The Girl from the Well (18 page)

whisper
whispering
screaming
screaming
mine
mine

arms
legs
tear
limbs
fear
hate
hate
mine
flee
mine

sockets, rending everything I find. Finally, I attack the mask herself. I rip through the husk, into centuries of forgotten filth and malice. I plunge my hands into the dead
miko
's stomach, rending and rupturing

hate
hate
hate
hate
die
why
die
die
why
die
die
die

die
die
die
die
die
why
die
die
die
die
die
die
die

all that I can until, against all odds, I see a faint shimmer of light, a whisper of innocence, a small, forgotten firefly trapped for years within that seething mass.

Somewhere within that malignant spirit, little bits of Chiyo Takeda still cling, waiting for the day she is free to finish the task she set out to do. Perhaps it is because of her close resemblance to her younger sister, Yoko, that I see a little of Tarquin on her sad, youthful face. She looks at me, and I know what she is asking.

And so does Callie. She stumbles forward, the stone knife in her hands, but she only takes a few more steps before her strength finally gives out. She drops down, the blade skittering to rest by my feet.

I

pick

it up.

There is regret in Chiyo Takeda's face, grief at her failure, yet hopefulness for a last chance at redemption. I carry out her last request and plunge the stone knife into the dead miko's heart.

“Ten,” I hear Callie whisper.

And all around me the air

explodes

into

little

fireflies.

“Am I dead?” she asks me. I do not answer.

There is a funeral in the distance. There are twenty-seven men, twenty-six women, and three children. There are four pallbearers and one priest. The sun is shining, but the grass smells like rain. They are lowering a simple silver coffin into the ground, and everyone watches. No one is smiling, and a few people cry.

“Is that me?” she asks again. “Am I dead?” Still I do not respond.

Unexpectedly, there is laughter from across the field. She turns her head and sees children. They are dressed in white, and they are running, laughing. There could be sixty of them or two hundred or a thousand. They are too innumerable to count. They are humming something, a soft, familiar lullaby.

She tries to join them, but she cannot. She is wearing too much red. A scarlet stain blossoms along her waist, spreading like watercolors across a linen canvas. She is wearing far too much red.

There is a hot spring at the end of the field. Without knowing why, she finds herself stumbling toward it, knowing instinctively that this is where she must go. There are no changing rooms here, and to step into the
onsen
, she must undress.

There is nothing to be ashamed of. She removes her clothes. There is a terrible wound on her hip, a slight pain when her hands wander into the area. But the pain feels muted somehow, like hurt is of no consequence here. Slowly she steps into the water. It feels hot and cold and good against her skin, and the small throbbing leaches out of her, the waters tinged now with pink.

She looks up and sees me, fully clothed, in the water before her. Neither I nor my clothes are wet, and she knows there is something wrong with this, though it is getting very hard to think.

“Am I dead?” she asks again.

I do not speak, but I dip my hands into the water, cupping and pouring the clear liquid over her head. As if on her own accord, Callie sinks under the bubbling surface, immersing herself in the comforting warmth.

When she resurfaces, the meadow and the children are gone, though the lullaby continues. She is floating in a river surrounded by darkness as far as the eye can see. There is nobody else around, and fear grips her.

“Hello?” she calls out, and the sound only echoes, her voice bouncing off unseen barriers.

It is then that she sees the fireflies.

They appear in twos and threes, winking back at her over the dark waters, and then in half dozens and dozens, and then in droves, until all around her a million fireflies blink in and out over the night sky, like paper lanterns that bob up and down in the air.

From within their glow she could see tiny snatches of life. Children's laughter rings out, small happy faces drifting in and out of the fireflies' light. There are faces of redheads and blondes and brunettes, of Japanese and American and French, African and Indian and Greek. There are eight-year-olds and four-year-olds and eleven-year-olds and fifteen-year-olds. There are shy smiles and gap-toothed grins.

They gather around her, tiny balls of fire fluttering close to her head, soft wings light and feathery, brushing against her cheek.

From somewhere above them, another light beckons. It looks like nothing more than a distant star at first, a white sphere of dust in the heavens. But soon it grows in size and brightness, until the whole breadth of sky opens up into that white light, turning night into day in an instant.

At some unspoken signal, the fireflies flit around Callie one last time and then soar joyfully upward, spiraling above her in slow, lazy circles. They do not stop until they touch the bright white light, disappearing into radiance.

More fireflies beat their wings against her forehead, and Callie thinks she can make out the smiling shapes of Amaya, and even the old
miko
, within their glows. Amaya looks nearly a teenager, and even the
obaasan
's white hair is now a glossy black. The wrinkles on her face disappear, leaving her young and at peace. They circle Callie one last time before lifting their wings to join their brother and sister lights.

Two figures walk across the water toward her, shining as brightly as hundreds of the fireflies at once. One is a face Callie has seen before. Yoko Taneda is happier here, her face unlined by the harshness of time, shoulders unburdened by the memories of grief. Beside her stands a taller, older woman, who bears striking physical similarities to her sister. But where her tainted spirit had once garbed itself in robes of black, fettered by the company of demons, Chiyo Taneda stands dressed in a soft white, and on her face is the same sense of joy that fills her sibling's expression. They are holding hands and smiling down at Callie, floating in the water, and she feels the softest of touches, like invisible fingers brushing across her mind.

“Thank you,” they whisper and turn away. They glow brighter, and when the light finally diminishes, they join the other children as another pair of tiny fireflies, their illuminations perhaps a shade brighter than those around them, as they begin their journey up into that sacred light.

Callie watches in awe as these flights of souls continue their upward loop into the shining sky, until most of the fireflies have passed through into that inviting warmth. She senses another presence behind her and turns to see me standing on a nearby shore, watching the fireflies' ascent. I am dressed in the kimono I had once worn in younger, older days, back when
chochin
once floated along the rivers of my hometown, back when I, in my youthful ignorance, once chased after them, hoping in my foolishness that I could follow them into forever.

“Okiku?” she finds herself asking. I remain silent, and perhaps something in my eyes—the sorrow perhaps, or the wistful regret—makes her repeat herself with more urgency. “Okiku? What about you? Why aren't you leaving with them?”

I do not move. I do not make my own step into the water, do not dream about turning into

fire

that

flies.

Callie swims toward me, struggling in the still-dark river, believing that she can somehow make me see. “Go into the light, Okiku! Go with them!” The last of the fireflies have gone, and the heavens now begin to weaken and lose their brilliance. She fears that soon they will close up and leave me standing alone by the shore.

“Okiku! Please!”

And when her hands finally touch the edges of soil, and she looks up to plead with me once again, she sees the change in my appearance. Gone are the kimono and the white obi tied around my waist, and gone are the simple ornaments that I weave into my hair, as I did for
chochin
festivals during my once-life. Gone is the wistful expression, the desire to step out and join these little fireflies in the bright unknown. Instead, my dead spirit looks back down on her: my bloodied robes and knotted locks of hair, the mangled neck and sightless eyes. Callie recoils, stricken.

“Where they go,”

I say, and the words issue out from bloodless, unmoving lips,

“I

cannot

follow.”

“But can't you try?” Callie cries. “You deserve to go just as much as they do!”

I kneel on the shore so she in the water can better see my ghastly, swollen face, my distended limbs.

“There is something else I must do,” I say, before reaching to touch her face with my cold, dead hand.

• • •

Callie jerks awake, suddenly aware of someone bending over her, and briefly she panics, attempting to struggle free.

“She's awake!” someone says.

“Callie-san!” another person cries out, and dimly, Callie recalls knowing this voice.

“Callie-san. This is Kagura. Do you remember? Are you all right?”

Blinding light assails her vision when she opens her eyes, and Callie groans. She feels several people lifting her and setting her back down on something that feels softer and warmer than the hard ground she had been curled up on only moments before. She opens her eyes again, blinking rapidly. The light no longer hurts as much, but instead of the wooden walls and altar, she sees only tall trees around her, the sun peeking in through the canopy. She hears the louder sounds of rushing water, and she sees the area now filled with strangers dressed in pristine white.
They
are
coming
to
take
me
away
to
Remney's, too
, she thinks, and suppresses the hysterical giggles threatening to burst through her lips.

“Callie-san,” Kagura says again, and Callie latches on to the familiarity of her voice, the genuine worry in her tone. “These are medical personnel from Mutsu. They're going to put you inside their ambulance and bring you to the hospital, so you can be treated for your injuries. Do you understand me?”

Callie's side feels stiff and numb, but she also feels something prodding at her side, trying to stanch the blood. She can see Kagura bending over her, looking pale and exhausted. The
miko
's face has been cut badly, and her left eye is black and swollen.

“Tark,” Callie mumbles. “Where is Tark?”

Another head appears beside Kagura's. It is the boy himself, looking just as worn and tired, but alert. Save for his bruises and his bandaged neck, he shows no other signs of injury.

“Callie,” he gasps out.

But Callie only smiles at him, relieved to see he is all right. “What about the others?
Obaasan
and Saya and Amaya?”

“Saya has a broken arm and leg, and she has a bad concussion, but the doctors think she will be all right. But for the others…” At this Kagura pauses and sadly shakes her head.

“I am sorry,” Callie whispers. Tarquin squeezes her hand.

“It is done. Chiyo's spirit has been appeased, and that is what they would have wanted. I can only hope their spirits, too, are finally at rest.”

“Like fireflies,” Callie whispers.

“This is all my fault,” Tarquin says. On his arms and chest, all traces of the binding seals have disappeared.

“You are as much a victim as any of us, Tarquin-kun. Perhaps even more so…”

A male voice interrupts, talking in Japanese and sounding apologetic. The voices fade out, and Callie now feels herself being lifted into a small white van, where more people she does not know gather around her, issuing commands to one another. A small mask is inserted over her nose and mouth, and she takes a deep, grateful breath. She lifts her head, looking out the van's doors, and sees Kagura and Tarquin standing side by side, looking anxiously back at her. Tarquin says something to the
miko
, who nods. He runs toward the van. “Can I ride with her?” he asks. “She's my cousin…”

After a hurried discussion, they allow him inside the ambulance. He holds Callie's hand as she drifts in and out of consciousness, as the van speeds along the small, unused road leading back into the city. Sometimes, when Callie comes to and remembers herself, she glances up at Tarquin, who is smiling encouragingly back, telling her in between the murmurs of the attendants and the squealing of sirens that things will be all right and that his father is going to kill him for all the trouble he'd caused, and she smiles at the reversal in their positions.

Why
didn't you go?
she wants to ask me, but there is a marked change in the air, and she no longer feels my presence. For the first time since arriving in Japan, she does not feel the burden of spirits around them.

“What's wrong?”

“No, it's nothing…” Callie says and tries to smile again, but soon enough feels herself drifting back to sleep.

• • •

The local police conduct a brief search inside Chinsei shrine. My fight with Chiyo had triggered a landslide, and it is the easiest explanation for them to accept. The bodies of the
mikos
yield no further clues, and while Kagura and Saya are held and questioned briefly, they are soon released due to a lack of evidence, their testimonies corroborated. As in my time, many of the people in these parts are of a superstitious nature, particularly in areas around
Osorezan
and Yagen Valley where things occur that sometimes cannot be explained, and the general attitude even among many of the authorities is that the less they meddle in the affairs of the supernatural, the better.

Callie spends the next six days being treated at the hospital and is released just in time to attend the funeral rites of Machika Fukushima and Amaya Kaede, both of whom have been cremated and their ashes strewn to the four winds outside the temple, as they had once done for Yoko Taneda.

“I do not know what will become of the shrine,” Kagura tells Callie sadly as they stand by the shrine's small well one morning. The Chinsei Shrine has been cleaned and most of its roof rebuilt, though a few rooms remain closed off. The display case that houses many of its dolls has been fixed, and it stands again as it once had. Chinsei has survived Chiyo's onslaught, though a sad, strange emptiness lingers.

Already the Bodai Temple at
Osorezan
and the small Yagen Onsen resorts are preparing to close for most of October, opening only when spring arrives and the snow thaws. “Chinsei will need to go through many purification rituals before we can continue. And without
Obaasan
and Amaya-chan, there will only be Saya and me, and we are not skilled enough to carry out the exorcisms that
Obaasan
had accomplished.”

“Where will you stay in the meantime?” Callie asks.

“Saya has family in Honshu, and I have an aunt who's invited me to stay with her in Kyoto. We both plan to do as many purification rituals as we are able to until we leave in October, after the
Obon
Festival. We will burn the rest of the possessed dolls, and we will continue the rituals again when spring arrives. For now, we shall spend the rest of this winter healing and mourning”—Kagura smiles sadly—“and then going on. It is what Machika-
obaasan
would have wanted.”