The Girl from the Well (9 page)

“I've never told this to anyone else before,” he says.

“I understand if you don't want to talk about it…”

“No,” the boy says, making a decision. “You've seen her, too. I don't like it, but you're in this with me now. Besides, he was a bully. His name was Todd McKinley. But I still can't say that he deserved it. I don't think anyone deserved dying like that.”

The words pour out, painting the vivid images I see inside his head.

The bully is a stocky boy of marginal width and height, a menacing memory. Tarquin is younger, frightened. I watch as the bully pushes him against a bathroom door, lifting him high enough that his shoes kick out, barely reaching the floor. But when the bully pulls a fist back to punch Tarquin in the stomach again, the lights go out.

Immediately the older boy begins to scream and does not stop.

It is only after the lights come back on that the other teachers and students arrive to find Tarquin huddled underneath the sink. The bully's legs and arms are scattered across two of the bathroom stalls. His head is found in the toilet bowl of the third, face burned and heavily disfigured.

“People started avoiding me after that, pretended like I wasn't even in the room with them. Everyone thought I had something to do with it, and they were scared. Even the teachers wouldn't look me in the eye.”

Callie finds she cannot stop shivering.

“I was glad to leave that school. Everyone thought I was a freak long before that happened, anyway. Never really stopped feeling guilty about it, even if I didn't do the actual killing—like maybe the reason he was dead was because I
wanted
him dead. And then I started seeing
her
more often, the woman in black. When McKinley died, bits of the mask she wears start crumbling—not that she has what you would call a
face
in any normal sense of the word. And when I heard about how Mom died, in almost the same way McKinley did…maybe Mom was right to try and kill me.” The boy shudders.

“Don't ever look at her directly, Callie. That thing behind the mask…everything wrong about humanity is hiding behind it. And now it's happened again.”

“What has happened again?”

Once again, Tarquin slowly rolls up his sleeve, exposing the rest of the tattoos. The lines of strange writing running up his arm look bleached and worn, as blanched as the seal on his right wrist. In contrast, the seal on his left wrist had not faded like the others had; translucent one moment, dark in the next.

“There's more.” Tarquin turns and lifts his shirt partway up. Like the ones on his arms, the other tattoos are also faded, except for one of the two seals at the small of his back that is still an inky black.

“Is it too optimistic to hope that they'll
all
disappear soon?”

She
has
broken
many
of
those
seals
, Tarquin's mother had said. And Callie knows that her blood marks the now-sputtering seal on her cousin's left wrist, remembers the hooded woman staring down at her as she lay helpless on the gurney, that evil, decayed face looking out at her from behind the pristine and porcelain doll-like mask.

“Callie, what's wrong?” Tarquin asks, studying her face. “You're as white as a sheet again.”

“I'm just—I'm just a little overwhelmed by all this.”

“I won't stop you if you don't want to come near any of us after this, you know. I don't want to get you into any more trouble.”

“We're in this together, Tark.”
I'm in this, too
, she thinks.
My
blood
is
on
that
seal. Even if I stay as far as I can away from them, she'll still be able to find me. And kill me
.

“It doesn't matter. We're going back to Japan. Dad's company wants to send him to Tokyo because he speaks Japanese, and he wants me along. And we've still gotta bring Mom's ashes back to Yagen Valley, wherever that is.”

“I could be going to Japan soon, too.”

The boy turns to look at her, and I know the young woman feels it as well as I can. There is something about the masked woman in black that lurks out of the corner of the boy's eyes, though he himself does not know.

“Why?” he asks.

“You remember that cultural studies program I applied for? Japan is on the list of countries I can opt for, if it hasn't filled up already.”

“You're not sticking around here to teach anymore?”

“Probably not. I'm getting a little sick of being pointed out as ‘the girl in that serial-murderer case.' Anyway, I'll be back in time for college applications.”

“What about Aunt Linda?”

“I told Mom about the murder, but not that we were both involved in it—and since Uncle Doug doesn't know her email address, I intend to keep it that way. She's got enough going on in Africa that I don't want to add to her worry. I did tell her about the exchange program, though, and she thinks it's a great opportunity for me.”

“I guess it is. Just promise me one thing, Callie. Don't get yourself into any more trouble on my behalf. I'm in enough as it is.”

“What, you get into trouble?”

They grin at each other. “What does she want with me, do you think?” Tarquin asks suddenly.

“Who?”

“Okiku, the woman in white. Sometimes I feel like her presence chases the other woman away, but I don't know why she's suddenly so interested in protecting me. One way or another, I'm going to figure out a way to break this curse or…” He trails off.

The girl follows his gaze. For a moment she thinks she can spot me some distance away, outlined against the horizon with my back turned toward them, also watching the remains of the drizzling morning.

Tarquin begins whistling almost absently to himself. It is a familiar lullaby.

“All the other teachers say you're going away,” the girl says. “Miss Palmer says so, and so does Mr. Montgomery.”

“Yeah, I am.” They are sitting on the swings during recess on Callie's last day at Perry Hills Elementary.

“When will you be coming back?”

“I don't know yet. Maybe in two or three months.”

“Are you going to Japan so you can make that bad woman go away?”

Callie considers this carefully. “I don't know how to do that yet. But I'll do what I can to make sure that she'll never hurt anyone else.”

The little girl reaches over and takes Callie's hand.

“I hope you do,” she says, and she is both worried and frightened. “I don't want you to die.”

“What's that?”

“Huh?” Callie realizes that one of her fellow tourists named Allison is peering over her shoulder and reading off her laptop screen. Like her, Callie and eight other teenagers on the plane are taking part in the cultural studies program in Japan. Allison, the brunette, is a cheerful and easygoing dark-skinned girl, quick to offer friendship.

“‘Japanese ghosts and hauntings?'”

“I just wanted to know a little more about Japanese folklore.”

“You could have asked me.” The brunette pouts, makes a pretense of being insulted. “I'm the one taking the Japanese studies major in college this fall, you know, and
my
facts won't change every half hour like Wikipedia does.”

“Okay, then, Miss Self-Professed Japanese Expert. I've been trying to find out as much as I can about one particular ghost.”

“Shoot.”

“Her name is Okiku.”

The other woman's face brightens. “Oh,
that
Okiku. Of course I know something about her. Most people who study Japanese culture are familiar enough with her legend.”

“A legend?”

“You know all those Japanese horror movies that came out not too long ago, like
The
Ring
? Well, they're all based on her story. She's the Patient Zero for undead Japanese women with long hair and pale faces, so to speak. As far as the myth goes, she's said to have spurned a nobleman's offer to be his mistress, and in revenge for the insult, he killed her and threw her down a well. Himeji Castle's one of the educational tours we'll be going on, and a place there called Okiku's Well is where the murder supposedly took place.”

Callie swallows. “The legend says she broke one of ten plates entrusted to her for safekeeping.”

“That's all the nobleman's fault, too. He broke it deliberately without her knowing to guilt her into being his mistress. Men, right? Bastards, no matter the time or place. After her death, they say her ghost still climbed out of the well to count the nine plates and would go nuts whenever she can't find the tenth, which was—I don't know, about
every
freaking
time
. Someone supposedly figured out how to lift the haunting. Some samurai hid and waited 'til she appeared. As soon as she counted up to nine, he jumped up and yelled ‘Ten!' and her ghost disappeared after that. I always thought that was kind of ridiculous. Not to mention it's a horrible trick to play, even on a ghost.”

“Was the man ever punished?”

“I don't think so. Japanese ghost stories aren't all that fond of punishing male murderers, for some reason. Double standard, I guess.”

“Do you know of any other ghost story where the number nine serves as an integral part of the story?”

“None that I know of. There could be some local stories floating around that never got a lot of international interest. I know for a fact that several are way out of whack. Like there's this little girl who haunts toilets, of all things. And some women wandering around the countryside without faces. Why are you so curious about Japanese ghosts all of a sudden, anyway?”

“It's nothing.” Callie blushes again under her friend's scrutiny. “I'm just trying to immerse myself in the culture, and the old stories sound like the easiest place to start.”

“Huh. Well, I hope you're still as enthusiastic about it once we get there. There's nothing fun about waiting seven hours for the next connecting flight out of Chicago.”

The plane ride is of no consequence to the young woman. While her friend takes quick naps, waking every now and then to grumble about the bad food and the uncomfortable seats (of which the plane has two hundred and seventy-five), Callie wonders about this sudden decision to involve herself in things she has no business in. But at the back of her mind she is aware that she has come too far to back out now. Her cousin is in danger, she tells herself, and so is she.

When the plane finally touches down at Kansai International Airport, the students duly present their passports and visas, and are soon bowing to a genial, round-faced man who introduces himself as Fukuyama Mori-san, their guide for the duration of their stay in Japan.

“We have a small rental bus waiting.” His English is impeccable, though his heavy Kansai accent gives him away. “We will take you to the apartments where you will be staying, so you can unpack and make yourselves comfortable for our first educational tour the next day.

“It is quite fortunate,” he continues, as their bus makes its way out of the terminal and onto the main express road, “that the Japanese government and His Majesty, the Emperor, are more than eager to fund grants for students such as yourselves. The earthquake has done very little to improve our tourist industry, though I am happy to say the numbers are increasing again. We will naturally avoid all the places that have been hit by the radiation, but there are so many more sights to see here. From the National Bunraku Theatre to the Municipal Museum of Art in Kobe—”

“Himeji Castle, too?” the girl's friend asks, with a sly grin in her direction.

Mori-san beams. “Himeji Castle, most definitely! It is one of the most magnificent examples of our architecture—we call it the White Heron for the way the whole fortress seems to alight on the mountaintop, just like that magnificent bird. In fact, we will be taking a tour of Himeji Castle tomorrow. If there is anything you would like to ask in the meantime, do not hesitate to do so. I shall answer any questions to the best of my ability.”

The ten students are given four apartments, which, in turn, are divided by shoji screens that draw easily across. There are clean futons instead of beds, rolled up and ready for use.

The group enjoys a small dinner at a nearby
izakaya
with Mori-san, who continues to regale them with stories about Japanese history. Callie asks if he happens to know any ghost stories other than those of Okiku's where the number nine heavily figures in, but the puzzled look on the man's face gives her all the answer she needs.

Once they return to the apartment and the lights are extinguished, Callie finds herself lying awake, staring up at the ceiling. Her fears curl up inside her, magnified by the dark.

In the corner of the little apartment, I hang down from the ceiling and watch her prone form and know that she is aware of my presence. I, too, have followed her to this land of ancient secrets and quiet solace. After several hundred years, the taste of my old home, my old country, is sweet in my mouth.

“What do I do now?” Callie whispers into the growing darkness.

I do not reply.

For all I am, I, too, am not infallible.

• • •

The tour begins at the break of dawn “to beat the crowds” as Mori-san explains. Nonetheless, when the bus brings them and forty-six other tourists to Himeji Castle, a substantial crowd of people (four hundred and three) are gathered by its entrance, though Mori-san explains that this is a small number when compared to the weekends.

Even from a distance, the white fortress shines in the sun. Several parts of the castle are heavily under construction, and a large tent stretches out over several of the tower fortifications, much to the other teachers' disappointment. Mori-san, however, remains optimistic.

The castle tour guide is a thin man named Tomeo. “These are the servants' quarters,” he explains, as he leads them down a long section with numerous doors leading into seventeen smaller rooms. “Each servant's rank in the castle was determined by the room they stayed in. The highest-ranked servant had the room closest to the exit, and each preceding room denotes a servant with a similarly decreasing rank. The inhabitants of Himeji Castle were very particular about their social status, their perceived stations in life, and it shows, down to even the domestic help.”

Callie turns her head briefly and catches sight of me drifting into one of the bedrooms farther down the hall. As the guide continues with his monologue, she slips quietly away and enters the room I disappeared into.

It is one of many small quarters in the castle. It is one befitting a humble, unimportant servant.

There is nothing now in the room to indicate its previous owner's preferences or her idiosyncrasies. The bed is bare, wooden and devoid of design, and the barred windows look out into the great courtyard outside, where soldiers once trained under the lord's watchful eye.

Callie looks out the window and does not see them, but I do.

I can still see the clashing of swords. I can still hear General Shigetoki barking orders as he drills the soldiers again and again, until they perform adequately enough to his satisfaction. I can still see the gleam of silver and the flashing of blades. I can still see the quiet young lord who stands before these men as they practice, watching them train long and hard so they can fulfill their purpose: to defend the castle and protect him from enemies foolish enough to assault Himeji.

I can still remember his dark brown eyes and

the way he

frowns a certain way when he is deep in thought. I can still remember

how he throws his head back and laughs when he is in high spirits, and I can still remember how he

sulks for days

when queer moods take him, his flaring temper. I remember how, this creature of dark still remembers, how I remember my heart

racing, this heart that has not beaten in over three centuries. I remember how my heart raced when he took my hand very gently in both his own and said, in his strange and gentle voice—

Okiku,

I
will
always
be
in
your
debt;

that strange and gentle voice, as he turned to his retainer and said—

Do
with
her

as
you
will.

With shaking fingers, Callie traces the faded wooden frame, knowing that this was where, several hundred years ago, a girl named Okiku once laid her head to rest.

“The paths inside Himeji Castle were built to confuse invaders,” the guide continues, after Callie rejoins the group. “You will notice that the corridors are not built with the same sizes in mind. Hallways lead into secret passages not easily discernible to the eye. The stairs are of varying heights so invaders might trip while engaging the defenders in battle. Outside, I will take you to a hall farther on where a whole passageway can collapse with the removal of a single keystone.

“Himeji Castle's builders created these complexities for one purpose, and one purpose alone: that in the event the castle was overwhelmed, its inhabitants would be able to defend its walls long enough for the lord of Himeji to commit hara-kiri. It was considered dishonorable among samurai to be taken alive after being defeated.”

For all its outside grandeur, the inside of Himeji Castle is wooden and sparse, nearly devoid of furniture and ornamentation. Empty suits of armor greet the tourists at selected corners as they climb the last of the steep stairs to have their brochures stamped with an authentic Himeji seal. From outside, the
shachihoko
, half-tiger and half-fish gargoyles, stand guard on the castle turrets, their tails lifted in haughty dismissal.

The castle itself is nearly how I remember it, and yet the turning of centuries has saddened me more than I care to admit. What had once thronged with warriors and
daimyos
—great leaders—who discussed and paved the paths to Japan's great future, who held the lives of the people in the palm of their hands, the place that had once housed and protected the man I had once served and

loved,

has now been overshadowed by the hum of tourists, who, in their misguided appreciation, only consider Himeji Castle a memory of the distant, once-glorious past.

By the time the group wanders out of the fortress and into the series of almost labyrinthine mazes on the castle grounds, it is early afternoon. “We have time for one last place to visit,” their guide says, leading them toward a large imposing gate and beside it a five-story tower. “This is the
Hara-kiri Maru
,” he says, “known as the Suicide Gate. It is here where lords and dishonored samurai were forced to commit hara-kiri, sometimes to atone for their masters' sins. And this is the donjon, the main tower of the castle keep.”

“Was this well used for drinking water during a siege?” Callie's friend asks, peering gingerly inside.

“No, nothing of that sort. It was used to wash away the remnants of the disembowelment ritual of the hara-kiri. This is famously known as Okiku's Well.”

For a moment, the sun seems to hide behind the clouds, casting the surroundings in a queer gray color.

“This is the well Okiku's ghost is supposed to haunt, isn't it?”

“That's right. It is one of our most popular ghost stories, perhaps second only to the
Yotsuya
Kaidan
. There are many different versions of Okiku's legend. The Himeji version is that Okiku was a young maidservant working for the lord of Himeji Castle, whom she loved dearly. She alerted him to an attempt on his life, allegedly by one of his chief retainers. In revenge, the retainer broke a plate from the lord's most prized collection, and Okiku was found guilty of the crime. The faithless lord allowed the retainer to torture her extensively before throwing her body down this well.

“Since then, her ghost rises from it and counts the lord's collection of plates, traditionally between the Japanese witching hours of two and three in the morning. Each time she finds only nine, and each time her unearthly screaming and wailing would wake the lord from his sleep. In time, his health broke from her nightly hauntings. Unable to find peace in death, her ghost is said to haunt the well, even today.”