Hakaru broke in, sensing that the innkeeper was trying to change the subject. “Listen, I'd like to know more about the deaths you mentioned. Maybe we can talk about it over dinner?”
“I have plans.” The innkeeper eyed him curiously. “Why are you so interested?”
“A man was killed. Based on the rumors I've heard, it's going to be hard for us to do any work until this is cleared up.”
The innkeeper sighed. “All right. I'll meet you here, on the verandah, at ten. Then we can talk more.”
“Good,” Hakaru said, going back into the entrance hall. “I'll see you here tonight.”
* * * *
Hakaru spent the rest of the day on his own. When night fell, he found himself at a standing bar a block away from the inn, below framed pictures of fishing boats and record catches, talking with a group of fishermen in coveralls and parkas. After the usual discussion of prices and hauls, the conversation inevitably turned to the murder. “I saw someone who spoke to the coroner,” one of the fishermen said. “The councilman's throat was cut with a funayuki knife.”
Hakaru, a glass of beer in hand, had to shout to be heard. “What's a funayuki knife?”
“What, you don't know?” The fisherman outlined the shape with his hands. “Wooden handle, thick blade. Used by fishermen in the old days. Gut fish, chop off heads, even cut rope and nets. Like that, see?”
The fisherman pointed to something on the wall. Hakaru turned. Hanging above a sepia photograph of a fishing trawler was a framed drawing, fragile and faded, of a creature clutching a knife in one webbed hand. It had only a fringe of hair, with a bald dome in the center, and beneath its yellow chin was an inflated pouch. Hakaru recognized it at once. “Why would a kawataro need a knife?”
There was general laughter at the bar, most of it directed at the outsider who knew nothing about kawataros or funayuki knives. “The kawataro lives in the river,” the fisherman said. “It lures children into the water, then drinks their blood. It needs a knife for that, doesn't it?”
“But if you encounter a kawataro, all you need to do is be polite,” an older fisherman added. “At the top of its skull, you see, there's a hollow dish filled with water. If you bow to it, it will bow back, spilling the water on its head. Then it loses its power and agrees to serve you for the rest of its life.” He looked at Hakaru with amusement. “You really don't know this?”
Hakaru finished his beer. “As you can probably tell, I'm not from around here.”
Another fisherman asked why he was in the village. Hakaru tried to tell them what Dr. Nakaya was trying to do, although he sensed that they were still suspicious of her intentions. When he had wound up his explanation, he looked around the table. “So what do you think of Dr. Nakaya?”
A fisherman who had been seated in silence signaled that he wanted to speak. He had been following the conversation through the older fisherman, who had quietly provided a translation. As the deaf man signed, the older fisherman interpreted aloud. “She's polite to deaf people. She's always respectful. But he finds it strange that she takes such an interest in the children.”
When Hakaru asked what this meant, the older fisherman translated his question, then interpreted the response. “Most of the children are fine, but a few are trouble. They keep to themselves. He can't understand half the things they sign to each other, so he thinks they're up to no good.”
Hearing this, Hakaru wanted to press him for more information, but the deaf fisherman refused to say anything else. As the conversation drifted to other topics, he paid his bill and headed back to the inn.
Inside, the innkeeper was nowhere in sight. Going upstairs, he was about to return to his room when he saw that the door across the hall was open a crack. On an impulse, he went up to it. “It's Hakaru. Can I come in?”
After a beat, Dr. Nakaya's voice came from inside. “All right. But watch your step.”
Hakaru slid the door open. Dr. Nakaya was seated on the floor, surrounded by books and files. A laptop was plugged in nearby. Hakaru lowered himself to the ground. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, I guess.” Removing her glasses, she rubbed her eyes. “I'm trying to work, but I'm worried, I suppose—”
“The police can't possibly think you had anything to do with Miyamoto's death.”
“That isn't what I'm worried about. It's my research. This could end it for good. And it was always a race against time.”
Hakaru glanced at the laptop, on which a video of the day's taping had been paused. “What do you mean?”
She put her glasses back on. “The factors that made this village unique for so long are disappearing. There's been too much movement into the area over the past few years. The culture of the deaf is breaking down. And the villagers feel it. That's why there's so much tension with newcomers—”
“Like the murder two years ago?” She seemed unsure of what he was talking about, so he briefly outlined what the innkeeper had said. When he was done, he saw that she had gone pale. “What's wrong?
“It's something that one of the children told me.” Dr. Nakaya opened her laptop and searched for a file, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Finally, she clicked on the video that she wanted, opening a new window. “Each session includes a personal narrative, a story that I can analyze on a linguistic basis. A few months ago, one of the students mentioned that woman. Look at this.”
The subject appeared on screen. It was the boy in the red raincoat. He was seated in a chair, looking blankly into the camera. After a prompt from his teacher, he began to sign, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed.
Dr. Nakaya translated. “He's telling a story about a woman, Mrs. Yukawa. Apparently she caught him and his friends playing in her garden. She yelled at them and said she would send them away. When I asked him what happened next, he said that she never bothered him again.”
Hakaru felt a chill creep across his body. “The teacher didn't tell you that she died?”
“I don't think she knew about it. She moved into the village after the murder, around the same time I did.” Dr. Nakaya paused the video. “I've heard of the teacher who was killed too. The children didn't like her. Evidently she tried to stop them from signing in their own language—”
“So let's look at what we have here,” Hakaru said. “Three, maybe four, unexplained killings. One is a teacher the children disliked. One was an unpopular classmate. One was a woman who threatened to send them away. And the latest one, Miyamoto, was in favor of a plan that would result in them being bused to different schools.” He hesitated. “But I still can't believe it. These are only children—”
Dr. Nakaya closed her laptop. “Maybe they're only children to you, but look at how the world sees them. Until a few decades ago, the deaf in this country were treated as minors or mentally deficient. Like it or not, that perception hasn't gone away. And to top it all off, these kids are burakumin. For most of their lives, they've been treated like dirt. So what do they do when they grow up? They become criminals. They join the yakuza. Only a few make it to college. And if they want to get anywhere in life, they have no choice but to hide what they are.”
She extended the fingers of her right hand. “This is the traditional sign for burakumin. You know what it means? Four fingers stand for the four legs of an animal. So don't tell me that these children couldn't have done it. When you treat someone like a monster, a monster is what you get—”
A light went on in Hakaru's head. He spoke without thinking. “You're a burakumin?”
Dr. Nakaya only turned away. Hakaru sat there, ashamed, sensing that he should say something more, but unable to find the words that he wanted. He found himself wondering what her life had been like. Many burakumin, he knew, were forced to hide their identities if they wanted to be considered for the best jobs or schools. And he was painfully aware that even his own parents, who had fought discrimination their entire lives, would never have allowed him to marry one.
After an uncomfo
rtable silence, Hakaru coughed, then checked his watch. “Look, it's nearly ten o'clock. I'm supposed to meet the innkeeper to talk more about these cases. If you like, you can come along—”
When Dr. Nakaya turned back to him, her eyes were dry. “Yes, I will. One second.”
Hakaru rose and left the room. A moment later, Dr. Nakaya joined him. He could tell that she was embarrassed by her recent display of emotion, and she did not look at him as they went downstairs.
When they reached the ground floor, the hall was deserted, but the door that led to the yard was open. Outside, the garden was very quiet. There was no one on the verandah. Hakaru looked at the time again. “That's strange. He said that he'd meet me here at ten. Maybe—”
He broke off as Dr. Nakaya took him by the elbow, pointing to the ground. “Look.”
Hakaru glanced down. At their feet, the bucket that held water for handwashing had been overturned, a dark puddle staining the boards of the verandah. It had not yet soaked into the wood.
Raising his eyes, he found himself looking at the gravel of the rock garden. Where the verandah ended, the gravel, which was neatly raked elsewhere in the yard, had been disturbed, the lines of the rake obliterated, as if something had been dragged across the garden from the house.
Hakaru stepped down from the verandah, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes. The trail led from the house to the fireproof shed at the rear of the yard. The door of the shed was ajar.
Feeling as if he were watching himself from a distance, he slid the door open the rest of the way. Inside, the shed was very dark. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the outlines of old furniture, cushions, heaps of seasonal clothing. Taking another step, he found that the floor was sticky beneath his feet.
Then he saw something on the ground. It was the innkeeper. He had been stuffed face down into the shed, his clothes stripped away, his limbs tucked beneath him like a frog's pale legs. In the faint light from outside, Hakaru saw a pool of something black and wet on the floor beneath the body.
He backed out of the shed. Behind him, Dr. Nakaya fumbled for her phone. “We need to call the police.”
“I know,” Hakaru said. He tore his eyes away from the shed's interior. “Tell them—”
He stopped. A sound had come from nearby, soft, like a footstep against the gravel. Turning in the direction of the noise, he moved away from the shed, looking out into the garden.
At first, he saw nothing. In the darkness, the yard was perfectly still. Straining to see what was there, he could make out nothing but a few decorative rocks, dwarf pines, statues of guardian spirits—
Then one of the statues moved. As it rose slowly from a crouch, he saw that it was a figure no more than five feet in height, hunched and misshapen. Hakaru tensed himself in case the figure came forward, feeling a cold hand take hold of his heart, but in the end, it only turned away.
Just before it reached the wall at the rear of the yard, it passed beneath a cone of light cast by the lamp on the verandah. For a second, Hakaru had the impression of a yellow face, a bald head, a hideously swollen throat. A funayuki knife was clutched in the figure's right hand.
Then it passed out of the light and climbed over the wall. A second later, it was gone.
* * * *
III.
Against the back wall of the inn leaned a carpenter's adze, with a flat iron head for squaring logs. Picking it up, Hakaru hefted it in his hands. It wasn't much, but it would do. He turned to Dr. Nakaya. “Call the police. Tell them where you are. Then get inside and lock all the doors.”
Dr. Nakaya was already back on the verandah. “And what are you going to do?”
“I don't know,” Hakaru said. Before she could respond, he was heading for the wall at the rear of the garden. Looking over it, he saw that it led to a slope covered in brush and tall grass. Beyond it ran a narrow road to the forest. And when he listened, he heard soft, dragging steps making for the trees.
He tossed the adze over the wall, then dropped down to the other side. The adze had fallen into the brush a few feet away. He picked it up and headed for the footpath. A second later, he was running through the forest.
It was a cold night, the dots of fireflies blinking at the level of the grass. The ground was uneven, swelling and falling in low hills, and before long, Hakaru was sweating. He ran forward, trying to pace himself, keeping one ear tuned to sounds from ahead. Faintly, he heard labored breathing, as if the figure in the distance was not used to moving so quickly.
Hakaru rounded a bend in the path. Ten yards away, silhouetted against the night sky, a hunched figure was standing on the crest of the hill. Then it disappeared down the opposite side.
Sensing that he was on the verge of overtaking it, Hakaru quickened his pace. He sprinted easily over the top of the hill, but when he began his descent, he found that he had taken the slope too fast. As the loose dirt and pebbles began to skate beneath his feet, he realized that he was going to fall.
He toppled forward, coming down hard, then slid to the bottom of the hill. At the last second, he had the presence of mind to toss the adze aside, afraid that he would bury it in his body. He tumbled at a bad angle, twisting his ankle beneath him, and finally skidded to a halt, palms bleeding.
Hakaru looked up. Ahead of him, the figure had paused at the top of the next rise. It was looking back at him. Hakaru groped for the adze, heart juddering, but it was nowhere in sight.
The figure stood there for a long moment. Hakaru could see its shoulders heaving, its breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
It took a step toward him. Another. A knife was still clutched in one spindly hand.
Then the woods were flooded with light. Hakaru, startled, wasn't sure what was happening, then saw that they were within range of the lighthouse. As the white beam swept across the land, circling back toward the water, it illuminated the forest for a fraction of a second. In that bare instant, it lit up the figure on the hill, giving Hakaru a good look at it for the first time.
The figure looked at Hakaru. Hakaru looked back. And recognized it for what it was.
Then the light faded. Hakaru, his night vision gone, strained to penetrate the shadows, but saw nothing but darkness. He heard more footsteps, this time growing softer. A moment later, they had faded into silence.
Hakaru lay where he was for a few heartbeats, then forced himself up. The adze lay on the ground several feet away. Bending down, he picked it up, then took a few experimental steps forward. His ankle was too badly twisted for him to run. Limping, he turned back the way he had come.
It took twice as long, with many breaks, to cover the ground back to the inn. When he reached the wall that led to the garden, he tossed the adze over, then followed it, landing heavily on the other side. At some point in the past few minutes, rain had begun to fall again.
He went up to the verandah. The wooden shutter was bolted, but through the windows above, a light was shining. When he knocked, he heard the paper screen behind the shutter slide back. “Who's there?”
“It's Hakaru.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the empty yard. “Let me in.”
The shutter slid open. Dr. Nakaya was standing inside, holding a walking stick like a club. “What happened?”
“I lost him.” He stepped into the hall, closing the shutter. “Did you call the police?”
“Yes. The inspector said he'll be here soon. He wants us to lock all the doors and stay where we are.”
“Okay.” Hakaru bolted the shutter, adze still in hand, then limped around to the other doors, testing them one by one. When he was finished, he headed for the stairs. “Come on. I need to check something.”
Dr. Nakaya followed him up the narrow steps to the floor above. “What is it?”
“I know what's happening here. It isn't a kawataro. It's something else entirely.”
Going into his room, Hakaru leaned the adze against the wall, then limped over to the pile of books on the floor. Picking up a volume, he flipped through it rapidl
y, looking for a page he had read the night before.
“Here,” Hakaru said, finding the place he wanted. “As far as I understand it, there's never been a genetic study of the village, so we aren't entirely sure what kind of deafness this is, right?”
“Right,” Dr. Nakaya said, lowering herself to the floor. “If it were part of a syndrome, we would have seen ear abnormalities, issues with the retina or kidneys, but we've found nothing. It's nonsyndromic.”
“I think you're wrong. These people are suffering from Pendred Syndrome.” Hakaru showed her the page. “It's an autosomal recessive condition, which is consistent with the distribution patterns you've seen. It's caused by a mutation of a single gene encoding for a protein that transports iodine into the thyroid gland. This affects the development of the inner ear, which results in deafness. In the majority of cases, it also leads to thyroid disease.”
Dr. Nakaya studied the book. “And what makes you think this is happening here?”
“Because the killer we saw tonight is suffering from the advanced stages of hypothyroidism.” Hakaru picked up a diagnostic manual and quickly found the relevant page. “You see? In severe cases, the victim's hair falls out. The skin becomes scaly and puffy. It may even turn yellow. And it leads to goiter, which explains the swelling under the killer's neck.”
“But if all the deaf villagers have this syndrome, why haven't we seen more cases of hypothyroidism?”
“Because of their diet,” Hakaru said, trying to remember his undergraduate medical classes. “A Japanese diet, especially in a seaside village like this, is high in iodine. It's full of fish, seafood, seaweed. Which means that even if the deaf villagers have trouble processing iodine, their diet has enough of it to offset the worst symptoms of hypothyroidism. And this explains something else. The innkeeper told me that the soil here is full of iodine, which makes sense. We have generations of people in this village consuming high levels of iodine, but they can process only a fraction of it, which means that the rest passes into the ground.”
Dr. Nakaya looked at the book. “And if someone was forced to change his diet, symptoms of hypothyroidism would soon appear. The goiter. The yellow skin. Which explains why the killer looks the way he does.”
Analog SFF, June 2011 Page 20
