant working for the lord of Himeji Castle, whom she loved dearly. She alerted him to an attempt on his life, allegedly by one of his chief retainers. In revenge, the retainer broke a plate from the lord’s most prized collection, and Okiku was found guilty of the crime. The faithless lord allowed the retainer to torture her extensively before throwing her body down this well.

  “Since then, her ghost rises from it and counts the lord’s collection of plates, traditionally between the Japanese witching hours of two and three in the morning. Each time she finds only nine, and each time her unearthly screaming and wailing would wake the lord from his sleep. In time, his health broke from her nightly hauntings. Unable to find peace in death, her ghost is said to haunt the well, even today.”

  “That’s a sad story,” the brunette murmurs.

  “But true,” Callie says, so softly that no one else hears her. She knows that I have gone far beyond the boundaries of my well and have long since sought the greener pastures of other countries, wreaking my vengeance on men still within my reach, those who could serve in the cruel retainer’s stead.

  Her friend looks down the well and makes a face. “Well, it’s too dark to see anything. Let’s go take a peek inside the Suicide Tower instead.”

  She moves away. Before she turns to follow, Callie looks into the well herself—

  —and sees a lone woman lying at its bottom, her body twisted and broken from a fatal fall.

  Someone hurt her really, really badly, and they put her down someplace that was dark and smelly, like a big hole. Her head went in the hole first before her feet and she died like that, so she got used to seeing everything upside down.

  But I am not the Okiku she is familiar with.

  This Okiku is clawing at her own face, black bile bubbling up from the wounds scored into her skin. Her mouth is wide and black and hollow, and she is screaming soundlessly, horrid gurgles at the base of her mangled throat, where bone protrudes.

  But the most frightening thing about this Okiku are her eyes, as they contain nothing but hollow sockets teeming with black leech-like maggots and look nothing at all like eyes.

  It was this Okiku that drowned in this well three hundred years ago, the Okiku I was when I first began my existence as a dreadful spirit, as a nothing-more. This Okiku only remembered

  pain

  suffering

  hate

  vengeance.

  Time had taught me to temper the malice within. But for a long,

  long

  time, I was a great and terrible thing. I was a creature that found pleasure in the ripping. In the tearing.

  I am no longer that monster. But memories of that creature still lurk within this well. There are some things that never fully die.

  And now, still gurgling, this Okiku begins to climb.

  Limbs twisted, ragged strips of kimono fluttering behind her like broken wings, she clim
bs. She slithers up the wall, brittle bones snapping, she

  climbs. Her skin stretches and breaks, hanging down at unnatural angles as her head tilts, loose flesh clinging to the folds of what remains of her neck, and she

  climbs. Before Callie has time to react, this Okiku has climbed to the top of the well, reaching out for her with rotting hands, leaping for her with jaws agape.

  The young woman turns to run and nearly crashes into her friend.

  “Hey, hey, slow down!” The woman laughs. “What’s the hurry? We’ve still got lots of time to sight-see!”

  Callie cranes her neck to look behind her, but nothing comes out of the well.

  “Mori-san says we’re going to see the gardens next. ‘You’ve seen one garden, you’ve seen them all’ is pretty much my motto, but since it’s already been paid for, I don’t see how we have much of a choice. You ready?”

  “Y–yes, I’ll be right with you.” This time Callie sees the Okiku she is more accustomed to, looking down into the depths of the well myself. Perhaps some of the sorrow and regret is evident on my face when I look back at her, my head bowed in apology.

  I am sorry that she sees more than she ought.

  I disappear from her view. Callie risks one last look inside the well but this time sees nothing but darkness and hears nothing but the sound of water and the clattering of small stones.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Letters

  I drift from one to the other—first Callie in her small apartment in Kansai, then Tark at the apartment in Tokyo. Their surroundings could not be more different, for Callie lives simply, surrounded by her fellow students’ conversation and tatami mats. Tark is more accustomed to luxury, and the rooms he shares with his father are filled with art and opulence.

  Some days I watch Callie. I follow her as she attends lectures, plays, tours. I look on as she browses through heavy books, riffles through old pieces of parchment, watches television. Sometimes she knows I am there and lifts her head to stare fearfully at where I stand until I move to leave. There is a wariness to Callie still, a distrust she struggles to hide. I do not blame her.

  But much of me remains with Tarquin. The malignance that often surrounds him has retreated, as if my presence alone deters it. I give the creature few chances to resurface. I follow him as he wanders the busy streets, leafing through magazines in quiet cafés, peering into store windows. Like Callie, he is quick to notice my presence, but his reaction is one of welcome. Before long, he makes his overtures to me, bold where Callie is cautious.

  “You know what this is, Okiku?” he says, gesturing for me to stand by his side and ignoring the puzzled gazes of passersby. “It’s called an arcade game. For a few yen you get to kill imaginary aliens or space monsters for fun. Except this is Japan, so in this game, you play an angry father instead, and you get bonus points for how many things in the room you can destroy by flipping a table up. Child protective services in the States are gonna love this game.”

  “Do you ever get hungry, Kiku?” he might say on another occasion. “I mean, I could buy you a milkshake, too. People leave food in shrines here for all kinds of ghosts, so I’m assuming ghosts actually do get to eat… Does ghost food even exist?”

  I do not often understand what he means, but it never seems to matter.

  We visit clothing stores, restaurants, parks. He takes me to Tokyo Tower (“The best view in Japan to see modern capitalism hard at work!”), to Hachiko’s statue (“Don’t tell anyone, but the movie made me cry.”), to Harajuku Station (“I know a lot of people here set world fashion trends and all, but that guy looks like he’s wearing every piece of clothing his mother owns.”).

  He tells me to sit by a bench overlooking a small park full of colorful flowers. I am, I feel, understandably reluctant to do so, but he persists. “It won’t take very long. I work fast.” He sits across from me, takes out his pen and paper, and begins to sketch.

  A short time later, he shows me the finished portrait. It is that of a lovely woman gazing wistfully off to one side, admiring the roses in bloom.

  I cannot do it justice.

  “For a ghost,” Tarquin says, teasingly, “you sure do have a ridiculously low opinion of yourself.”

  I find these short, spontaneous trips with Tarquin

  pleasant.

  Tarquin and Callie talk frequently in what Tarquin calls email exchanges—odd, invisible letters that reach out and bridge the miles that keep them apart. Often, I look over their shoulder as they write, wondering. I had few family members during my lifetime, and delving into Callie and Tarquin’s words and thoughts this way, their obvious concern for the other, makes me yearn for something that is no longer my privilege to feel. I do not know why.

  Heya, Callie, Tarquin writes,

  Japan is officially the most dysfunctional place I have ever set foot in, and I have been inside a mental hospital. Did you know they’ve actually got a vending machine here that sells used girls’ underwear? The Japanese government declared them illegal or something, but I guess that’s never stopped a bunch of entrepreneurs from leaving them around. Dad says he’s seen others that sell umbrellas, eggs, and for some strange reason, batteries. I’m hoping there’s a machine here where you can buy your very own giant robot.

  So I almost tried this underwear machine out—just to, you know, see if the thing actually works—but my acute sense of shame finally won out. There are so many other fun ways to dishonor the family name that buying girls’ underwear shouldn’t be one of them.

  Just the other day, I found a salon that specializes in giving girls crooked teeth. And this is considered adorable if, uh, Japanese girls who look like a vampire needing braces are supposed to turn men on. Also, there’s a holistic care spa specializing in dogs. I think in my next life I’d like to come back as some rich Japanese lady’s labradoodle and enjoy all these spoils. Kinda ironic that most hot spring resorts allow for dogs, but not for people with tattoos. So I guess in this current Japanese social hierarchy we’ve got Japanese > pets > me.

  (Not that I mind too much. I’m not so sure I like the idea of bathing in public, anyway. I know people say communal bathing is a test of how comfortable you are with your manhood and all that other crap, but manhoods should be heard and not seen, thank you very much.)

  That didn’t sound right. I might have mixed my metaphors up, but I’m sure you know what I mean.

  You told me to send you an email as soon as we’ve settled in Tokyo, and right now we’re doing most of our settling in a swanky apartment high-rise at Shibuya that looks like it’s been designed by an architect who’d had one too many shots of bourbon.

  Tark pauses to glare at the walls of his room, which are covered in seven expensive paintings, each with its own alarming splashes of color.

  There’s lots of bulging concave art and intricate metalwork that contribute absolutely nothing to functionality except to sit there and look intricate, and there’s a table here that can defy the laws of physics to also become a makeshift lounge chair and bookcase. I’m still expecting some metallic female voice to come popping out of the woodwork to welcome me into the future. Also, everything’s too polished. I can see my reflection on the toilet bowl lid. (Said toilet bowl also has a bidet. And a seat warmer for the tush. These people think of everything.)

  I was expecting to grab some tatami mats, roll out the futons, and pretend it’s possible to camp out in Tokyo. As it is, I’m afraid to touch anything because everything looks expensive and breakable, though admittedly this is just the way Dad likes it. The only greenery I’ve seen so far in this glass dome of technological awesome is a potted plant in one corner, and I’m pretty sure that’s about as artificial as everything else in here.

  Nobody we’ve talked to speaks much English, so it looks like I’m going to have to learn a new language soon. Dad says there are more than three thousand letters in the Japanese alphab
et, which could pose a problem. There are only twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, and I get into enough trouble with them as it is.

  I haven’t seen her since arriving here, which is always good. But I’ve been seeing a lot of Okiku…

  At this point, Tarquin lifts his head and smiles at me. “Having fun so far?” he asks lightly. I shoot him a puzzled look, but he only laughs and turns back to his laptop.

  …and as strange as this might sound, she’s usually the highlight of my days. Do you think that’s a bad sign?

  We have this one creepy little kid for a neighbor who looked like he could be the poster boy for every scary movie involving dead children, ever. He went up to me once and asked why “shitai-chan” was following me around. I asked Dad later what “shitai” meant, and he said it meant “dead body.”

  Like I said, creepy little kid. His parents probably had a blast with that one.

  I guess that means something’s still following me around. I’d have more peace of mind if I knew what it is.

  You in Japan already?

  • • •

  Educational tours and school visits make up the better part of Callie’s days, and she only finds time to respond when everyone is sleeping at the apartment she shares. Your emails always amuse me, she says first, smiling as she rereads his letter.

  I’ve been in Japan for three whole days! Except we’re in an area called Kansai, which is a part of Japan that’s south of Tokyo, and I don’t think it’s as busy or as populated as I would imagine Tokyo to be. There aren’t as many shopping malls and restaurants (so no vending machines with used underwear or doggie spas, thankfully), but there are a lot of other things I bet you won’t get to see in Shibuya.