by Joanne Pence
The woman straightened, but kept her back to Rachel, holding her arm up so that the sleeve of her kimono hid her face as her sobs continued.
Rachel touched her shoulder. “Please, don’t cry.”
With that, the woman dropped her arm, and stroked her face with her hand. She then turned around.
She had no eyes. No nose. No mouth.
Rachel screamed and ran. A demon, she thought. A demon had followed her to this sacred place.
She left the Kumano Kodo and hurried toward towns and people. She hadn’t gone far when, along the side of the road, a man had set up the stand and was selling soba, a noodle-based soup, to passers-by. Rachel flung herself at the feet of the soba seller and told him what she saw.
“Ha!” The soba seller laughed at her. “Did she show you something like this?”
He stroked his face, and his features disappeared.
Rachel cried out and again turned and ran. When she felt as if her heart would burst if she took another step, she stopped. Breathing heavily, she reached her hand up to touch her own face.
As she did, she felt no mouth, no teeth, and then her sense of smell vanished. All her features were gone, her face felt absolutely smooth and round. As much as everything told her not to do it, she reached up and touched her eyes.
Everything went black.
Chapter 23
A servant from the Nakamura estate brought Michael a basket of fruit and rolls the next morning. Included was a note from Mrs. Nakamura:
* * *
Power line has been damaged. Expect power out all day. Soon fixed. Please do not worry. See me if you are inconvenienced. –H. Nakamura
* * *
He wasn’t inconvenienced, and in fact, found it rather nice to be cut off from the outside world—for a while, at least, in this idyllic corner where past and present met perfectly.
At noon, he returned to the Nakamura estate and spent a pleasant and interesting afternoon with Seiji and Haruko Nakamura talking about Japanese history and artifacts.
They also gave Michael several English-language books on the subject, ordered in anticipation that he—or someone else—might be willing to help them with their collection, and knowing the local bookstore would be unable to help.
By four o’clock, Seiji was exhausted, so Michael returned home eager to begin reading the books. He went out to the office with them. Until the power was on and he could use the internet, his knowledge of Japanese artifacts would be limited to what they contained.
The little he knew of early Japan had come from his archeological studies, such as the country’s earliest documented era being the kofun period, from roughly 300 to 700 A.D.
Kofun were mounds of earth and stones built over a grave. These mounds were similar to those he had worked near in Mongolia and were found throughout the Asian steppes, known as kurgans. A big difference was that many of the kofun in Japan were built in the odd shape of a keyhole. The largest kofun was the tomb of the Emperor Nintoku, near Osaka, which is said to be the third largest tomb in the world, after the Great Pyramid at Giza, and the tomb of Qin Shi Huang with its terracotta warriors in Xi’an, China.
During the kofun period the Emperor reigned supreme. Not until the twelfth century did the imperial family grow weak, and the power of the regional feudal lords expanded. The leader of those daimyo became known as the Shogun, a hereditary position that meant "Commander-in-Chief." The emperor continued to be worshipped, but he had no real power.
Time would tell which historical era the Nakamura items were from. But Michael wanted to have a good understanding of the artifacts, despite his being well aware that they were simply an excuse for the Nakamuras to get him here.
He hated the real reason.
He didn’t ever want to become involved in anything demonic again. He had watched too many friends, and even his brother, die because of demons and alchemy. But when he thought about Seiji Nakamura trying to fight the demons on his own, and his mother, Haruko, a kind and generous woman, watching her son slowly waste away, his heart went out to them.
Now, at home for the evening, he went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. The evening was warm, so he removed his ‘indoor’ slippers for ‘outdoor’ ones—woven sandals with a fabric thong that fit between the toes, and went to his front garden. The realtor, Kazuko, had bought the zoris to him as a “housewarming” present that morning. He was getting used to this constant changing of shoes and slippers.
Surrounded by a high wall as the garden was, with a small koi pond and bushes and miniature trees, he felt as if he were in paradise. More than ever, he understood Lafcadio Hearn’s essay on such gardens.
Michael sat on a small stone bench by the pond and sipped his tea. The night was still. Perhaps the fish were already asleep, he thought. Even his neighbors were quiet, and no cars rolled by on the street.
He found this garden, this house, so peaceful, he wondered if he had found a place to call home, much as his wandering cousin had done many decades earlier. Wintersgate and the heavy shroud of sadness that permeated it seemed worlds away.
His visit with his father had convinced him their relationship was irredeemable. He would learn nothing more about his mother’s death, but at least he had found her diary. Through it he came to know her a bit as a person, even though he had been saddened by much of what he discovered about her life.
Also, his desire for finding out the full story of what had happened with Irina had ended with her passing. As much as he would have liked answers, that was the stuff of fiction. In real life, a person often had to accept that they might never know “why.” He needed to forget about the past, and move on.
He felt a hint of hope that here, he might do that.
As he gazed into the koi pond, a woman’s face appeared. It was blurred just enough that he couldn’t make out her features. He straightened and peered over his shoulder, expecting someone had crept up behind him. No one was there.
He stared, again, into the water. The face was still there. Then, it moved. He jerked back and eyed the area all around him once more. But the garden was empty.
Someone was playing a trick on him. Who? How?
He reached into the water, trying to find a camera or screen of some sort. The ripples caused the face to vanish. He couldn’t find any instruments or wires.
He pulled his arm out and waited until the water settled. When it almost stopped moving, the face reappeared, and became clearer.
“No.” He dropped to his knees. It was the face of his mother, the way she had looked when he was a boy: the very long, dark brown hair, her sad, brown eyes. “Who’s doing this?” he shouted.
This time, he stepped into the knee-deep pond. As before, the face vanished.
He felt around the sides and bottom. They were solid. Then he scanned every nearby bush, tree, and rock, expecting to find some projection device.
He got out of the pond. His trousers and shirt sleeves were dripping wet.
Whoever was doing this was clever.
But then, in the back of his memory, this all seemed somehow familiar, as if he had seen or read it somewhere. But where?
He needed to change his clothes to something warm and dry, and to make some hot tea to ward off the chill, but he remained at the koi pond.
He drew in his breath, wondering if he had just imagined everything. Of course he had. That was the only reason the vision had seemed so alive, why it felt as if the woman was looking at him, just as he was her.
And then her face reappeared.
He stared. Her lips moved, as if she were saying the same thing over and over. He tried imitating the movement and ended up with …
“Remember me,” Michael whispered. The words stabbed at him, as if she somehow knew what he had been thinking.
She made no sign that she heard him.
But then he saw a dark shadow behind her. The shadow seemed to grow larger as it neared. Michael saw a head slowly form, a body. It opened wide what migh
t be arms.
“Run!” he yelled, but she still didn’t hear. He pointed, hoping she would turn around, see what was behind her. “Run, RUN!”
Her head turned. The shadow vanished. And so did the face of his mother.
Michael stared at the water a long while, his heart pounding.
But she was gone.
And then he remembered why it all seemed familiar. He had read something similar, a story by Lafcadio Hearn. In the story, a samurai had seen a man’s face in a cup of tea. It was the ghost of a man he had killed and forgotten … a ghost that came back to haunt him.
At least part of the message was clear. Memory and not forgetting were the key to unlocking the mysteries of the past and present. And he was being guided, not haunted by guilt, but to what end? He had been guided to Kamigawa for a reason but, again, to what end?
Chapter 24
The trip to the Izumo Airport took well over twenty-four hours. From there, Ceinwen and Rachel took a shuttle bus to the train station. They discovered trains left frequently for Matsue, but when they asked about Kamigawa, they were met with blank looks. Finally, they bought tickets to Matsue, hoping to learn more at the Lafcadio Hearn Museum. As they stood on a platform waiting for the next train, Rachel spotted a sign over a distant track that was flashing the name “Kamigawa” as a train approached.
Ceinwen couldn’t see it, but Rachel was insistent. With Rachel leading the way, the two ran for the track, and made it onto the train just as its doors shut. To their surprise, the car was empty. They guessed the other passengers had all chosen to sit in cars closer to the front.
The train barreled along without stopping for over thirty minutes when a mechanical voice announced “Kamigawa.” When the train stopped, they were the only passengers to get off.
It was late afternoon. The station was empty except for one man wearing a uniform and standing by the ticket counter. Rachel and Ceinwen walked to the street. They saw a few shops, but had no idea which way to go.
Ceinwen marched back to the station attendant. “Can you tell me if there’s a hotel in town?”
The agent gazed at her, perplexed, not understanding a word she was saying. He pointed to a small building on the sidewalk near the station. “Koban,” he said, which she didn’t understand until he pondered a moment then said, “O-mawari-san, ah, ‘cop.’”
Now Ceinwen understood. “Thank you.” The koban looked like a one-man police station. The door was open, and a uniformed officer sat inside.
“Hello,” Ceinwen called, and pulled a photo of Michael from her handbag. “I’m looking for this man.”
The young policeman looked at the photo and nodded. “Ah, America-jin?”
Thank God! Ceinwen thought. “Yes. Where can we find him?”
He looked doubtful and then angled his hand leftward. “Hidari.” Using his fingers he counted, “Ichi, ni, san.”
“Ah! Left, three blocks?” she asked.
“Eh … yes. Left, three.” He seemed to be thinking, then switched so that his fingers pointed in the opposite direction. “Migi.” Then he held up two fingers. “Up!”
“Then, right, two blocks? Up?”
“Hai. Up.” He made a walking motion with two fingers.
“Up.” Ceinwen and Rachel nodded, guessing it would make sense once they got there. “Thank you.”
He gave a quick nod. “Do itashimaste.”
Ceinwen hoped the policeman’s words meant “good luck,” because she feared they would need it. “Thank you! Arigato,” she said back, wracking her brain for any Japanese she might have picked up over the years. There wasn’t much.
So far the trip had been easy because the airport and the train station both had great signage in Japanese and Roman script, and they had no trouble making their way through them.
Now, however, everything was different. On the one hand, the lovely, picturesque village looked like something out of a Kurosawa movie. She half-expected to see samurai and geisha walking the streets, and no Roman script corrupted the view. On the other hand, there were a number of small cars and people dressed much like her. Or, if truth be told, most outfits were more fashionable and expensive looking than the jeans, boots, and jackets she and Rachel both wore. They might have been wearing signs reading “College Students R Us.”
At least they were wheeling suitcases and not shouldering backpacks.
The blocks were curved and longer than she expected. She hoped they were guessing right as they crossed two intersections. When they reached the third, they turned.
“Uh, oh,” Ceinwen murmured, and stopped.
Ahead was a steep hill with a narrow, curving street. They now understood what the policeman had meant by “up.” But also, the road forked, and they didn't know which direction to take. They were debating it when two high-school-aged girls approached.
“Help has arrived,” Ceinwen said as she took out the photo she had showed the policeman. For sure, in a small area like this, a good-looking single man and a foreigner would stand out.
“Excuse me, please.” Ceinwen smiled at the girls. “Do you speak English?”
The girls giggled and nodded, murmuring, “Yes.”
“Good. I hope you can help us,” Ceinwen said. “We’re looking for the home of Michael Rempart. Doctor Michael Rempart, an archeologist.” She showed them his photo.
The girls whispered together.
“The American man? Friend to Nakamura-sama?”
“Yes, he’s an American,” Rachel answered for Ceinwen.
“We will show you.”
The girls walked faster than Rachel and Ceinwen expected, and they had to hurry, the wheels of their suitcases bouncing high on the bumpy pavement.
When they turned onto another narrow, steep street, Rachel and Ceinwen glanced at each other with worry, but soon, the girls stopped at a tall wooden gate, faced the women, and bowed.
“Here is house, the house,” the taller of the two girls said.
Rachel and Ceinwen bowed to the girls. “Thank you.”
The girls giggled again and then shouted “goodbye” as they waved and ran down the hill.
Rachel watched them go and nervously pushed the buzzer. Nothing.
She tried again. Still no response.
“I’ll knock.” Ceinwen rapped hard on the gate.
A woman came out of the house across the lane and said something to them in Japanese. “Sorry,” Ceinwen said with a shake of her head, then asked, “Michael Rempart? Is this his home?”
The woman nodded. “Rem-pah-to sensei. Hai.”
It took Ceinwen a moment to realize the neighbor was saying Michael’s last name. She hoped the rest of the words meant he lived there.
The woman then showed her small wristwatch and made a motion as of time passing.
“I get it,” Ceinwen said. “He’ll be back tonight.”
They thanked the woman and decided to find a restaurant to eat and then freshen up before returning to wait for Michael. Ceinwen hoped the mysterious Michael Rempart would be half as helpful and pleasant as the strangers she’d met so far.
Chapter 25
Seiji Nakamura had invited Michael to dine with him and his mother that evening. To Michael’s surprise, they also invited the realtor, Kazuko Yamato. She had stopped by the Hearn house several times already to make sure everything was acceptable to him. It was more than acceptable. He was enjoying the simplicity of his life even though the town was still without power.
Two days earlier, Mrs. Nakamura had brought him to the wing of the house where porcelain, pottery, and artwork had been carefully stored for centuries. The years had done little damage to the pieces. Michael needed to work equally carefully as he unwrapped and then rewrapped the items. With each, he numbered the item and used the Nakamuras' powerful Nikon camera to take photos to help with later identification and cataloging. He was finding the job both fascinating and challenging.
The rarest artifacts had been placed in a storage facility that was t
emperature and humidity controlled. They were being delivered to Kamigawa, but hadn’t yet arrived.
After a sumptuous dinner, Kazuko and Mrs. Nakamura left the two men alone for a while. “As pleasant as I find it here,” Michael said, “I’m not doing anything to help cure this illness of yours, and I know that’s the primary reason I’m here. I’m not an alchemist, but even if I were, alchemy isn’t medicine. It can’t cure ailments, not even demonic ones.”
“How can you say that? You and I both know there are things in alchemy that modern medicine can’t explain,” Seiji said. “You need to call on its occult arts. Alchemy opens the door to the world of spirits. Demand that those spirits help me! Only you can do it.”
“I don’t practice such arts,” Michael said.
“Please,” Seiji whispered. “If you want me, the heir of the daimyo, to beg you, I will do so. Gladly. Please help me.”
Michael knew the young daimyo’s eyes would haunt him. They were the most desperate eyes he had ever seen in his life. “I—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Seiji whispered. He looked on the verge of passing out, his voice so weak Michael had to bend low to hear him. “You’ve faced them. You thought you defeated them, but you haven’t. You slowed them down, but that was all. And now, because of you, they’re after me.”
Michael found the words astounding. “What are you saying? I have no part in what’s happening to you.”
Seiji’s eyes turned hard, evil. “Don’t you? Ask …”
At that moment, the sliding door opened, and Mrs. Nakamura and Kazuko reentered the room.
As Michael stared at Seiji, he heard a whispered voice. It didn’t come from afar, but came from deep inside his head. The voice whispered, “Ask your father.”
