The Girl from the Well

by Rin Chupeco

  Small Jizo statues adorn most of the paths. People leave tiny bibs, pinwheels, and other simple toys along these stone figures.

  “This place is called the Sai no Kawara,” the miko says next, “the Buddhist purgatory. These statues are to honor those children who die before their parents, and you will find many offerings like these here.”

  Piles of small pebbles are also found along the paths beside the statues. The miko explains these are made by spirits of dead children who, unable to repay their parents in life, are now doomed to constantly build these small mounds of stones until prayers are made to comfort their spirits.

  Despite the pervading smell, Bodai Temple itself is an unassuming shrine, its importance rendered irrelevant by the strange world outside its doors. A few of the locals are lighting four candles inside a small shrine that contains the teeth of the dead (Callie draws back in alarm upon being told this, while Tarquin leans forward eagerly), and the incense that wafts through the air is a tangy contrast to the other smells of dank and death.

  Beside the temple is a small red pool that the miko says is called the Pond of Blood, guarded by more imposing statues and dead flowers. A small woman, wizened and hunched, totters about the grounds, murmuring, “I understand it now, I understand it now,” to herself like a small mantra. She smiles vaguely at the visitors, at the Halloways, and at Callie. She smiles at the miko, and then at me, and then at the large eyeless stone figures draped in scarlet and yellow aprons, guarding the bloody pool. “Yes, yes. That must be it. I understand it now,” she says. “I understand it now.”

  We spend a few more minutes wandering about the temple. Besides the Halloways, there are three more tourists who quickly leave, perhaps repulsed by the sulfur and the disquiet of the place. Intrigued by the small statues and unaware of their significance, Tarquin’s father stops to start up a conversation with one of the priests, and the miko joins him.

  But Callie sees me standing around the side of the temple, watching her and waiting.

  She rounds the corner and follows in my footsteps, and it is here that she sees Tarquin and the man. He is in his mid-sixties, with brown, doughy skin and eyes like a frightened weasel’s. He is darker than most Japanese, from days spent under the constant sun, and his knuckles are knobby, fingers pudgy. He is kneeling before several more stone statues in the area, this time eyeless figures draped in miscellaneous cloths of forbidding scarlet and black, and he is rocking slowly back and forth. To those who do not truly see, it looks as if he is kneeling before Tarquin and begging. The boy himself appears grave. He sees the dead children and knows what must happen.

  Like him, Callie also sees them for the first time. Two young boys cling to the old man’s shoulders, and another lies chained at his feet. They are no more than eleven years of age, and their faces are as worn and as tired as the obese man’s, the imprint of their prison years stamped over their listless faces, their dull eyes.

  It is here that I make her understand.

  The old man shrinks back again when he sees me, but people like him are more accustomed to the ancient tales of old ghosts and older vengeance. He sees his fate standing before him, and he knows it is a price he must pay. While he was once wild and untamed in his younger years, when he killed these children for the thrill and the sport, in his old age he now wrestles with the horror and the guilt of what he has done, and the fear of what is to come. He comprehends that he has been living on borrowed time ever since, and when he turns to face me, the dread and the terror is on his face, but with it also a quiet relief, an acceptance.

  As Callie watches, terrified, I

  approach him. The man says nothing, but merely holds out his hands in supplication as he sinks to his knees before me. I reach out only

  once,

  and my form envelops his, my hair wrapping around his cringing face as I take him. It is in places like Osorezan where guilty men repenting of their old crimes come to wait for the end of their life or to wait for one to take it on their behalf.

  Finally, the mangled, bloated body slips out of my grasp and sprawls at the foot of one of the figures. Callie cringes at the familiarity of his terrible, staring face. Tarquin says nothing, and his face shows little else but determination. He understands, quicker than his cousin, the sins the man has committed and the necessity of his punishment, however repugnant to human eyes.

  But the children are free, and now they are gathering around me. Their faces are tired yet expectant, knowing their own peculiar form of purgatory has finally come to an end. Callie gasps when they begin to glow, and I gather them in my arms as best as I can, once more closing my eyes and surrendering briefly to that inner warmth.

  When I open my eyes again, I am surrounded by glowing balls of light where the three children had once stood. There is fearful awe on Callie’s face.

  Unafraid, Tarquin walks to where I stand, stepping into this circle of fireflies. He touches one, wonderingly, with a finger, but it immediately shies away, bashful even in this form. He turns his attention to me. As he has done before, he touches my cheek tentatively with his hand and looks directly into my face.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I smile at him. Then I raise my hands,

  and the balls of light respond, spinning slowly around my arms and the tips of my fingers until they are set adrift on their own, soaring lazily up into the blue autumn sky.

  Together Callie and Tarquin watch them rise, higher than the farthest-flung kite, watching them become little specks of morning stars until the last of the clouds hide them from sight, leaving nothing else but the two of them, the now-desiccated body on the ground, and me. And when the last of them disappear, I turn away and vanish as well.

  “Why did you say that?” Callie asks Tarquin, a little later. “Why did you apologize?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’m just sorry she has to keep cleaning up after other people’s mistakes all the time.”

  There is no one else in sight at the temple by the time they return. The old woman continues to putter about the place, every now and then resting a hand against another of the statues, greeting them like they are old friends. “I understand it now,” she repeats herself. “I do. I understand it now.”

  I wonder what it is that she understands.

  • • •

  Yagen Valley is a few hours’ hike away, along a small, unused road where no buses will go. The tourists along the road are even sparser at this time of year than at Osorezan. Two small hamlets are all that make up the population at Yagen. One is the Oku-Yagen, and the other is the unpopulated Yagen-Onsen. The miko says they are traveling to the latter.

  “But the guidebook says Yagen-Onsen is uninhabited,” Tarquin’s father says as he consults his guidebook.

  “Are we camping out?” Tarquin asks, stomping his foot on the hard ground and looking uneasy at the prospect.

  The miko only smiles.

  Callie is nervous. Perhaps, after all, the grinning miko is not who she says she is. There is little evidence that the miko knew Tarquin’s mother beyond what she claims, and yet they have embraced her words as the truth. This suspicion is also apparent in the father’s face, but unlike Callie, he is unaware of my presence, of the comfort Callie draws at knowing I am close by, my soundless feet padding after theirs. Only Tarquin seems unfazed, pushing on eagerly as we leave the forest path and trade it for the uncertainty of the woods.

  “I’m not sure we should go any farther,” the father begins unexpectedly, but what he is about to say next is silenced when the miko calls out joyfully, “We are here!”

  A smaller shrine is nestled farther into the thick of the forest, where no clear trail marks its location to outsiders. The only other visible landmark is a small well that stands beside it.

  From inside, a few women emerge. Two are older than the miko by at least ten years, but the third is at least thrice as old
as the oldest shrine maiden, though she stands straight and tall despite her weathered skin and her long, white hair.

  “Kagura,” the old woman asks in Japanese, “are these the Halloways?”

  The miko kneels on the rough-strewn trail and bows, her forehead touching ground. “This is Douglas-san and Tarquin-kun, Obaasan. And this is Tarquin’s cousin, Callie-san.”

  The old woman moves along the path. Though her steps are sure, she walks slowly and with a limp. When she reaches us, she surprises everyone else by reaching out with her thin, frail arms and clasping both sides of Tarquin’s startled face, kissing each cheek and whispering in more Japanese, though the words are simple enough that her short time in Japan has taught Callie to recognize their meaning.

  “Welcome to the Chinsei shrine, little Tarquin-chan,” she whispers, “Welcome to Chinsei.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Chinsei Shrine

  The shrine is larger than it looks from the outside. The wooden floor is carefully swept and the furnishings austere at best, though the place can accommodate five more people easily. There is no indication that anyone else visits the shrine, located as it is within these forests unspoiled by paths.

  But the dolls terrify the visitors as they enter the shrine.

  Like those in Yoko Taneda’s room, they are everywhere. They stare down at the three from glass cases made in every conceivable size and shape and form.

  (One doll, two.)

  They are dressed in kimonos of varying colors and designs, some with hair done in a complicated coif, while others have hair left loose and flowing. Tarquin makes a strange sound and steps back, while Callie is unable to stifle her gasp. The old woman looks amused and rattles off another fresh string of Japanese.

  “I apologize if our dolls make you feel uncomfortable,” Kagura translates for her. “We use these dolls for most of our rituals and exorcisms.”

  “My wife used to collect dolls very much like these,” Tarquin’s father stammers.

  “She was one of us, your wife. The Taneda sisters were two of the greatest exorcists of their generation.”

  “You must be mistaken. My wife is no exorcist.”

  (Twenty-five dolls, twenty-six.)

  “There are many things your wife neglected to tell you.” The old woman sounds disapproving. “Yoko was always a dutiful student, but her decision to marry and leave us came as a surprise. And then there was that business with Chiyo.”

  She shakes her head and makes a small psshing noise. Callie wonders why the name sounds familiar.

  “Dad”—Tarquin’s words come slowly, unusual for him—“I remember this place.”

  His father and Callie stare at him. “But that’s impossible,” the man says.

  (Ninety-one dolls, ninety-two.)

  “It is not impossible,” Kagura translates for the old woman again. “What I am about to say might sound fantastic to you, Halloway-san, but I speak the truth. Little Tarquin has been here once, many years ago. His mother brought him when he was only two years old.”

  “I remember her mentioning that she wanted to take a trip with Tarquin once while I was away on business. It was the last time I saw her before she…she…”

  (One hundred and eighty-three dolls, one hundred and eighty-four.)

  “Before she went insane,” the old woman finishes for him. “I remember you, Tarquin-chan, though you do not remember me. You were very well-behaved. Many of my other sisters babied you incessantly during your stay. If we’d only had the foresight to know what would happen to your mother, we would have asked her not to bring you at all.” The old woman sighs. “We must hurry, though, to ensure that you do not share the same fate.”

  (Three hundred and six dolls, three hundred and seven.)

  “What do you mean? What’s going to happen to Tarquin?” his father asks in alarm.

  A knowing look passes among all four miko. “We have heard of your young son’s sickness.” The old woman is being deliberately misleading. “We know that the doctors in the city will not be able to heal him with their modern medicine. But we are gifted in the old ways, and we would like to try.”

  Tarquin’s father, a stronger believer in these modern medicines than in tradition, looks unconvinced by this, but he does not wish to sound ungrateful. “Tarquin’s a lot better than he was in Tokyo,” he does concede. “I don’t see why we can’t stay for the time being. I am thankful for any help you can give.”

  (Five hundred and sixty-two dolls, five hundred and sixty-three.)

  “My name is Machika. This is Saya, and Amaya. You already know Kagura. You are all free to stay for as long as you like in our humble home. Yoko’s family will always be welcomed here.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Tarquin says, still staring at the dolls, “I’d like a room where there isn’t anything soulless looking back down at me, for a change.”

  Much to his relief, the guest rooms hold none of the seven hundred and seventy-seven dolls of the Chinsei shrine. There are seven more futons laid across fresh tatami mats, and one small wooden table. The other mikos do not speak English, either, though they smile frequently and appear eager to assist. Tarquin’s father hesitantly gives Yoko’s urn to the old woman, Machika, who accepts it with peculiar sadness and regret. “Dear Yoko,” she murmurs, “if only you had listened.”

  She turns to place the urn reverently on one of the larger altars, while the other mikos stand silently and say nothing. Some time later, Callie watches as they chant and toss handfuls of Yoko’s ashes into the thick foliage that surrounds the small shrine, and she wonders how many dead shrine maidens cover this tiny clearing.

  It soon becomes clear that the Chinsei shrine is self-sufficient and has little reason to interact with the other locals. The mikos show them their garden, where small herb and vegetable patches satisfy their requirements for food, as meat is not consumed inside the shrine, much to Tarquin’s consternation. For other basic necessities, the miko Kagura explains, she is often sent to nearby Oku-Yagen, or even to Mutsu when supplies in the nearby hamlet are lacking, as they sometimes are. The mikos spend their days cleaning the shrine and gathering at certain hours of the day to chant sutras to cleanse both body and spirit. They do not mention the woman in black or the onryuu in white as Kagura had, and Callie wonders if only the younger girl possesses this ability while the skills of the older shrine maidens have grown weaker over time.

  The next two days are spent in pleasant inactivity. All the mikos dote on Tarquin, who is uncharacteristically embarrassed by all the attention, much to his father’s and Callie’s amusement. They are invited to partake of the hot onsen springs. Tarquin and his father go first. When they return, it is Callie’s turn.

  Kagura and another one of the mikos named Amaya accompany the girl on her first visit to the hot springs. “There are three open-air onsen in all of Yagen Valley,” Kagura tells her as they begin their twenty-minute walk. “The Meoto Kappa-no-yuonsen is the only one that offers dressing rooms and showers for visitors. It costs 200 yen, but from the Chinsei shrine, it will take nearly an hour’s walk to reach, and another hour to return. You would be tired and exhausted by then, and this would negate the bath’s soothing effects.

  “Kappa-no-yu is the second onsen and free of charge, though there are no changing rooms. The third and nearest onsen is where we will be headed. No one has thought of giving it a name, perhaps because they wish it to remain as unspoiled as its surroundings. But we have always called it the Chinsei-no-yu among ourselves, for we are its most frequent customers.”

  Chinsei-no-yu is exactly how the miko describes it. There is a view of the nearby rapids, but no enclosures or rooms to change in. Kagura and Amaya show little inhibition, eagerly shedding their clothes while Callie, blushing furiously, gingerly follows suit. Among these springs, it seems, visitors are required to shed their modesty as well as the rest of their clothi
ng before stepping into the water.

  “Do not be so shy,” Amaya encourages in Japanese, and Kagura translates for her friend. “You must rid yourself of all your Western modesty when you come to our hot springs. To embrace the Japanese culture is to follow in the customs of the Japanese at onsen. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Finally stripped down, the three girls enter the hot springs. Callie gives a soft little sigh of contentment the instant her skin touches the water, the constant worries and concerns plaguing her during the last several days melting away upon close contact with such comfortable heat.

  They sit in companionable silence for fifteen, perhaps twenty more minutes, simply luxuriating in their baths. “I’m afraid there is another reason we have asked you here,” Kagura finally says, breaking the lull. “Douglas Halloway-san does not believe in talk of spirits and rituals, and Obaasan fears that the more we talk of what we do, the earlier he will leave and take Tarquin-kun along with him. That we cannot allow to happen. If the boy leaves Yagen Valley, he will soon wither away and die.”

  Callie suddenly feels cold, despite the hot water. “What can I do to help?”

  “You feel differently, do you not, Callie-san?” Kagura asks eagerly. “That is why Obaasan has instructed us to bring you here, so that we may explain about Chiyo without fear of being overheard by Douglas-san.”

  “Chiyo,” Callie echoes, remembering. “Mrs. Halloway mentioned her once.”

  “She was our sister, a kuchiyose like us,” Amaya says, Kagura translating quickly. “But she was Yoko-chan’s biological older sister, her true oneesan. You must wonder how we are able to support ourselves, living in such a lonely place where few people pass through.” Callie nods. “We make medicine from the herbs we keep in our garden, and Kagura goes into town to sell them. But there are also many who still believe in the old ways, and there are those who are still afflicted by the old curses. When people become possessed by the demons and spirits that abound, they come to us.”