The Girl from the Well (13 page)

Callie is taken aback by her frankness. “I am?”

“It is not every day that I see anyone, much less an American, with an
onryuu
following her around.”

“What is an
onryuu
?”

“It is a kind of
yuurei
, a dead spirit stranded in this world and unable to leave. An
onryuu
is the most powerful kind of
yuurei
—one fueled by vengeance, able to harm the living.”

Callie freezes. “You can see her, too?”

“I am aware of her presence, have been since I first saw you at the train station,” the
miko
says. “I see her now on the ceiling, standing just over your right shoulder.” Callie turns but sees nothing. “I say it is an
onryuu
, yet I feel no hate from her. That is why I say you are an unusual girl. Or perhaps it is an unusual
onryuu
. The young boy, Tarquin-kun, is afflicted by another spirit, but one who is decidedly more dangerous.”

“How are you able to see her? Who are you?”

The
miko
sets the knife down. “Shrine maidens nowadays are a far cry from what they were once known for throughout Japan. They still perform ceremonies and offer to tell people their fortunes, but no longer do they dabble in soothsaying or speak for the dead. My sisters and I are a dying breed. We are
kuchiyose
miko
, among few still following the old ways. We serve as mediums for the deceased, and so our second sight is strong. Tarquin's mother, Yoko, was one of us before she married his father.”

“Yoko Halloway was a
miko
?”

“I was only nine years old when I last saw her, but I believe Yoko Halloway was a devoted wife, a kind mother, and a beautiful woman both inside and out. But once upon a time, Yoko
Taneda
was a
miko
and an exorcist. She was the best of us all—a very strong one, capable of weathering the malice that most dead spirits bring. Her spiritual abilities were second only to…”

And at this the
miko
's voice trails off. She takes the knife again and resumes her slicing.

“There was one other
miko
. One who surpassed even Yoko Taneda in terms of skill and ability. She could succeed in the most difficult of exorcisms, those that could kill weaker shrine maidens.” Her voice grows soft. “And then, unfortunately, she died.”

She shakes her head, resumes smiling. “You must not let me ramble on so, Callie-san. I was only a child when it all happened, but my
obaasan
, the head of the Chinsei shrine, will be able to answer your questions more succinctly than I can.”

“You're not afraid? Of Okiku?”

“So you even know the
onryuu
's name.” Those soft brown eyes are on her again, but the
miko
somehow looks sad. “As I have said, Callie-san, you are an unusual girl, but I do not mean this in a bad way, and I apologize if I offend you by saying so. Sometimes it is better to be a little unusual every now and then than to be common all the time.” Then she sighs and will say nothing more of the matter.

The guests find the boiled eel served at dinner delicious, and Tarquin's father decides they should all turn in early for the night. “It's not like we've got much choice, anyway,” says Tarquin, who is eager to rest but does not want to admit that his quick expedition into town has sapped his energy. “Practically everything here's closed for the night.”

But Callie cannot sleep. A few hours later, she rises from her futon and crosses the room, careful not to wake the others, and hopes that the crisp evening air will soothe her troubled mind.

She is not the only one awake in the little house. Kagura the
miko
is out in the small garden, once more dressed in her traditional
haori
and
hakama
skirts, socks painted green by the grass and wet from the dew. She is kneeling over a small
Jizo
shrine, and in her hands she holds a doll not unlike those that Yoko Taneda once collected. She places this before the small shrine, murmuring under her breath. Callie stands half hidden behind the shoji and watches her, unsure of whether to interrupt.

What she does not expect is the sudden rage of wind that hurtles through, as if threatening to blow down the house and everyone inside it.

It comes like a screech of sound, an inhuman wail. To Callie, it feels like a sudden hurricane has set down on top of them. She shrinks back inside, clutching at the wooden frame of the doorway, trying to keep from being sucked outside into the howling winds. The
miko
is unaffected, weathering the gale without difficulty. Her long hair billows out behind her like a dark sail, as patches of stone and soil fly past. When a large rock rushes too close to her face, she calmly lifts a hand and plucks it from midair.

“Begone,” she says, like an unnatural tempest is of little substance.

Something forms within the violent gusts. Callie expects this to be the face of the masked woman, but instead it is an unfamiliar face—a beady-eyed man with a quivering chin and a long face, nearly skeletal in its shape and form. He opens his mouth and bays like an angry wolf, but the
miko
is unmoved. She raises the tiny doll.

“Begone,” she says again.

The face in the wind twists in anguish, as if struggling against another unseen force. Finally, it gives one last shriek of despair before it dissipates completely. The rest of the swirling winds sweep toward the doll, seem to settle on it, and disappear.

The
miko
sits back and sighs.

“It is a small imp, a demon of little consequence,” she says without turning around. “A malicious spirit, but more one who looks fearful than one who should be feared. Tarquin-kun attracts its attention, one of the reasons why he has been falling sick in Tokyo. The ghost living inside him has weakened his energy and makes him more susceptible to possession than others. And in Japan, there are far too many ghosts wishing for such an opportunity.

“The
onryuu
, your Okiku, has a different kind of malice in her, more powerful, but one she modifies to a nobler purpose. And she is strong. Very strong. This strength enables her to leave her haunting grounds and move freely about. She has wandered around the human realm as a spirit for far too long, and it will take more than this simple exorcism to set her free, though I suspect she has become too accustomed to this existence to do so willingly.”

“Exorcism?” Callie asks, shaken by the fact that the
miko
knows she is there, though the latter does not seem angry.

“It is what we do at the Chinsei shrine. It is a very old technique passed down for generations since Emperor Temmu's time. We exorcise wandering
onryuu
by trapping them inside the bodies of dolls such as these.”

Callie gasps. “But…that was how Aunt Yoko…”

“We are saddened but not surprised. Yoko herself sent us a letter telling us what she planned to do, of the ritual she performed on the night of her death. It was a rash decision and very dangerous. She had none of the usual precautions in place. But I suppose she felt she had little choice left.” Gently, the
miko
sets the doll back on top of the shrine. “But it is not your Okiku who was responsible for her death, though she is a terrible ghost in her own right. I do not know what binds her to this plane, but perhaps it would be impolite not to ask.”

Then the
miko
addresses me directly. “Have you come here to harm us,
onryuu
?” She asks, her brown eyes intent on my face. Callie turns toward her in surprise but still does not see me.

I watch the
miko
. There is great strength in her. Though she is still very young, in time she could be much more.

“Have you?” she persists.

I shake my head, amused by her boldness.

“It is unusual for those like you to involve themselves in human affairs. So why do you come here? Is it because of the boy?”

I lift my head then and meet her searching gaze with a determined stare. I do not respond, but she understands. A grudging smile appears on her lips.

“I see. He
is
rather special, isn't he?” She turns away. “An
onryuu
with a conscience,
kami
help us. I agree with your uncle, Callie-san. It shall be a long day tomorrow. You must rest.”

She glides inside. After one last look behind her, Callie hesitantly follows suit, leaving the doll atop its little
Jizo
shrine, moonlight shining on its strange, porcelain skin.

I wait until they are gone before picking it up and turning it over carefully in my hands. Its eyes stare back at me with a strange combination of hatred and helplessness.

There are only fourteen tourists on the bus as it navigates the slopes leading up the mountain, though the view is one most consider breathtaking. Halfway through the trip, the bus stops by a nearby mountain spring, the driver encouraging the visitors to sample the fresh water. Tarquin has regained most of his health. His eyes are no longer bright from the feverishness that accompanies most sicknesses. He has resumed his habit of regaling his fellow travelers with outbursts of sarcasm. His father is pleased. “We should have done this sooner,” he admits to Callie. “Maybe all he really did need was some good, fresh air.”

But the
miko
does not share the same opinion. “
Osorezan
is a holy place,” she tells Callie quietly once the man is out of earshot, aware of the father's ignorance of the disease that truly plagues Tarquin. “It is one of the three most spiritual places of Japan.
Osorezan
serves as a
shintai
—a place where powerful spirits called
kami
are believed to reside. It is enough to suppress most spirits' malice, if only temporarily.”

But
Osorezan
itself does not look like a place associated with holiness. A landscape of black coal rocks and charred soil is what first meets their eyes. The air smells strongly of sulfur and pitch, and the mountain itself is not a mountain at all, but a series of strange peaks that jut out from the barren wasteland. Where other places may have piping hot
onsen
—hot springs—these only contain bubbling pits of more sulfur. The wind howls through much of the region, like spiteful demons calling out to one another, attracted by the fresh smells of humans that enter their lair.

“It is not so bad!” the
miko
says, amused at seeing the looks on the others' faces. “
Osorezan
literally means the ‘mountain of dread,' for it is a place where ghosts are said to stop on their way to the underworld. The Japanese people have a very high regard for their ancestors and for
kami
—they believe that everything has a spirit, and that these must also be properly honored by the living. How we view hell is much different from how you Americans view it.”

“Is there any way we can visit Japanese hell without a sense of smell?” Tarquin asks, holding his nose.

Only one man-made building of note is found here—what humans call the Bodai Temple, surrounded by several sulfuric hot springs that smell even more strongly of rotten eggs. “The river beyond it is called the Sanzu”—the
miko
points—“our version of your Styx river. All visitors must cross the red bridge over it to gain access to the temple. It's runoff from a lake called the
Usoriyama
. Do not bathe in it, though. The waters may look inviting but are actually quite poisonous, and no living thing thrives there.”

Small
Jizo
statues adorn most of the paths. People leave tiny bibs, pinwheels, and other simple toys along these stone figures.

“This place is called the
Sai
no
Kawara
,” the
miko
says next, “the Buddhist purgatory. These statues are to honor those children who die before their parents, and you will find many offerings like these here.”

Piles of small pebbles are also found along the paths beside the statues. The
miko
explains these are made by spirits of dead children who, unable to repay their parents in life, are now doomed to constantly build these small mounds of stones until prayers are made to comfort their spirits.

Despite the pervading smell, Bodai Temple itself is an unassuming shrine, its importance rendered irrelevant by the strange world outside its doors. A few of the locals are lighting four candles inside a small shrine that contains the teeth of the dead (Callie draws back in alarm upon being told this, while Tarquin leans forward eagerly), and the incense that wafts through the air is a tangy contrast to the other smells of dank and death.

Beside the temple is a small red pool that the
miko
says is called the Pond of Blood, guarded by more imposing statues and dead flowers. A small woman, wizened and hunched, totters about the grounds, murmuring, “I understand it now, I understand it now,” to herself like a small mantra. She smiles vaguely at the visitors, at the Halloways, and at Callie. She smiles at the
miko
, and then at me, and then at the large eyeless stone figures draped in scarlet and yellow aprons, guarding the bloody pool. “Yes, yes. That must be it. I understand it now,” she says. “I understand it now.”

We spend a few more minutes wandering about the temple. Besides the Halloways, there are three more tourists who quickly leave, perhaps repulsed by the sulfur and the disquiet of the place. Intrigued by the small statues and unaware of their significance, Tarquin's father stops to start up a conversation with one of the priests, and the
miko
joins him.

But Callie sees me standing around the side of the temple, watching her and waiting.

She rounds the corner and follows in my footsteps, and it is here that she sees Tarquin and the man. He is in his mid-sixties, with brown, doughy skin and eyes like a frightened weasel's. He is darker than most Japanese, from days spent under the constant sun, and his knuckles are knobby, fingers pudgy. He is kneeling before several more stone statues in the area, this time eyeless figures draped in miscellaneous cloths of forbidding scarlet and black, and he is rocking slowly back and forth. To those who do not truly see, it looks as if he is kneeling before Tarquin and begging. The boy himself appears grave. He sees the dead children and knows what must happen.

Like him, Callie also sees them for the first time. Two young boys cling to the old man's shoulders, and another lies chained at his feet. They are no more than eleven years of age, and their faces are as worn and as tired as the obese man's, the imprint of their prison years stamped over their listless faces, their dull eyes.

It is here that I make her understand.

The old man shrinks back again when he sees me, but people like him are more accustomed to the ancient tales of old ghosts and older vengeance. He sees his fate standing before him, and he knows it is a price he must pay. While he was once wild and untamed in his younger years, when he killed these children for the thrill and the sport, in his old age he now wrestles with the horror and the guilt of what he has done, and the fear of what is to come. He comprehends that he has been living on borrowed time ever since, and when he turns to face me, the dread and the terror is on his face, but with it also a quiet relief, an acceptance.

As Callie watches, terrified, I

approach him. The man says nothing, but merely holds out his hands in supplication as he sinks to his knees before me. I reach out only

once,

and my form envelops his, my hair wrapping around his cringing face as I take him. It is in places like
Osorezan
where guilty men repenting of their old crimes come to wait for the end of their life or to wait for one to take it on their behalf.

Finally, the mangled, bloated body slips out of my grasp and sprawls at the foot of one of the figures. Callie cringes at the familiarity of his terrible, staring face. Tarquin says nothing, and his face shows little else but determination. He understands, quicker than his cousin, the sins the man has committed and the necessity of his punishment, however repugnant to human eyes.

But the children are free, and now they are gathering around me. Their faces are tired yet expectant, knowing their own peculiar form of purgatory has finally come to an end. Callie gasps when they begin to glow, and I gather them in my arms as best as I can, once more closing my eyes and surrendering briefly to that inner warmth.

When I open my eyes again, I am surrounded by glowing balls of light where the three children had once stood. There is fearful awe on Callie's face.

Unafraid, Tarquin walks to where I stand, stepping into this circle of fireflies. He touches one, wonderingly, with a finger, but it immediately shies away, bashful even in this form. He turns his attention to me. As he has done before, he touches my cheek tentatively with his hand and looks directly into my face.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

I smile at him. Then I raise my hands,

and the balls of light respond, spinning slowly around my arms and the tips of my fingers until they are set adrift on their own, soaring lazily up into the blue autumn sky.

Together Callie and Tarquin watch them rise, higher than the farthest-flung kite, watching them become little specks of morning stars until the last of the clouds hide them from sight, leaving nothing else but the two of them, the now-desiccated body on the ground, and me. And when the last of them disappear, I turn away and vanish as well.

“Why did you say that?” Callie asks Tarquin, a little later. “Why did you apologize?”

“I don't know. I think I'm just sorry she has to keep cleaning up after other people's mistakes all the time.”

There is no one else in sight at the temple by the time they return. The old woman continues to putter about the place, every now and then resting a hand against another of the statues, greeting them like they are old friends. “I understand it now,” she repeats herself. “I do. I understand it now.”

I wonder what it is that she understands.

• • •

Yagen Valley is a few hours' hike away, along a small, unused road where no buses will go. The tourists along the road are even sparser at this time of year than at
Osorezan
. Two small hamlets are all that make up the population at Yagen. One is the
Oku-Yagen
, and the other is the unpopulated
Yagen-Onsen
. The
miko
says they are traveling to the latter.

“But the guidebook says
Yagen-Onsen
is uninhabited,” Tarquin's father says as he consults his guidebook.

“Are we camping out?” Tarquin asks, stomping his foot on the hard ground and looking uneasy at the prospect.

The
miko
only smiles.

Callie is nervous. Perhaps, after all, the grinning
miko
is not who she says she is. There is little evidence that the
miko
knew Tarquin's mother beyond what she claims, and yet they have embraced her words as the truth. This suspicion is also apparent in the father's face, but unlike Callie, he is unaware of my presence, of the comfort Callie draws at knowing I am close by, my soundless feet padding after theirs. Only Tarquin seems unfazed, pushing on eagerly as we leave the forest path and trade it for the uncertainty of the woods.

“I'm not sure we should go any farther,” the father begins unexpectedly, but what he is about to say next is silenced when the
miko
calls out joyfully, “We are here!”

A smaller shrine is nestled farther into the thick of the forest, where no clear trail marks its location to outsiders. The only other visible landmark is a small well that stands beside it.

From inside, a few women emerge. Two are older than the
miko
by at least ten years, but the third is at least thrice as old as the oldest shrine maiden, though she stands straight and tall despite her weathered skin and her long, white hair.

“Kagura,” the old woman asks in Japanese, “are these the Halloways?”

The
miko
kneels on the rough-strewn trail and bows, her forehead touching ground. “This is Douglas-san and Tarquin-kun,
Obaasan
. And this is Tarquin's cousin, Callie-san.”

The old woman moves along the path. Though her steps are sure, she walks slowly and with a limp. When she reaches us, she surprises everyone else by reaching out with her thin, frail arms and clasping both sides of Tarquin's startled face, kissing each cheek and whispering in more Japanese, though the words are simple enough that her short time in Japan has taught Callie to recognize their meaning.

“Welcome to the Chinsei shrine, little Tarquin-chan,” she whispers, “Welcome to Chinsei.”