Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense

by Linda Landrigan

  I. J. PARKER

  THE O-BON CAT

  February 2003

  MS. PARKER’S PRIVATE investigator, Sugawara Akitada, an impoverished nobleman in ancient Japan, was first introduced in the pages of AHMM with her first fiction publication in 1997. Then her 1999 story “Akitada’s First Case” garnered her a Shamus Award for Best P.I. Short Story. The first of her critically acclaimed novels in this series is Dragon Scroll. Here is one of Akitada’s more recent adventures.

  Otsu, Lake Biwa, eleventh-century Japan, during the O-bon festival.

  The First Day: Welcoming the Dead

  He was on his homeward journey when he found the boy. At the time, caught in the depths of hopelessness and grief, he did not understand the significance of their meeting.

  Sugawara Akitada, not yet in the middle of his life, was already sick of it. A man may counter hardship, humiliation, even imminent death with resources carefully accumulated in his past and draw fresh zest for new obstacles from his achievements, but Akitada, though one of the privileged and moderately successful in the service of the emperor, had found no spiritual anchor in his soul when his young son had died during that spring’s smallpox epidemic. He went through the motions of daily life as if he were no part of them, as if the man he once was had departed with the smoke from his son’s funeral pyre, leaving behind an empty shell now inhabited by a stranger.

  Having completed an assignment in Hikone two days earlier, Akitada rode along the southern shore of Lake Biwa in a steady drizzle. The air was saturated with moisture, his clothes clung uncomfortably, and both rider and horse were sore from the wooden saddle. This was the fifteenth day of the watery month, in the rainy season. The road had long since become a muddy track where puddles hid deep pits in which a horse could break its leg. It became clear that he could not reach his home in the capital but would have to spend the night in Otsu.

  Otsu was the legendary place of parting, a symbol of grief and yearning in poetry and prose. In Otsu, wives or parents would bid farewell, perhaps forever, to their husbands or sons when they left the capital to begin their service in distant provinces of the country. Akitada himself used to feel uneasy about his return on such occasions. But those days seemed in a distant past now. He cared little what lay ahead.

  At dusk he entered a dense forest, and darkness closed in about him, falling with the misting rain from the branches above and creeping from the dank shadows of the woods. When he could no longer see the road clearly, he dismounted. Leading his tired horse, he trudged onward in squelching boots and sodden straw rain cape and thought of death.

  He was still in the forest when a child’s whimpering roused him from his grief. But when he stopped and called out, there was no answer, and all was still again except for the dripping rain. He was almost certain the sound had been human, but the eeriness of a child’s pitiful weeping in this lonely, dark place on his lonely, dark journey seemed too cruel a coincidence. This was the first night of the three-day O-bon festival, the night when the spirits of the dead return to their homes to visit before departing for another year.

  If his own son’s soul was seeking its way home also, Yori would not find his father there. Would he cry for him out of the darkness? Akitada shivered and shook off his sick fancies. Such superstitions were for simpler, more trusting minds. How far was Otsu?

  Then he heard it again.

  “Who is that? Come out where I can see you!” he bellowed angrily into the darkness. His horse twitched its ears and shook its head.

  Something pale detached itself from one of the tree trunks and crept closer. A boy of about five or six. He caught his breath. “Yori?”

  Foolishness! This was no ghost. It was a ragged child with huge, frightened eyes in a pale face, a boy nothing at all like Yori. Yori had been handsome, well-nourished, and sturdy. This boy in his filthy torn shirt had sticks for arms and legs. He looked permanently hungry, a living ghost.

  “Are you lost, child?” asked Akitada, more gently, wishing he had food in his saddle bags. The boy remained silent and kept his distance.

  “What is your name?”

  No answer.

  “Where do you live?”

  Silence.

  The child probably knew his way around these woods better than Akitada. With a farewell wave, Akitada resumed his journey. Soon the trees thinned and the darkness receded slightly. Gray dusk filtered through the branches, and ahead lay a pale sliver that was the lake and—thank heaven—many small golden points of light, like a gathering of fireflies, that were the dwellings of Otsu. He glanced back at the dark forest, and there, not ten feet behind, waited the child.

  “Do you want to come with me, then?” Akitada asked. The boy said nothing, but he edged closer until he stood beside the horse. Akitada saw that his ragged shirt was soaked and clung to the ribs of his small chest. A deaf-mute? Oh well, perhaps someone in Otsu would know the boy.

  Bending down, Akitada lifted him into the saddle. He weighed so little, poor little sprite, that he would hardly trouble the horse. For the rest of their journey Akitada looked back from time to time to make sure the boy had not fallen off. Now and then he asked him a question or made a comment, but the child did not respond in any way. He sat quietly, almost expectantly in the saddle as they approached Otsu.

  Ahead beckoned the bonfires welcoming the spirits of the dead. Most people believed that spirits got lost, like this child, and also that they felt hunger. Otsu’s cemetery was filled with tiny lights that marked a trail to town, and in the doorway of every home offerings of food and water awaited the returning souls, those hungry ghosts depicted in temple painting, skeletal creatures with distended bellies, condemned to eat excrement or suffer unending hunger and thirst in punishment for their wasteful lives.

  In the market people were still shopping for the three-day festival. The doors of houses stood wide open, and inside Akitada could see spirit altars erected before the family shrines, heaped with more fine things to eat and drink. So much good food wasted on ghosts!

  They passed a rice cake vendor with his trays of fragrant white cakes. Yori had loved rice cakes filled with sweet bean jam. Akitada dug two coppers from his sash and bought one for the boy. The child received it with solemn dignity and bowed his thanks before gobbling it down. As miserable and hungry as this urchin was, he had not forgotten his manners. Akitada was intrigued and decided to do his best for the child.

  He asked if anyone knew the boy or his family, but he soon grew weary of the disclaimers and stopped at an inn. The boy had looked around curiously but given no sign of recognition. Akitada lifted him from the saddle and, with a sigh, took the small hand in his as they entered.

  “A room,” Akitada told the innkeeper, slipping off the sodden straw cape and his wet boots. “And a bath. Then some hot food and wine.”

  The man was staring at the ragged child. “Is he with you, sir?”

  “Unless you know where he lives, he’s with me!” Akitada snapped irritably. “Oh, I suppose you’d better send someone out for new clothes for him. He looks to be about five.” He fished silver from his sash, ignoring the stunned look on the man’s face.

  After inspecting the room, he took the child to the bath.

  Helping a small boy with his bath again was unexpectedly painful, and tears filled Akitada’s eyes. He blinked them away, blaming such emotion on fatigue and pity for the child. The shirt had done little to conceal his thinness, but naked he was a far more shocking sight. Not only was every bone clearly visible under the sun-darkened skin, but the protruding belly spoke of malnutrition, and there were bruises from beatings.

  Judging from the state of his long, matted hair and his filthy feet and hands, the bath was a novel experience for him. Akitada borrowed scissors and a comb from the bath attendant and tended to his hair and nails, trying to be as gentle as he could. The boy submitted bravely. Afterward, soaking in the large tub as he had done so many times with Yori, he fought tears again.

  Th
ey returned to the room in the cotton robes provided by the inn. Their bedding had been spread out, and a hot meal of rice and vegetables awaited them. At the sight of the food, the boy smiled for the first time. They ate, and when the boy’s eyes began to close and the bowl slipped from his hands, Akitada tucked him into the bedding and went to sleep himself.

  The Second Day: Ghostly Phenomena

  HE AWOKE TO the boy’s earnest scrutiny. In daylight and after the bath and night’s rest, the child looked almost handsome. His hair was soft; he had thick, straight brows, a well-shaped nose, and a good chin; and his eyes were almost as large and luminous as Yori’s. Akitada smiled and said, “Good morning.”

  Stretching out a small hand, the boy tweaked Akitada’s nose gently and gave a little gurgle of laughter.

  But there were no miracles. The boy did not find his voice or hearing, and his poor body had not filled out overnight. He still looked more like a hungry ghost than a child.

  And he was not Yori.

  Yet in that moment of intimacy Akitada decided that for however long they would have each other’s company he would surrender to emotions he had buried with the ashes of his firstborn. He would be a father again.

  Someone had brought in Akitada’s saddlebags and the boy’s new clothes. They dressed and went for a walk about town. Because of the holiday, the vendors were setting out their wares early in the market.

  Near the Temple of the War God they breakfasted on a bowl of noodles. Then Akitada had himself shaved by a barber while the boy sat on the temple steps and watched an old storyteller who regaled a small group of children and their mothers with the tale of how the rabbit got into the moon.

  On the hillside behind the temple, a complex of elegantly curving tiled roofs rose above the trees. Akitada idly asked the barber about its owner.

  “Oh, that would be the Masudas. Very rich but unlucky.”

  “Unlucky?”

  “All the men have died.” The barber finished and wiped Akitada’s face with a hot towel. “There’s only the old lord now, and he’s mad. That family’s ruled by women. Pshaw!” He spat in disgust.

  There was no shortage of death in the world.

  Akitada paid and they strolled on. The way the boy clung to his hand as they passed among the stands and vendors of the market filled Akitada’s heart with half-forgotten gentleness. He watched his delight in the sights of the market and wondered where his parents were. Perhaps he had become separated from them while traveling along the highway. Or they had abandoned him in the forest because he was not perfect. The irony that a living child might be discarded, while Yori, so beloved and treasured by his parents, had been snatched away by death was not lost on Akitada, and he spoiled the silent boy with treats—a pair of red slippers for his bare feet, a top to play with, and sweets.

  No one recognized the child; neither did the boy show interest in anyone. But one odd thing happened. After having clung to Akitada’s hand all day, the boy suddenly tore himself loose and dashed into the crowd. Akitada panicked, desperately afraid he had lost him forever. But the boy had not gone far. Akitada glimpsed his bright red shoes between the legs of passersby, and there he was, sitting in a doorway, clutching a filthy brown and white cat in his arms. Akitada’s relief was as instant as his irritation. The animal was thin, covered with dirt and scars, and looked half wild. When Akitada reached for it, it hissed and jumped from the boy’s arms.

  The child gave a choking cry, too garbled to be called speech. He struggled wildly in Akitada’s arms, sobbing and repeating the same strangled sounds, his hands stretching after the cat. Akitada felt the wild heartbeat in the small chest against his own and soothed the choking sobs by murmuring softly to him. After a long time, the boy calmed down, but even after Akitada bought him a toy drum, he still looked about for the stray cat.

  When night fell, they followed the crowd back to the temple, where the O-bon dancers gyrated in the light of colored lanterns. Akitada had to lift the boy so he could see over the heads of people. His eyes were wide with wonder at the sight of the fearful masks and bright silk costumes. Once, when a great lion-headed creature came close to them, its glaring eyes and lolling tongue swinging his way, he gave a small cry and burrowed his face in Akitada’s shoulder.

  It was shameful for a grown man to weep in public. Akitada brushed the tears away and knew that he could not part with this child.

  He lost the boy only moments later.

  Someone in the watching crowd shouted, “There he is!” and a sharp-faced, poorly dressed woman pushed to his side. “What are you doing with our boy?” she demanded shrilly. “Give him back!”

  Akitada could not answer immediately, because the child’s thin arms had wrapped around his neck with a stranglehold.

  A rough character in the shirt and loincloth of a peasant appeared behind the woman and glared at Akitada. “Hey!” he cried. “That’s our boy! Let go of him.” When Akitada did not, he bellowed at the bystanders, “He’s stolen our boy! Call the constables!”

  Akitada loosened the boy’s grip and saw sheer terror on his face.

  But it was over all too quickly. A couple of constables appeared and talked to the couple, whose name was Mimura. The man was a fisherman on the lake about a mile north from Otsu near the forest where Akitada had found the boy. They handed the weeping child over to his parents with a warning to keep a better eye on him in the future.

  Even though Akitada knew he had been foolish to give his affection to a strange child, his heart ached when the parents dragged the whimpering boy off. He suspected that they had abused him and would do so again, but he had no right to interfere between a parent and his child. This did not stop him from wandering gloomily about town, trying to think of ways to rescue the boy.

  Then he saw the cat again.

  Perhaps it was due to the festival’s peculiar atmosphere or his confused emotions, but he was suddenly convinced that the cat was his link to the boy. This time he knew better than to rush the animal. He kept his distance, waiting as it investigated gutters and alleyways for bits of food. At one point it paused to consume a large fish head, and Akitada hurriedly purchased a lantern. Eventually the animal stopped scavenging and moved on more purposefully. The streets got darker, there were fewer people, and the sounds of the market receded until they were alone on a residential street, the cat a pale patch in the distance—until it disappeared into a garden wall with the suddenness of a ghost.

  Akitada was still staring at the spot when the soft flapping of straw sandals sounded behind him. An old man approached. A night watchman with his wooden clappers. In the distance sounded a faint temple bell, and the watchman paused to listen, then used his clappers vigorously, calling out the hour in a reedy voice. The middle of the night already.

  When the old man had finished, Akitada asked, “Do you happen to know who owns a brown and white cat hereabouts?”

  “You mean Patch, sir? She lives in the dead courtesan’s house.” He pointed up the street.

  Patch? Of course. The cat was spotted. And that must be what the boy had tried to say. “The dead courtesan’s house?” Akitada asked.

  “Nobody lives there anymore,” the watchman said. “It’s a sad ruin. The cat belonged to her.”

  “Really? Do you happen to know who owns the property now? I might want to buy it.”

  The watchman shook his head. “Dear me, not that place, sir. The courtesan killed herself because her lover deserted her, and now her angry ghost roams about the garden in hopes of catching unwary men to have her revenge on. I always cross to the other side when I pass.”

  Akitada looked at the watchman doubtfully. It was the middle of the O-bon festival and the man was superstitious. “How did she die?”

  “Drowned herself in the lake.”

  “Were there any children?”

  “If so, they’re long gone. The house belongs to the Masudas now.”

  Akitada thanked the man and watched him make a wide detour up ahead before
following more slowly.

  When he reached the spot where the cat had disappeared, he saw that a section of the wall had collapsed, and he could see into an overgrown garden hiding all but the elegant curved roof of a small villa. The night watchman turned the corner, and Akitada scrambled over the rubble, aware that he was trespassing and feeling foolish, but more than ever convinced that he must find the cat.

  A clammy heat rose from the dense vegetation. Everywhere vines, brambles, and creepers covered shrubs and trees. His feeble lantern picked out a stone Buddha, half hidden beneath a blanket of ivy. Strange rustlings, squeaks, and creaks were everywhere, and clouds of insects hovered in the beam of his lantern. The atmosphere was oppressive and vaguely threatening. When he felt a tug at his sleeve, he swung around, but it was only the branch of a gaunt cedar.

  There was no sign of the cat, just dense, towering shrubs and weirdly stirring curtains of leafy vines and wisteria suspended from the trees. He would have turned back had he not heard a door or shutter slamming somewhere ahead.

  When he reached the house, he was covered with scratches and itching from insect bites, and his topknot was askew. But there, on the veranda, sat the cat, waiting.

  The small villa was dark and empty, its shutters broken, the paper covering its windows hanging in shreds, and its roof tiles shattered on the ground. The balustrade of the veranda leaned at a crazy angle, and where once there had been doors, black cavernous spaces gaped in the walls. But once it must have been charming, poised just above the lake with its lush gardens, perhaps a nobleman’s retreat from official affairs in the capital.

  The lake stretched still and black to the distant string of tiny lights on the far shore, where people were celebrating the return of their dead. No one had lit candles or set up an altar in this dark place, but Akitada suddenly felt a presence, which sent shivers down his back. He looked about carefully, then walked to the villa. The cat watched his approach with unblinking eyes, motionless until he was close enough to touch it, then it slipped away and disappeared into the house. He called to it, the way he had heard young women and children call to their pets, but the animal did not reappear.