The Girl from the Well (12 page)

• • •

Tarquin Halloway and his father are there when she steps out into the waiting area of Narita International Airport in Tokyo, and Callie is stunned by how Tarquin looks. She expected him to look sick from their email exchanges where Tarquin recounted his health, sometimes deprecatingly, but nothing prepared her for the hollowness of the tattooed boy's cheeks or the pallor of his skin or the feverish brightness of his dark eyes. Despite his now-frail condition, there is energy to the teenager still, and he closes the needed distance to exuberantly throw a thinner arm around Callie's shoulder.

“I know what you're thinking,” he says, his smile a mere ghost of what it could have been. “I look fantastic.”

“Oh, Tark!”

He laughs at her fears. “Don't worry. I'm a lot stronger than I look. But I'm glad you're here, cuz.”

“He's been growing worse every day,” his father tells Callie later, as he drives the rented car into the thick of Tokyo. Tarquin is nestled against warm blankets in the backseat of the car, fast asleep. In spite of what he says, his burst of enthusiasm exhausted him quickly. “I'm at my wit's end what to do. I've been to several different doctors and they've run two dozen tests, but no one seems to know what's been making him sick.”

It is the woman in black, Callie knows, but she does not tell the father this.

“I've gotten two rooms at the Garden Rose Hotel. The hospital is only a block or so away, so we can be there quickly, in case one of the doctors calls again.”

After unpacking, Callie heads to the room across from hers, where she manages to wake Tarquin long enough to spoon hot chicken soup into him, while his father conducts business with his mobile phone. By the time he is done, Tarquin has drunk most of the nourishing meal, in between halfhearted protests that he could feed himself without her assistance, and fallen back asleep.

“He sleeps most of the time now,” his father says, worried. “They have the results of his most recent blood test, and they still haven't found anything wrong with him.”

“Maybe it's not as serious as it looks,” Callie says, trying to be encouraging, though she knows the deceit of her own words.

“I hope so.” The man sinks into a nearby armchair. “God, I'm tired myself. I've been running around Tokyo all day, settling Yoko's affairs and trying to finish the rest of my work in between talking to doctors. I've got several meetings with Mitsubishi and Itochu in the next few weeks. I don't think I've had more than a few hours' sleep since arriving here.”

“Maybe a rest in the countryside would help both of you,” Callie suggests.

“Yes. Whenever he feels better, Tarquin pores through every guidebook and map of Aomori we can find. I think it'll be good for him, too. Thank you again for coming with us. Tarquin's been looking forward to the trip.”

“Did Aunt Yoko have family there?”

“I'm a little fuzzy on that myself. Yoko never talked much about any relatives she might have had. I know that her parents died before we'd even met, but if she had any other siblings or cousins, other than the older sister she mentioned, I'm as much in the dark as you are. She never liked talking about her past, insisting that she was done with that part of her life.”

The man gestures, and Callie sees with a start that the urn bearing the ashes of Tarquin's mother stands atop one of the room's dressers.

“Yoko mentioned in her will that she wanted her ashes scattered at the Chinsei shrine near
Osorezan
. I've never heard of the place. I've asked a couple of people, but the closest thing to a temple that they are aware of is the Bodai Temple on the Osore grounds. I suppose we can always ask some of the locals at Mutsu once we get there.”

The man's phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. As he talks, Callie steals across the room to gaze down at the small urn on the dresser. She wonders briefly how Tarquin must feel, traveling with his mother in this macabre manner.

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do,” she tells it softly. “I don't know what I can possibly do. But I promise to do whatever I can to help protect Tark.”

She turns away, back toward the room.

Something rattles behind her.

Callie looks back just in time to see the lid slide off the urn, dropping with a noisy thump onto the carpeted floor. From inside, a jumble of hair rises out of the opening, inch by slow, protruding inch. As she watches, horrified, a drooping eye emerges from underneath that matted hair, and then next, a gaping mouth. It is

Yoko Halloway's head

peering up, and Callie claps a hand over her mouth, stifling the urge to scream. But the dead woman's eyes seem every inch as pleading, a peculiar desperation in that bloodied face. Her torn lips move wordlessly with an entreaty that Callie neither hears nor understands, before the head falls out of the urn and hits the floor, rolling toward her.

“Callie?”

The girl jerks back into the reality of the room, only to find Tarquin's father peering down at her anxiously. “Are you all right?”

In the older man's presence, there is nothing out of the ordinary. The seals on the urn's lid remain perfectly in place. Yoko Halloway's head does not stare up at her from the floor.

“Are you all right?” the boy's father asks again.

No
, Callie thinks.
No. I am not all right.

The journey to
Osorezan
comes in stages.

From the Tokyo station, they take the Shinkansen train to a place called Hachinohe. After the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, a certain kind of quaintness seems to settle around this little city. The faintest smell of brine permeates the air.

Tarquin had been sketching all throughout the train ride, his papers filling with small scenes of rural life. Fishermen hauling in the day's wages and the busy and noisy throng of markets are captured in strokes of his pencil. Rather than become fatigued by the train rides and the constant switching of stations, the teenager appears more energized than when he was in Tokyo, and he takes shorter, quicker naps each time.

“You're really good at this, Tark,” Callie says, going through his works. “Oh. Is this…?” She holds one up, where he has drawn a simple sketch of a dark-haired, solemn-looking girl, wearing a kimono dotted with fireflies.

“Did that one this morning.” Tarquin flashes her a sheepish grin. “I'm not
obsessed
with her or anything like that. But when you told me about that geisha with the butterfly kimono, and then that dream I had—I couldn't get the image out of my head.”

They spend half an hour stretching their legs and pay for packed
obento
lunches from a nearby convenience store. Inside, the clerk is watching television, turned to an English-speaking news channel. Callie does not listen at first until she realizes there is something unusual about the day's report.

“We've received word that police discovered four bodies this morning in the San'ya ward of Tokyo in what they describe as ‘horrific' deaths by persons currently unknown. Police have confirmed earlier reports of the victims appearing to have both been drowned and also severely mutilated, making it one of the worst murders in Japan in the last several years.

“All four were students at a local high school. Authorities are searching for two other students last seen with the victims and still missing. No other details have been forthcoming, but we will provide updates as soon as we receive official statements from the police superintendent.”

The
victims
appear
to
have
both
been
drowned
and
also
severely
mutilated.

The
obento
store owner sighs. “Youths nowadays,” she says sadly in heavily accented Japanese. “Not what they used to be.”

Trembling, Callie can only nod.

They switch trains and board the Aoimori Railway, which Tarquin's father explains will take them to Noheji next, an even smaller town than Hachinohe. Winters here are long, broken only by short, cool summers, and a faint chill blankets the area, though it has yet to snow. From here they take one final train ride to Shimokita. Callie balks at the exorbitant fees Tarquin's father pays each time, but the man is unconcerned by the expense and assures her she owes him nothing. As the train leaves the station, Tarquin persuades his father to explore the train further with him. Invigorated by the new sights, the boy has color returning to his cheeks.

Callie declines the invitation. She is unused to the constant motion of modern locomotives and wishes to remain in her seat to recuperate. As they leave, Callie stares out the window as the scenery changes from woodland to green space to farmland and back again, watching people work at their fields harvesting rice (fifty-eight) or herds of cattle grazing at will (seventy-nine). From a distance, the diminutive shapes of small fishing boats pass (forty), silhouetted against the sparkling waters of the bay.

She turns her head and sees me on the seat before her.

I have never been to the northern part of Japan, but something in the rustic countryside, the sway of thatched roofs, and the endless fields is more familiar to me than the gray stone skyscrapers and the artifice of color in Tokyo. This reminds me of

(home)

the life I once led.

Perhaps because of this sense of calm, I do not appear to her as a dreadful
onryuu
, a massless thing of hair, of torn cotton and skin. Instead, I look out the window from my seat as a young girl in a simple homespun kimono. My hair is coiled in a bun, and the darks of my eyes are now a soft brown, the whiteness of my face now a palette of pink flesh. There is a marked contrast between the hideous appearance of an apparition that I have worn for so long and the simple normalcy of the girl I once was and whose shape I have now resumed, however briefly. I say nothing for the moment and continue to watch trees and rice paddies pass as the train hurtles on, waiting for her to make the first move.

“Your name is Okiku, isn't it?”

Without looking back at her, I nod slightly.

“The same Okiku from Himeji Castle?”

Another nod.

She says nothing for some time. I imagine that conversing with the dead is always difficult for the living.

“Did you kill those boys that were in the news today?”

I smile.

“Why are you doing this?” She knows the answer but seeks to hear it from my own mouth.

There is a long silence before I surprise even myself by speaking with a wistfulness I thought I had lost and could no longer feel.

“I loved my lord,” I say in a voice barely above a whisper. It is not an answer to her question, but it is something I have wanted to say out loud for so long, and the truth of those words comforts me.

“Did you kill all those people because of him?”

“I am a servant. I had a simple life. A happy one. I contented myself with loving my lord without hope of return. But he betrayed me to his retainer, and in that moment, I realized I had wasted my life loving an undeserving man. I died with regrets. But I could not leave.”

“Tark's been sick for a while now… Was that your doing?” The accusation in Callie's voice is apparent.

I turn to look at her then. “No,” I say, a little angry that she would presume to think this. “I would never hurt him.”

She is quiet again, acknowledging the truth in my words. “What can I do to help you?”

“There is nothing you can do. There is only me.”

Another drought of silence.

“I take from them,” I finally say again, and the strength of my anger surprises me again, “because they do not deserve life.”

“Why do you help us?”

I finally turn my head to look at her. I do not know what she sees looking back. Calliope Starr is a strange girl, to be willing to face me when anyone else would have feared. But I have often found that people are strange because they have something most others lack. “Because I do not wish to see you or Tarquin come to harm. Because I…”

I trail off, unsure of how to explain other than this: I have no definite reasons, except that I do not want him or his cousin to die. Instead, I look down at my hands.

Callie swallows. “But I don't know what to do. All I know is that Tarquin was used in a ritual to bind some…some
ghost
, and the secrets to undoing that ritual lie in
Osorezan
. But I don't know what to do. I never asked to be a part of this.”

“Do you believe he deserves life?”

The young woman is taken aback. “Of course!”

“Then we are not so different, after all.”

Another pause.

“I am sorry if I frighten you,” I say, puzzled by the sudden hesitancy in my voice. “I am not used to…
this
. I do not often commune with the living.”

Callie blinks at me, then unexpectedly starts to laugh. “I apologize,” she gasps. “It's just…well, with us, it's usually the other way around.”

She giggles again. I do not quite understand but attempt to smile. Perhaps it is not a smile that she sees in my face, for she immediately sobers up.

“There's…there's something else I want to know. Why couldn't you protect Yoko from that other woman—the woman in black?”

She shrinks from the sudden shift in my expression, the black stealing into my eyes, the way my skin now seems to sag and bloat, and the hair that begins to once more curl across my face, shrouding my cheeks. It is not a pleasant sight to watch a young girl turn into one of the dead. I do this not because of any mistake on her part, but because I remember that I have unfinished business with the creature in black, the spirit that seeks to hurt them. And when I speak again, it is nothing more than a hiss as my true self looks back out at her.

“I am sorry. But Yoko is not my

territory. She is not my

hunt.”

“Here you go, Callie! We found a nice old woman peddling snacks and we scared her into selling us some stuff. Here's some Meiji chocolate and something called a noodle sandwich which is, apparently, literally a sandwich with noodles in it. Since
you're
the noodle expert, you're the one that gets to eat it.”

Tarquin and his father are back. Callie does not need to look my way to know the seat before her is empty.

Five hours after departing from Tokyo, changing trains twice along the way, they finally arrive at the Shimokita Station in Mutsu, but by then dusk is already settling in. At this time of day, the station holds fewer people, and so the woman stands out. She is dressed in a pleated, ankle-length red skirt and a white
haori
, a kimono jacket that is two sizes too big for her. Her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. She is still very young, perhaps only a little older than Callie.

“You are Mr. Halloway?” she asks in perfect English, smiling. She bows low. “And you must be Tarquin-kun. My name is Kagura. We have been expecting you.”

Tarquin's father is surprised. “We never told anyone we were coming.”

“We were very good friends of Yoko. We heard of her death from your lawyer some weeks ago, and we have been expecting your arrival ever since.”

That means she must have been waiting every day at the train station for nearly a month,
Callie thinks, and feels intimidated by the strength of the woman's patience. “My name is Callie. I'm Tarquin's cousin,” she says, feeling how absurd the statement must sound, but the woman accepts this without further question, bowing low to her in acknowledgment. When she lifts her head again, however, her eyes travel over Callie's form with a peculiar curiosity, a slight frown crossing her face before it disappears quickly.

“I'm afraid that there are only four buses departing for
Osorezan
daily, and the last has already left. Fortunately, my sisters and I have a small house on the outskirts of town where we can spend the night. If you will follow me?”

The town of Mutsu is even smaller than Hachinohe or Noheji. The woman leads them to a small house far from the central square, dipping into the edge of town. At her request, the group takes their shoes off before entering and follows her into several comfortable-looking rooms with several screens. She tells them that these are to be their rooms for the night.

“While we do get substantial visitors to Yagen Valley, few of the locals, much less the tourists, are aware of the Chinsei shrine,” she says in an apologetic tone. “My sisters and I prefer to keep it that way.”

“I've certainly never heard of it. Yoko never mentioned it to me before,” Tarquin's father agrees.

“Then I must apologize on Yoko's behalf. She is merely following the old ways, the traditions built around the utmost secrecy. We have done so for many years.”

“What about your sisters?” Callie asks with some hesitation. “Will they be joining us?”

“My other sisters are currently tending to the shrine, and they are not comfortable leaving it for long periods of time. Dinner will be ready in an hour. In the meantime, you are more than welcome to explore. Mutsu is not a very big place.”

“I've spent the last couple of weeks holed up in bed,” Tarquin says later, once they have finished unpacking. “I'm gonna go and have a look around.”

“You aren't strong enough yet, Tarquin,” his father warns.

But the boy only grins. “You worry too much, Dad. Didn't the docs themselves tell you that there's nothing wrong with me? You're right, Callie. All of this fresh air is making me feel like my old awesome self again.”

His father finally relents, and Tarquin sets out. The man begins another series of phone calls, and Callie helps the woman prepare for dinner. She is now dressed in a kimono of somber blue and wards off all of Callie's offers to help, laughing. “It is not customary for a host to allow her guests to assist in dinner preparations. But I would appreciate the company.” Her thin, slight fingers slice carrots and meat with the expertise of a chef's.

Every now and then, there is a knock at the door, a voice calling out for Kagura. Each time, the woman briefly abandons her task, taking a small parcel from the cupboard before greeting the caller. “Specially prepared medicine my sisters and I make,” she tells Callie, “a sovereign specific, a general cure-all for many forms of ailment.”

Her patients are both numerous and varied: first an old man suffering from advanced rheumatism, next a young mother with a sleeping child, then a group of fishermen, followed by half a dozen fresh-faced students. “I suppose it works, which is why many ask for it,” Kagura says modestly after seeing the last of her customers off. “I am a
miko
—a shrine maiden. As are all my other sisters. In many small towns where people still believe in the old ways of living,
mikos
like us often serve as the resident medicine women.”

“You speak English very well.”

“I am the only one of my sisters who can speak it at all, another reason why I was chosen to wait for you. I may not look it, but I have also studied at university.” The
miko
lifts her head to look at her, and the same compelling curiosity is back in her gaze. “You are a very unusual girl, Callie-san.”