The Old Men of Omi

by I. J. Parker

  They lit a lamp in the stable and Tora put on his clothes. “Tell me,” he said.

  “There’s an old man. He knows where they are.”

  Tora noticed how wet and tired Saburo looked. “Are you good to go?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes. Just don’t wear me out with talking.”

  “You want to rest a little? Maybe eat something?”

  “Don’t be silly. Do you want everybody to know?”

  Tora said nothing. Hanae knew something was up, but he hoped she would keep the secret. He dug out his boots and half armor, finished putting them on, and shoved his swords through his belt. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They slipped out through the small gate, thankful that there no longer was a dog to wake, and walked to the nearest livery stable where they rented two horses from a sleepy groom. Then they were on the road into the mountains.

  The rain had let up a little. Tora looked up at the sky, but it was still heavily overcast. He sniffed the air. “Smells like more rain,” he called out to Saburo.

  “What?”

  “Rain! Are you asleep?” Tora felt instantly guilty for the jibe. Saburo had been in the mountains for more than a day and a night now without any sleep.

  Saburo said nothing.

  “Sorry, brother. Should we rest?”

  “Later. When we’re in position.”

  Tora was curious what “in position” meant but left Saburo alone to doze as they rode.

  When they passed through forest, they could see nothing and had to rely on their horses to find the way. The road had narrowed and climbed. The road surface was loose rubble, wet from rain, and the horses slipped now and then. The moisture in the air intensified. Tora wondered how soon the rain would start again and how they could fight in the dark and on slippery ground. Perhaps they could surprise the sohei inside some temple building. He hated to ride into a bloody confrontation knowing nothing about what awaited them.

  When they emerged from the forest, he could see that they had travelled quite a distance up Mount Hiei and called out again, “Wait, brother! Where are we? And where are we going?”

  Saburo reined in his horse and waited for Tora to catch up. “Just another half hour and then we’ll go down into a valley. It’s on the back of the mountain from the temple side. They’re hiding there in an abandoned hut.”

  “That’s good. We can jump them inside. I hate to fight in the rain.” Tora held out his hand to catch the first drops. “How many are there?”

  “About five or six. One’s wounded.”

  “That means he was in the attack on the tribunal.”

  “Yes.”

  Tora grinned. Saburo was a mere shadow in the darkness. “We’ll make short work of them, brother.”

  Saburo said nothing. He urged his horse forward again, and they continued their climb to a ridge that loomed in solid darkness against a charcoal sky with roiling clouds. The rain fell steadily now.

  Sometime later they reached the ridge and started downward. The trees had thinned and Tora realized that their path had deteriorated to a mere track. The horses struggled more going downward, and after a while Tora said, “We should walk, I think.”

  Saburo stopped and they dismounted. Ahead lay more woods. Tora realized they were headed for a mountain valley with a lone dwelling. The rain let up a little, and he studied the clouds overhead. “What time is it, do you think?”

  Saburo snorted. “No idea. Too many clouds. Must be close to dawn.”

  “We won’t get back before daylight then?”

  “No. Did you expect to?”

  “They’ll wonder.”

  “We’ll worry about that later.”

  They continued in silence until they reached the wooden building in the valley. It was simple, covered with thatch, and nearly black with age and the wetness of the rain. They were no longer in darkness but in a gray twilight.

  Saburo rode up to the door, dismounted, and tied his horse to the railing of the steps.

  Tora saw this with surprise. Surely the sohei couldn’t be inside.

  Saburo climbed the steps and knocked at the door that hung crookedly from rusty hinges.

  Tora dismounted also, his hand on his sword hilt just in case.

  But when the door opened, a very old man appeared on the threshold. He had long white hair and a long white beard and wore a heavy, ragged brown robe over grayish white underclothes that were unidentifiable but all cut off at about knee height. His bare legs were thin and dark from the sun.

  A hermit, Tora decided with a smile of relief and tied up his horse.

  The hermit peered closely at Saburo and said in a cracked voice, “It’s you again, is it?”

  “Yes, grandfather, and I’ve brought my friend as I promised. This is Tora. Tora, this is Master Cricket. ”

  Tora joined Saburo. Placing his hands together, he bowed. “Good morning, venerable master. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

  The old man took a step closer and brought his face toward Tora’s. “Hmm,” he said, “one of you has good manners. Come inside.”

  The inside of the hut—it was hardly more than that, having only two small rooms—was dark, but the old man, who must be nearly blind, went unerringly to a small shelf which held an oil lamp, struck a flint, and lit it. “I don’t need it,” he said. “But you two still have eyes that see. Sit down. There’s some water if you’re thirsty.”

  They declined politely. Soaked by the rain, they had no wish for more water, though hot wine would have been welcome.

  Saburo explained, “Master Cricket has lived here all his life. Even though his sight is weak, he knows the whole mountain like the back of his hand.”

  The old hermit snorted. “He thinks I was born here, a child of the mountain pine and the kami of Oyamakuhi.”

  Tora laughed. “Saburo has faith in your wisdom and so do I.” He was not sure why they had come to this old man and waited for Saburo to clarify the matter.

  Saburo did not oblige. Instead he asked the hermit, “Are they still there?”

  “One left last night. He’s back. Carried a sack.”

  Saburo nodded. Silence fell. Then Saburo said, “It’s two against five. We may not get them all. Can you hide somewhere or maybe go away for a day or so?”

  Tora began to grasp what was going on. “Where exactly are they?” he asked.

  They ignored him. The old man simply said, “I’ve never left this place and I won’t do so now.”

  “They’ll know it was you who gave them away. They’re brutal.”

  “No.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Master Cricket. Let’s go, Tora.”

  Outside, day had broken at the mountain top. The clouds were parting and the rising sun touched it with fire. To Tora, it looked truly like what it was: a holy mountain. He touched the amulet around his neck and muttered a prayer. The valley still lay in a blue shadow, its forest wreathed in mist.

  “You might keep me informed,” Tora complained. “I’d like to know what I’m getting into. I take it we are to kill all five?”

  Saburo nodded. “Kill or disable so they cannot harm the old man. He’s a saint. I’ll not have him on my conscience.”

  “You have no sword. Am I to do all the work? And you never answered my question. Where are they?”

  “Holed up in a hut used by wood gatherers. It’s farther on in the valley.”

  “Hmm. The old man is blind. Can you trust what he says he saw? How do you know it’s them? How do you know there are only five?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Let’s go!” Saburo untied his horse and climbed on.

  Tora controlled himself. His headache was back and put him in bad mood. And truth to tell, he no longer was so sure of himself. He did not want to die, not when Hanae and Yuki were waiting for him. He did not want to do that to them. Or to the master. He sighed and mounted his horse, hoping the god of the mountain was with him this day.

  After following the road through more forest
for about a mile, Saburo dismounted. “We leave the horses here and walk,” he said, his voice tense.

  Tora, his head pounding, was resentful. Why had Saburo not kept him informed? He might have found their hideout, but that did not give him the right to run this show.

  After they had led their horses some way into the forest where they were hidden from the track, they tied them to trees.

  “What next?” Tora growled. “Or am I to wait for a surprise?”

  Saburo shot him a glance. “What? Oh. Sorry. My mind was on how best to handle this.”

  Outraged, Tora snapped, “You might have consulted me. Maybe you want to do this alone?”

  “Tora, calm down. I was about to tell you.”

  Tora glowered, but he listened. Saburo, having learned from Master Cricket that some sohei were living in a wood gatherer’s hut, had reconnoitered and verified that they were the men they wanted. Kojo had been sitting outside, drinking sake.

  “There are five? One wounded?” asked Tora.

  “Yes. Not badly wounded.”

  “Armed?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Saburo told him and after some reflection, Tora gave his approval. They started walking.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Betto Hatta

  Akitada found Kosehira not only awake but on his veranda, stretching and peering up at the rapidly changing sky. Already the soft rosy colors of the sunrise were fading to mere brightness, and the sky was turning blue.

  Akitada was only partly aware of this. His heart and mind were still filled with the golden image of Yukiko, standing there by the railing, telling him that she would marry her cousin. His idea about the Jizo killer faded in significance, and when Kosehira greeted him with a cheerful, “Akitada! What brings you so early?” he found little enthusiasm in explaining his theory.

  Kosehira stared at him. “That old murder? You think an old murder is behind this? I don’t see how this could be. Not only was this—what?—at least twenty years ago, but the case was cleared up and the killer confessed. Are you suggesting that he somehow survived and returned to avenge himself?”

  Akitada said stubbornly, “I’ve had a feeling all along that something happened long ago and that it involved the judge and the jailer. I just did not know how the two old peasants from Okuni fit in. Then Sukemichi, their overlord, was also killed and his father was involved in a notorious murder case. In a murder case, mind you, where he was the suspect. What more do you want?”

  Kosehira sighed. “I suppose it’s the archives then. There should be documents covering any murder case important enough to involve a Taira.”

  ∞

  The archives, however, were the place where Akitada’s team had been working industriously on the legal documents involving the temples Enryaku-ji and Onjo-ji. The hall was cluttered with people and stacks of document boxes in various states of completion. In fact, Akitada’s own desk nearly sagged under towering stack of paperwork that had been gathered for his information or study.

  He and Kosehira stood for a moment at the entrance, regarding the place in despair.

  “I should be at work here.” Akitada stated the obvious.

  “We’ll cause all sorts of confusion,” Kosehira said.

  For a moment they remained undecided, then Kosehira found his archivist, who had been lending a hand to the guests, and directed him to find documents relating to trials some fifteen to twenty-five years ago.

  The elderly man bowed and led them to shelving where dusty boxes had been resting in possibly permanent peace. He dusted off the first stack with an old rag he carried and remarked, “The most notorious case involved Taira Sukenori. It happened in the Echi district and …”

  “That’s the one,” Kosehira and Akitada cried together.

  The archivist paused and looked at them in surprise. “Just that year and none of the others?”

  “Just that case,” said Akitada.

  A moment later, they both sat on the floor with a single document box. As an economy, the filing system required that only the basic facts of major cases be kept. The box contained documentation for other murder trials, as well as for two cases of arson and a trial for piracy on Lake Biwa. Even so, the Taira murder consisted of an impressive number of sheets.

  Kosehira read, passing each sheet to Akitada when he was done.

  “Something wasn’t right with this case,” Akitada remarked. “Did you see where Hatta tried to withdraw his confession?”

  “It only says that the condemned prisoner protested his sentence. So, apparently, did his son. Who was this Hatta?”

  Akitada shuffled through the pages. “It says he was Sukenori’s betto.”

  “Perhaps he was angry that Sukenori did not help him?”

  “Hmm. The case seems clear enough. The victim, a rice merchant, was staying at the Taira manor as a guest. During a hunt, to which this Fumi Takahiro had been invited, Hatta shot him with his bow and arrow. Apparently there had been an argument over Hatta’s daughter being dishonored by Fumi the night before. He shot him close range. There was no question about this being a hunting accident.”

  Kosehira frowned. “It seems straightforward enough.”

  “Did you note the names of the two witnesses?”

  Kosehira took another look. “They were two beaters. Oh! Juro and Wakiya. Yes. But I still don’t see it.”

  “No, but there is a hint here that Hatta may not have been guilty. Add that to the rumors about Sukenori, and it looks very much as if Hatta confessed to protect his master.”

  “And regretted it.”

  The archivist cleared his throat. They looked at him.

  “There was another case involving a Hatta, Excellency. In the following year. Shall I get that box, too?”

  “By all means,” said Akitada. He turned to Kosehira and said, “I think we’ve got it. I think we’ve solved the mystery. What do you think?” He rubbed his hands in his eagerness to prove the point.

  Kosehira looked happy, too. “You know, I should remember more about this story. Of course, I was preoccupied with my own affairs. Graduating from the university, trying for my first post, a new marriage. But I do recall talk about Sukenori. Something about a business quarrel over debt. You think that Sukenori bribed his way out of a murder charge? He was supposed to be in financial trouble.”

  “Excellent! Now we have a motive.”

  “It would take a lot of money to make another man confess to murder,” Kosehira said dubiously.

  The archivist returned, blowing dust from another old box. He set it down, saying, “It involved a relative, I think. The Hattas must have been a violent family.”

  Akitada reached eagerly for the box. Together with Kosehira, he scanned the content until they found the name again.

  “Here it is. Hatta Takashi.” Kosehira pointed. “Must be the son. There’s not much here, is there?”

  The incident that led to the arrest and conviction of Hatta Takashi was the young man’s attack on Taira Sukenori, during which Sukenori suffered a serious knife wound. Apparently Sukenori had pressed the judge (Nakano) for a quick judgment that would remove this violent youth from the area. Hatta Takashi was sent into exile and hard labor, just as his father had been the year before.”

  Akitada asked the archivist, “Is there any further news of either Hatta?”

  The old man shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. Perhaps their family is still in the area, though their property would have been confiscated after the murder conviction. That information would be in the land surveys. Do you want me to look?”

  Yes, they did.

  What they found confirmed the archivist’s assumption that the property had been confiscated. The victim’s family had been paid off and the rest, all but a small parcel, had become government property, but now belonged to Enryaku-ji.

  Kosehira commented bitterly, “Soon those monks will own all of my province.”

  The second
case against Hatta’s son caused the confiscation of the small parcel left to the children. This property was given to Taira Sukenori as recompense for the serious wound he had suffered at the hands of the younger Hatta.

  Kosehira said, “So both the father and the son were sent into exile and hard labor. After all this time, they are most likely dead. That leaves the mother and a daughter. What happened to them?”

  But the archivist had no answer this time.

  Akitada sighed. “We must go back and talk to the older peasants in the area. That old man serving in the stables at the Taira manor knew something he didn’t want to talk about. I bet he has the answer.”

  “I cannot possibly leave again,” Kosehira said. “Work has piled up while we were hunting.”

  Akitada glanced over at his desk. “Neither can I. The clerks are almost done. I need to look at their reports and then write up my own.”

  There was another reason for his wish to finish his assignment. He knew he had to leave Kosehira’s house. Staying even one more day after what had passed between him and Yukiko was impossible.

  They sat silently for a few moments. Then Kosehira asked, “Do you think he will kill again?”

  “I don’t know. Is there anyone left alive who had a hand in the trials of the two Hattas?”

  “What about the original victim. Do we know anything about him?”

  They bent over the documents again. Even the archivist inserted himself to help. Akitada was amused. For once, they had managed to rouse the curiosity of a man who only cared about keeping his boxes filed in the proper order.

  “There it is,” cried Kosehira, finding the page. “ ‘The Otsu merchant Fumi Takahiro, in his fortieth year.’ Fumi? Now I wonder…”

  The archivist cried, “Yes, sir. There is a rice dealer near the harbor. His name is Fumi. A very wealthy man.”

  “Well, he cannot be the same.” Akitada smiled. “A son perhaps?”

  “I don’t know,” said the archivist. “He’s quite old, I think.”

  “Hmm.” Akitada pondered for a moment. “I think I’ll pay him a visit later tonight after we deal with our duties.”

  Kosehira gave a sigh of relief. “I cannot tell you how much work awaits me. I’ll have dinner here and go back late.”